Good Vibrations

by Elizabeth Parrish

  As Heather ushered me inside, I was utterly unsurprised to find that her home was both gorgeous and spotlessly clean. Standing in the foyer, taking in the soaring arches, the gleaming hardwood floors and the spotless granite counters, I felt like I should bubble wrap myself before I went any further.

  While my own childhood home was probably not destined to make an appearance on a future episode of ‘Cribs’, I couldn’t help thinking that there was something to be said for growing up in a place where it was okay to be a kid.

  As I glanced around, I was pretty sure that “Welcome home Daddy” had never been scrawled in crayon across these floors in a well-meaning, if not completely appreciated, gesture of affection.

  As Heather hurriedly provided me with her contact details and detailed instructions on who was to be in bed by when, her kids, Emma, a three year old with braided strawberry blonde hair and an impish grin, and Erica, a five year old with strong blonde hair like her mom that she had let grow halfway to her waist, were taking turns giggling at me and making faces from the couch whenever Heather turned her back on them.

  As Heather rushed out the door, her kids politely said their goodbyes and stood by the door looking and acting practically angelic.

  However, based on my experience at the Christmas party, I had a feeling that I was about to get the substitute teacher treatment as soon as that door shut.

  Thirty minutes later, after being assured by both Emma and Erica that “mommy lets us do this all the time,” I had somehow been persuaded to assist each of them with performing mini makeovers.

  I figured a little nail polish and mascara, judiciously applied, couldn’t do any harm and, on the bright side, it seemed to be keeping them occupied and out of trouble.

  Unfortunately, no sooner than that ridiculously naïve thought had entered my head, I heard Emma giggling like mad from across the hall. I immediately grabbed Erica by the hand and quickly scooted over to Emma’s room.

  “Oh Emma, what did you do?” I wailed plaintively as I took a look at her white gerbil which now had a red lipstick racing stripe across its back which it was furiously, and unsuccessfully, trying to lick off.

  “I gave Polly a makeover!” Emma squealed, proudly pointing out her handiwork, as if I couldn’t see my nightmare unfolding before my eyes without her assistance.

  Wait, Polly the Gerbil? Really?

  Giving that thought the nanosecond it deserved, I quickly scooped up Polly as I said to Emma, “I have a strict no animal testing policy when it comes to makeup. PETA is going to be all over us if they find out about this,” I replied as lightheartedly as I could muster given the circumstances before rushing out of the room to grab a paper towel and wetting it under the tap.

  As Polly convulsed in my arms, trying to get away from the damp towel that I gently dabbed her with, I couldn’t help thinking that, if I was just a bit quicker on my feet or a little less eager to please, I would currently be at home watching Chris Harrison and ABC exploiting another 30 hot, successful men, eager to do pretty much anything for their 15 seconds of fame (and of course a shot at a doomed relationship as well).

  Instead, I was left contemplating whether it was safe to use a hair dryer on a large, now very musky smelling, rodent.

  Does life get any better than this?

  After images of Polly passing out due to heat stroke or catching on fire both passed fleetingly through my head, I decided that low tech was the way to go.

  Grabbing a hand towel, I did my best to dry the little critter off before returning her to her cage and firmly shutting the latch.

  Grabbing each of the girls firmly by the hand, I asked, “So, who wants to show me where your mommy keeps the wine before I tuck the two of you into bed?”

  Several hours later when Heather returned, I was happily able to report that everyone (and every creature) was alive and well (or at least as well as could be expected).

  Having thought better about leaving behind an empty bottle of wine for Heather to discover and comment on tomorrow, I instead made a quick escape and I rushed home to ease my shattered nerves with a bottle of red in the privacy of my own home.

  Besides, it just feels wrong drinking alone in the dark when you’re at someone else’s place.

  Facts are the enemy of truth – Don Quixote

  27. As I groggily stumbled out of bed the next morning, painfully aware of the impending departure of my twenties, I was hit by yet another horrifying thought. Today, as a special early birthday present just for me, was the date of my annual performance review.

  There are few things I like less in life than having my performance critiqued. It’s even more grating when said review is based solely on the opinion of one cantankerous old woman who interacts with me for all of maybe two minutes a day, and who also happens to have full control over both my bonus and my employment status.

  All of these factors tended to significantly limit my willingness to provide my honest feedback as I was reasonably sure that, at best, my opinions would clash with her own and, at worst, would severely limit my ability to pay my rent.

  As I stared in horror at the consequences of the previous night’s libations now reflected clearly in the bathroom mirror, I decided that being late today was not an option, no matter how scary I looked, and as such, some sacrifices to my morning routine were going to be necessitated.

  As I flew out of the condo with my damp hair wrapped around my neck and my makeup necessities stuffed into the pockets of my coat, it occurred to me that perhaps it would make sense to set a calendar alert for these sorts of events in the future.

  Somehow, I managed to survive my drive to the office while multitasking to my utmost. In light of recent happenings, I was well aware of the potential perils, but desperate times called for desperate measures!

  I rushed through the doors to the office a full two minutes early and placed Maggie’s cup of coffee on her desk promptly at 8, faking the most sincere smile that I could muster as I felt a drop of water from my, still damp, hair slide down the back of my neck.

  “Anna, you’re looking a bit out of sorts today. Is something the matter?” Maggie inquired, glancing up at me from her desk with a frown etched across her face.

  Really? I’m here early and delivering you fresh coffee without prompting and I don’t get as much as a thank you?

  “I must just be getting older,” I muttered sullenly, biting my tongue as it crossed my mind that now was not the best time to tell her that she had been looking a bit haggard since the first day I met her.

  Heading back to my desk, I was already on edge from my interaction with Maggie when Heather came flying through the door.

  “Anna, do you have a moment?” she asked me, concern written clearly across her face.

  “Sure thing,” I replied timidly, my hands trembling under the desk as an image of Heather walking in on Polly this morning, only to find her feet up and stiff as a board, popped into my head.

  “Thanks again for watching the kids last night. The girls seem to really enjoy having you as a sitter, but didn’t they tell you that I don’t let them put makeup on?”

  “No, they didn’t happen to mention that to me,” I responded, doing my best to choose my words carefully.

  Those brats! Lying to me and then throwing me under the bus yet again!

  “Really? They told me that they had but that you said it would be okay?”

  What is the world coming to when a five year old can look you in the eye and lie to your face?

  “I’m sorry Heather, but I didn’t know that they weren’t allowed to,” I replied, cautious not to overtly call out the little liars as I silently seethed.

  I should have burst her bubble about her little angels but, just in case Maggie asked her opinion about me before the review, I decided to hold off on that breaking news. She could find out for herself when one of them turned 15 and brought a drummer home with her.

  “Hmm, perhaps there was a miscommunication,” she retorted, casting
a look of suspicion my way before turning on her heel and abruptly walking away.

  “Always a pleasure to help a friend in need,” I muttered under my breath after I was sure that she was well out of earshot.

  After that fantastic start to my day, I had to endure an agonizingly slow countdown in anticipation of my review which was set for 2:30 that afternoon.

  Veronica was set to face the firing squad on right before me and we were equally pessimistic about our chances of getting a decent bonus this year.

  On the plus side, I was hoping that I would at least get to hear what to expect from Veronica before I had to go and face the music myself.

  As I was mentally preparing myself, Veronica emerged from Maggie’s office with a stunned expression on her face. However, before I could get a chance to inquire as to how it went, Maggie followed her down the hall and asked me to join her in her office.

  As I closed the door and found a seat, I could feel my heart pounding furiously. I wasn’t particularly worried about the review itself. The occasional bout of tardiness aside, I thought I did a pretty adequate job.

  On the other hand, due to some larger than expected Christmas shopping bills, I was anxious to hear about my bonus. When your credit card statement is about the same length as a short story, a little extra cash could go a long ways towards being able to sleep at night. Maybe I could entitle my short story “What shoes to wear when living in a cardboard box”?

  “So, before we get to my comments, why don’t you tell how you think things are going from your perspective,” Maggie began, no hint of emotion emanating from behind her steely gaze.

  “Well, I know I’ve been a minute or two late here and there, but outside of that, I think I have a great rapport with the rest of the staff and the clients. Also, I think that I’m a positive ambassador for company when I’m interacting with the public and that people respond well to me,” I responded, thinking that my positive traits far outshone being late a handful of times.

  “Anna, you should know that I do keep track of your arrival times and, in the last year alone, you have been tardy on 37 different occasions,” Maggie retorted as she scowled fiercely at me.

  Yikes, well wasn’t the best way to start things off, was it? But really, did a minute or two here or there really matter when that time was being spent making sure I looked presentable, if not resplendent, for her clients?

  “I haven’t really kept a running tally, but I’m sure that I’ve never been more than a minute or two late,” I replied as I flashed her the most angelic smile I could muster given the circumstances.

  Sighing with exasperation, Maggie retorted, “Anna, I agree that you seem to get along well with the clients and you’re reasonably professional in your dealings with the public, but you’re not a child. You know when we open and when you’re expected to be here. I shouldn’t have to constantly remind you of the basic requirements of your job.”

  “Okay, I understand and I will make sure that you don’t have to remind me again,” I pledged in an effort to cut my critique as short as possible.

  I suppose I could always bump up my alarm by five minutes. On the other hand, I wonder if Maggie has read any of the studies that note the importance of sleep and its relationship to productivity?

  After discretely taking a quick peek upwards and running smack into Maggie’s harsh and unrelenting stare, I decided that perhaps it would be best to wait to enlighten her on this topic until after the bonus cheques had been distributed.

  “Alright, putting that issue aside for the moment, I would like to address one other matter with you,” she continued as she pulled a sheet of paper out of her desk drawer and slid it across to me.

  “I found this in the copy room several months ago when I arrived at work one morning. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about where this came from, would you?”

  I emitted an audible gulp as I turned the sheet over and unexpectedly came face to face with a black and white copy of my, mostly naked, rear end.

  Months earlier, during a flirtatious moment with Paul one evening after everyone else had already departed for the night, I had hopped up on the photocopier while we were chatting in the copy room and, as he leaned in during a feisty bit of bantering between us, he had hit surreptitiously hit the copy button.

  I was positive that I had grabbed the copy from him and I had made sure that it had gone straight into the shredder but the machine must have been set to make duplicate copies.

  Thank God that I had at least been wearing a thong!

  With my face quickly turning crimson and my hands shaking noticeably, I took a deep breath, composed myself the best I could, and stammered, “Was that made around Thanksgiving? It looks like someone made a black and white copy of two hams sitting next to each other.”

  Okay, I know that was pretty weak, but unless Maggie had some way of proving that it was my butt on that page, there was no way in hell that I was going to be admitting to being part of that little indiscretion, regardless of how clearly my culpability was written across my face.

  Hmm, my whole body seems to be shaking all of a sudden. This can’t be good. Is it possible to have a heart attack before one turns 30?

  After staring intently at me in silence for what felt like an eternity, Maggie responded, “I’ve already spoken to Mr. D’Antoni about this matter and I know exactly what that sheet is a copy of. I had been hoping that you would have been truthful about this matter, as he was. If you had been, it would have been much easier for me to attempt to look past this.”

  As she stared at me with a look of utter disappointment, my mind was spinning. Was she really going to fire me over something as silly as this? And was I really going to sit here and let her blame me for something that was far more Paul’s fault than my own?

  As I sat there stewing, I finally decided it was time to speak my mind.

  Taking a deep breath, I said, “Maggie, yes I was the one sitting on the photocopier, but Paul hit the copy button without me knowing that he was going to. It’s admirable that he decided to own up to it, but I wasn’t going to tattle on him behind his back. I would never do that to a friend or a co-worker.”

  Speaking of friends, where had my warning been? Would a quick heads-up on this ticking time bomb have killed that little midget?

  As my anger towards Paul, Maggie and my career as a whole coalesced in my mind and quickly proceeded to boiled over, I continued, “Maggie, whether you can look past this incident or not, I think maybe it’s time for me to move on. I am grateful to you for my time here, but I’m not sure that my skills are really being utilized in this role or that I’m fulfilling my potential.”

  Fulfilling my potential? When had I started channeling my mother’s voice and what about the potential of not having a roof over my head?

  At that point, my whole body began to tremble uncontrollably as the reality of my pending unemployment hit me.

  Still glaring intently at me, now with her arms crossed tightly in front of her, Maggie leaned towards me as she asked, “So to be clear, you are resigning from your position then?”

  Worst case, Elyse will find me a job at her bar.

  I can survive this.

  “Yes, I am. I think it’s time for me to move on,” I replied quietly, doing my best to hold her gaze and not erupt into a sobbing mess.

  Wait! If she was going to fire me anyways, I could have gotten severance! Dammit! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  “Alright then, if that’s your decision, when will your last day be?” Maggie inquired, giving me a temporary reprieve from my predicament.