It turns out I’d been paying a co-worker an undeserved compliment in calling her the Falling Apart Old Lady.
She’s no lady.
la‧dy /ˈleɪdi/ –noun
1. a woman who is refined, polite, and well-spoken: She may be poor and have little education, but she’s a real lady.
Apparently, she called in a new food and supplies order late yesterday, and it was delivered this morning, around 9:00 AM or so. Unfortunatly, we received two big shipments of computer stuff yesterday, so the area near the back door was too blocked for the Costco guy to simply bring in his pallet of stuff. Instead, he had to break down the pallet, and bring everything in through the front door.
As I sit in the back, I returned to work, and didn’t see anything the Costco guy did that morning. When I went to the bathroom some time later, I discovered that he had piled everything up in the breakroom – food, frozen & refridgerated goods, office supplies – everything.
A bunch of people were in the office by then, everyone going about their business. I put the yogurt in the fridge, the frozen stuff in the freezer, and took a AAA battery for one of my desktop devices.
Sometime later, the FAOL came in, and was shocked – Shocked! – to find everything in the breakroom. She came over and asked me to help put it away, and I said I would. I was in the middle of some time-sensitive stuff, though, so finished that before heading over.
Now, I used to help her, half out of pity, and half out of the simple fact that in our old building I sat right outside the breakroom. I was the closest to it, so was the easiest for her to ask for help. Now, the breakroom is in the middle of the floor, and I’m way off to the side. There’s at least a dozen other people in a semi-circle around the breakroom, and two or three times that many within the distance from the breakroom to me. The supply room is on the opposite side of the building from me, with the breakroom in the middle.
When I got to the breakroom, she was apparently complaining to someone else and asking for help, thinking that I wasn’t going to help her. He quickly vacated the breakroom, as the FAOL started complaining that I hadn’t told the Costco guy where to put everything. I laughingly joked that if she would come in in the morning, she could have told him where to put it herself.
Angrily, she replied, “You’re shipping and receiving, idiot.”
Shocked, I turned around and was about to ask her if she was serious. I looked at her face – tight lipped, slitted eyes, stern flabby face – and could tell that she was serious. There was nothing refined, polite, or well-spoken about her. Nothing but her crude disgust for everyone who does not do exactly what she expects them to do. No professional courtosey or demeanor. No grattitude for someone helping her instead of performing his own responsibilities. No acknowledgement that I am not actually the shipping and receiving dept.
She is now officially the Fat Old Hag.
hag1 /hæg/ –noun
1. an ugly old woman, esp. a vicious or malicious one.
I blinked, put some stuff onto the hand truck, and pushed it back to the storage room and unloaded it. Then I went back over to my desk to see if my e-mails had been replied to, and forwarded them over to the people waiting for the responses. As I was doing so, she came over to my cube, asked if I was done helping, and stood there behind me until I finished, got up, and walked back over, speaking with her as little as possible for the remainder of the time.
Most women keep their venom at home. Out in public or at work, they’ll put on the best of faces, doing all those kind and polite things women are expected to do. But at home where there’s no one to impress, they’ll lash out without restraint, usually verbally, but sometimes physically.
Some people are single due through no fault of their own, despite their charm, talents, and beauty. Some people are alone because they deserve to be. Fat Old Hag lives alone with a bunny – the only animal dumb enough to stay. Fat Old Hag doesn’t have anyone to abuse at home, so she takes it out at work.
I haven’t really written much about the Fat Old Hag’s personality. She’s the type that if she were in management, she’d be a micromanager. When she hears me moving stuff around in my area, she comes over to see what’s going on, and ask all about it. When she sees the FedEx truck, she’ll yell at me to open the door. If you do her favors, kiss up to her, listen to all the inane stories she doesn’t have anyone else to tell, she’ll be your friend until you stop or otherwise displease her. Then you find out that she perhaps never liked you at all, she just liked using you for her purposes.
She will now be avoided at all costs.