I'm Picturing the Boss in a French Maid Outfit

[Note on The Experiment:
We have a few volunteers now which is wonderful! Nod to Gilahi for suggesting sharing the fun and to dcblogs for running with it. Anyhoo, we've already got a completed checklist on the Greenbelt, MD Co-op!! See? It really is just so easy to play. Nudgenudge.

On to today's post...]



It's been a strange week. I'm not what you'd call the center of the social scene at work (or anywhere else, to be brutally honest) so it always surprises me when people want to chat with me confidentially.

On Monday, a colleague--let's call her Midge*--puts her head in my office, then her whole body.

Midge: Hi!

Me, minimizing non-work browser window: Oh, hi, Midge.

Midge: blahblahhowyadoinblah.

Me: blahblahRedSoxblah.**

Midge, closing the door: So, you had your performance appraisal...

Me: {Uh-oh} ...Yeah...

Midge: Me, too. Mine was weird.*** Was yours weird?

Me: {Tutus? Jello?} Weird?

Midge then goes on to tell me all about her review with zero encouragement from me. She tells me about the specific feedback from the boss, how badly he handled the process, what rating she received, what bonus she received, and how she believed her rating was lower than expected because of a quota system.

Me: {Quota system?} I, uh, guess that's possible, yeah.

She goes on to complain and hint around. It's clear she wants me to not only commiserate --which I do because it costs me nothing and seems to make her feel better--but, also, to share my review details with her. Uh-uh. Name, rank, and serial number. Nothing more. I remain pleasant, sympathetic but play dumb at her witness leading.

{Insert image of calendar page fluttering away here}

On Tuesday, I walk out of a meeting and Colleague #2--let's call her Fifi Trixibelle****--says to me: I'll walk with you so we can chat.

Me: {Chat?! Do you and I chat?} Sure!

Yup, I got cornered for another 20 minute session of "let me tell you all about my performance review". Fifi, also, went into the same level of detail as Midge. Again, I commiserated and delicately avoided divulging information about my own review.

That's twice in two days!!

TMI, people!! TM freakin' I! I don't want to know this! Didn't your mother ever tell you that not everything has to be shared? No good can come of me knowing this.

Are you going to tell me your bra size next? Your credit score? How, sometimes, late at night you take out those old Tiger Beats with Kirk Cameron on the cover and cry for what might have been if he hadn't gotten all Jesus freaky and if you'd ever actually gotten a chance to meet him and if your stupidhead brother hadn't spilled Strawberry Quik***** on your hand-signed by HIM Growing Pains poster?

Not only do I not want to hear this but I am absolutely not going to tell you about any of my private stuff. It's none of your #$%@ing business! Decent people don't do that.

That's what blogs are for.



* I'd say "Not her real name" if I believed anyone thought there could be someone named Midge for real.

** I totally made that up. I never talk about the Red Sox. Insert any chitchat that meets your needs here while I'm blathering and thinking "What does she want?!"

*** She says "weird" in two syllables: wee-errd, for emphasis.

**** I get more hits searching for Fifi Trixibelle than any other keywords. I had no idea that my post about Bob Geldof would snag so much international attention (Hello, Namibia!) in search of his apparently hotsie-totsie daughter. So what's a few more hits? (Hello, Saudi Arabia!)

***** Not a euphemism. You people! *rolls eyes*