1
BARBIE
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11TH
Hello Carter,
As per my last email, you egotistical canker sore, the test files will be sent to you and your team by EOW. Not end of yesterday.End of week.
Not only can wenotdefy what is universally known as the physics of time, but we cannot rush our testing phase, as we are not bots who can automatically produce results from thin air just because you demand them. QCactuallyprides our quality workmanship.
So why don’t you stop micromanaging me and focus on your dumpster fire of a team while I focus on mine?
Unkind regards,
B.H.
It isseven-twelve in the morning, and my eyes are bleary as hell while dealing with the eighteen emails sent to me last night from none other than the coworker from hell. My cup of coffee has yet to be brewed. My cat still needs to be let out of the room. I’m sitting at my desk, barely half awake, while I hitselect allanddelete the response I’ve crafted that would land me a one-way ticket to a conversation with an HR representative.
With a disdainful sigh, I rake my fingers through my messy hair and start typing a more eloquent and HR-approved email when a notification pings.
E. Carter: Got a sec?
“Absolutely not, jackass,” I mutter, barely midway through an eye-roll, when another pop-up occurs in the bottom right corner, accompanied by a ringtone that has haunted my dreams far too many times now. “Dammit.”
I swear to God, he needs to just schedule daily meetings at seven a.m. once and for all so we can cut the bullshit by at least one percent.
Pulling my headset over my head, I answer the call and glower at the screen. “Hi, Carter.”
“Hello, Barb.”
“Barbie.” My gritted teeth punctuate the last syllable. Not that he’ll see them. The best thing about working at Green Checks Insurance is that cameras aren’t mandatory during calls—the second-best thing. Working remotely will always be the best thing about this place. “I am responding to your emails right now?—”
“Glad to hear,Bee,” his smooth voice cuts in. How he’s managed to survive decades of not being shanked in the throat with a carabiner is one of life’s greatest mysteries. “I’m calling you to discuss your feedback on an SOP?—”
“Which one, Carter?” I interject, my voice sugary sweet. “I’ve provided plenty of feedback on numerous SOPs.”
A taut silence fills the air and brings a half-smile to my lips.
“You know which one I’m talking about.” His voice is lower,growlier. “You shouldn’t have sent in an update form to Help Desk without reaching out to me first. Those guides belong to me?—”
“And they’re out of date.”Because of your ineptitude with maintaining their upkeep, you hostile jackass. “My team is getting dinged?—”
“If your team is having issues,” he says smoothly, “my team and I are more than happy to give you a refresher course?—”
“It’s not necessary,” I interrupt. “We like to adhere to theSOPs because they are, after all, the standard. Let’s not go against company policy.”
“I agree.”
Do you? “Your team keeps giving us guidelines that aren’t mentioned in the standard operating procedures,” I remind him sweetly, “and I do not want our reports to keep getting rejected without anythingconcreteto back us up.”Because you guys conveniently forgot that the so-called special instructions were given during a project overview call.“My team prides itself onkeeping it standard.”Does yours?
“Regardless,” he says, and I resist the urge to turn in my two weeks’ notice while I glare daggers at his profile picture.
Like every generic middle-aged dudebro’s online userpic, it’s a grainy photo of him nowhere in a close shot with sunglasses on and his arms posed awkwardly as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“These aremyguides. I can send in the requests myself. While I appreciate the offer, let’s not overstep?—”
