Enter the Intern

I don't have an office. Office space at my organization is a status symbol, and my cubicle backs into the office kitchen. This puts me in such a lowly position I can barely even claim to work here at all, but at least I always know when somebody's microwaved lunch is ready.

I should be glad to be on top of something I suppose, since I'm not even sure who I report to on any given day. In the last three months my particular portfolio has been transferred back and forth to three different vice-presidents, so I'm just waiting for the day when they realize I was supposed to have been laid off back in January but my pink slip got lost in all the confusion.

I don't have doors, so the entire department can see me updating my Facebook status, and everybody knows when my next PAP smear is scheduled. There is one positive stemming from my office real estate - if I were to one day pass away from corporate ennui, janitors would find my body quickly. I don't even have walls.

There is a desk next to mine, and for at least a year this vacant spot has been acknowledged as the second worst real estate in the building. My proximity to the kitchen makes me number one. As of last week, this conjoined desk is no longer empty -- another department needed a space to stick their intern.

Let's call the intern Cathy. Cathy is very, very enthusiastic. I was introduced to Cathy this way:

"Cathy, this is Bambi. You'll be sitting next to her, and Bambi is really, really funny so I'm sure you'll get along great! Bambi isn't actually part of our department any more - who do you report to now Bambi? Really...since when? Huh. Oh well, she still sits here and can answer any questions you have. Bambi - anything witty you can say to get Cathy started?"

Yes. Get out now Cathy. Run like the goddamned wind.

Everybody agreed that my deadpan delivery and somber tone was indeed, hilarious. This makes me wonder what kind of tone I'll have to use should I ever need to yell for everybody to evacuate the building, because obviously being completely serious didn't work out. Cathy tacked some pictures of her boyfriend to her monitor, and she's obviously staying.

Cathy is always smiling, and this bothers me. Her teeth must be dry, and thinking of dry teeth makes me want to bite my own ear. She always wants to talk business, and there is nothing better to Cathy than "being on the same page."

Regardless of the conversation, she must consistently check that we are on the same page, close to being on the same page, nearly on the same page, or completely on that same page. I'm quite sure I don't have to describe what I want to do to that fucking page at this moment.

This is not Cathy's fault. It's not her fault she's sharing office space with Girl Interrupted and it's not her fault she doesn't know where the envelopes are and it's not her fault she looks way better in a pencil skirt than I ever will and it's not her fault she has a voice that goes up at the end of every sentence and it's not her fault we can't be on the same page and it's not her fault I lost the page a long time ago, and it's not her fault I'm not as excited as she is to be here.

It also won't be her fault when I inevitably throw a stapler at her head.