The "There's A Very Scary Woman Sitting Behind Me" Edition

I'm keeping this short, because I'm about to wet my pants in just a few minutes now. Not because I have a serious bladder/prostate disease or anything like that, but because of this woman sitting right behind me.

I work (blog and surf the Internet) in a relatively small office. There are only 6 of us. 2 of us don't work on Wednesdays (including me) because 2 other people from God knows where come to use the computers. The point I'm trying to make is that my office is small. And there are too many people. My desk (not really mine as I sort of invade another person's desk) is strategically located in the corner (see, my blogging habit is nurtured by the course of nature) . 4 of my workmates including my supervisor have their desks parallel to mine, which may seem not a big of a deal to you but trust me, this awesomely well thought orientation is ideal for me to fulfill my blogging/facebooking/emailing desires without getting caught (you know, instead of actually doing research and writing reports).

One problem. A major one. So major that I consider of copyrighting the word "major" which is not only a totally awesome idea but it also prevents Posh Spice from using the specific word and getting waaay tooooo muuuuch money out of using the said word.

My desk is directly (and I am using "directly" in the truest meaning of the word) in front of this huge woman's desk, which means that she can totally see what I'm doing all the freaking time. That's not really major because you know, being the intelligent person that I am (exam results may suggest otherwise), I have come up with brilliant ideas to combat this problem such as not putting the window in its full size and covering the now oh so small window with my rather large head (Ok. Not my head, my hair).

The most major problem is that this woman (until now, I still don't know her name and had only exchanged one word with her (i.e. "bye") despite working here for about 1 month now -- which makes me wonder when will I get my salary?) always talks loud. Really, really loud. That's not a problem per se, but she speaks Greek (making me fail to understand any word that comes out of her mouth) and everytime she engages in any conversation with my other workmates, she always seems angry. So maybe I should rephrase my sentence. She always shouts. It's as if she knows what I'm doing, disapproves and she goes on telling everybody about how I'm such a slacker and that they should all kill me and feed me to the stray dogs after ravaging my poor innocent flesh.

I don't know. Maybe it's a menopausal thing that she's having or it's just the way she is. I still remember one incident where she literally smacked the phone and almost threw it across the room because the phone rang non stop and no one answered everytime she picked it up. Fair enough I guess, but c'mon, you don't have to shout EVERY time you want to say something. Plus, she doesn't even talk to me, so how should I know that she's not plotting some kind of kidnap-and-kill plan. She has this really deep voice, similar to the opera singers, that just creeps me out.

Oh no... Oh here it is again... The shouting rampage... Drawer banging...

Okay, okay... I'm sorry... I promise I won't blog again when I'm supposed to write reports. Oh, holy crap woman... Please, please. I beg of you... Don't kill me! ARRHGH. DOn't kill me. O Lord, help me!...

Owh, okay. She stopped...I'll survive another day...

No, I didn't wet my pants.