This entry was posted on Thursday, March 5th, 2009 at 2:18 pm and is filed under General Word Vomit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
“I’ve been meaning to chat with you, Juliette. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I said, letting an insincere smile pull tightly over my teeth. I always have time to chat with Human Resources.
It seems wherever I work I have the opportunity to get well acquainted with HR. It’s never so much a testimony to my work ethic, but more a result of an overly anxious corporate environment. Here especially, seeing as how HR knows not only my credit score, but also the contents of my pee.
I’ve come to accept such indignities as routine in a workplace, and as I settled myself at the foot of HR this time, I braced myself for a request for bone marrow or spinal fluid.
As far as I could think, there wasn’t much reason to call me in. Unless, of course, my casual Friday Rob Zombie “Blood Mania!” t-shirt offended someone. Snark had gotten the better of me that morning, and the shirt I typically reserved for concerts and horror movie conventions seemed a nice contrast to the usual office attire.
But when HR began our chat with the phrase “ladies are talking”, I knew it wasn’t my t-shirt that was offensive.
The scene unfolded like a bad musical, and I half expected a gaggle of Ladies Auxiliary members to tap into the room and cluck their commentary alongside my HR rep:
“… you were with I’m assuming your boyfriend…”
(She’s not married, she’s not married!)
“… inappropriate public affection…”
(They were kissing, they were kissing!)
“… brought to my attention…”
(Look at them, look at them!)
“… consider the environment…”
(It’s indecent, it’s indecent!)
My skin started to crawl; I guessed it was a scarlet letter burning its way to the surface. The only thing I could think was: “Really? Are we really having this conversation?” Because as it was, the pitchforks those office folk carried were raised over nothing more than a single kiss my guy and I shared. At lunch. In his car. For less than 10 seconds.
Had my guy and I been pressed against the main entrance of the building, tongues a-twirl and clothing disheveled, HR and the Hens (which is SO the name of my new fake band) would have had a valid point about my perceived moral deficiency.
Frankly, I would have preferred that to be the case. It certainly would have made accepting the reprimand easier. Instead, I was forced to defend my decision to lock my guy in something other than a loose handshake in a place where Victoria’s Secret, when mentioned at all, is referred to as “Vicky’s” in hushed and embarrassed whispers in the restroom.
Needless to say, my rendition of “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” fell flat. I left HR with an updated list of things I cannot do: make personal phone calls, use the internet for personal business, and kiss my boyfriend on company property.
I commiserated with my guy at home that night, jokingly calling myself the “office whore” and predicting that the next time we meet for lunch, the only thing visible in his car would be my head bobbing up and down.
“Baby,” he said, “you can do anything you want on your last day.”
I smiled, and added that to my mental “to do” list. My last day had the potential to be very busy indeed.
March 5th, 2009 at 3:31 pm
I suppose kissing while taking a call and surfing porn is out of the question.