dodraibeid

And now, a story.

Every year, the people at my job knock off of work for an hour or two at a
time, and have a Holiday Party. We have one of those ridiculous
hierarchies where there are three levels of middle management before you
get to anyone of any clout whatsoever. So there's me and my ilk, the
techs, then there's the Case Resolution Specialists. They're the people
you go to if you have a problem that you don't know how to fix. Then there
are team leaders, who handle all of the administrative stuff. Then there
are the managers, whose job it is to tell people that they can't do stuff
and pretend to handle the really big issues like "I got a raise, but for
some reason, no one ever told payroll, and as a result, my paycheck hasn't
gotten any bigger." Finally, you get to the director, who actually can get
things done, and he tells the managers what to do, who subsequently tell
the team leaders each something totally different, and that filters down
to the Case Res and the techs, and thus is the gigantic circle of
confusion that is my place of employment.

So. The way this works is this: The Team leaders get the idea for a
holiday party and tell the Case Res and techs that they're going to do it.
Then they place a request in to the managers, and the managers say, "Okay,
go ahead." Then the team leaders appoint a tech or Case Res to arrange who
is bringing what and all that jazz. And that is where my story begins.

I am approached by Jamie. Jamie hates me. I don't mind. She has a good
reason for hating me. She's a bitch, and I make sure she understands that
in a way that will not get me fired at every opportunity. If Louie
Anderson and Steve Buscemi had a child, and Bernie Mac Raised it, the
product would be a lot like Jamie. So Jamie lurks around my desk for
about twenty minutes, not saying anything. I am ignoring her, because I'm
afraid to ask what she wants. The answer will most certainly be "Your
soul." Finally, it speaks. "Donchoo see me standin' heah?"
"I do, as a matter of fact." I replied.
"Well ain't you gonna talk ta me?" she asked, indignantly.
I don't hold it against her. She was born indignant. "Do you feel as
though we have something to talk about?" I asked, trying desperately to
remain civil.
"Yeah. We do. Whatchoo bringin' to the Hol'day Pawty?"
"Oh. I dunno. Soda, I guess."
I felt as though this should have ended our interaction. Again, was proven
a fool. I started to turn back to my work, when she grabbed the side of
my chair and said "What kinda soda?"
"Uh, Sprite." I tried to turn away from her, but she held me tight in her
vice-like fist.
"See nah, Y'caint bring Sprite. Josh already bringin' it."
"Coke, then"
"What kind?"
She began to lean in, waiting intently for an answer. I had a feeling that
she thought she was arguing with me. I just wanted her to go away.
"Regular." I said
"Steve got it."
"Caffine Free."
"Carolyn's on it."
"Cherry."
"Tony."
"Diet."
"Bobbin."
"Vanilla."
"Vaughn."
"Is there any soda that someone's not bringing?"
"No."
"Fine. I'll bring chips."
"Potato? Corn? Tortilla?"
"Paint. And I swear to God, if you ask me what color, I will disembowl you
where you stand."