It's a bustling Monday morning at Branault-White group. On the five minute journey from the lobby to my desk, I passed a myriad of melancholy faces. 'The Monday Blues' I suppose.
I've never understood why one particular day of the week receives so much unwarranted hatred. I realize the work/school week usually begins on a Monday, but each day has the potential for wretchedness. Ever had a terrible Thursday? Trust me, you have. My favorite dog, Romeo, died on a Wednesday.
Oh! Would you like to know which days of the week you're most likely to be in a car accident?
Well, I'm telling you anyways...
3. Friday, T.G.I.F.? I think not.
2. Sunday funday?
*drum roll please*
1. Good ole Saturday
My point is, I feel like people need to cut Monday a little slack. He's like an unruly step-child. Monday may not feel like your other kids, but treating him badly will only make him act worse and make you a terrible person. So, give Monday some love, drink an extra cup of coffee, and focus on the good parts.
The elevator dings and an angry looking boss stomps toward my desk.
"Morning Charles," I beam, hoping to lighten his clearly dark mood.
He frowns. Mission-not accomplished. "I'm redirecting all my calls to your desk this morning. Do not put anyone through. I don't care if Mark Zuckerberg calls. Take. A. Message. Understood?"
Like a star struck teen, I stupidly inquire, "You know Mark Zuckerberg?"
Charles just squints his eyes at me, as if I'm some sort of creepy new insect. Then, he repeats himself, "No calls. Understood?"
"Crystal clear, Sir," I said. I hadn't meant to call him 'Sir', but when someone is speaking to you like a drill sergeant, it's hard not to respond like a cadet. If he noticed, he didn't say anything.
I would say that Charles has fallen victim to 'a case of the Monday Blues', but I'm thinking his bad mood transcends 'days of the week' prejudice.
I hate when people are in bad moods. I have this inherent need to try and fix the problem. My success rate? Not exactly stellar. But, I don't let that stop me! I'll search for a solution until I've run out of options.
If I wasn't broke, I would try to buy people's happiness. I'd be like a more southern version of Oprah, but instead of handing out cars, (and you get a car! And you get a car!) I would give shopping sprees and season tickets to college football. (And you buy that dress! And you sit at that fifty yard line!)
But I'm broke. So instead, I try to be a good listener and do what I can to de-stress your day. And from the looks of it, Charles is more stressed than a cheating bride on her wedding day.
"Good mornin' sunshine!" Lizzy sing-songs, waddling over to the desk. And it's as if she's purposefully trying to be the antithesis of our boss. While Charles is dark roast coffee black, she's a unicorn frappuccino with extra whipped cream. "I had an amazin' weekend. How about you, Miss Emmy?" she asks, slowly lowering her body into the rolling office chair.
"Same old, same old," I responded, because other than complaining about a couple of old ladies, there wasn't anything exciting to tell. "Oh, but I did work a few hours overtime on Friday night. Charles asked me to stay and help out since you'd already left for the day."
"I knew he'd procrastinate on those contracts. Do tell! Which personality did he show up with? Was he 'Charles the ice queen', or 'Charlie the big ole teddy bear'?" Lizzy asked, with her signature smile.
I thought for a moment, then said, "Mostly teddy bear. Although, I did share my take-out food with him. Had I refused, ice queen would have probably made an appearance."
"So, I'm guessin' he told you that I don't like to share? Well, he's right about that one!" Lizzy confessed unapologetically. "I'm a picky eater, and he usually orders somethin' weird. No thank you."
I figured now was as good a time as any to warn Lizzy of Charles' poor mood and refusal of incoming calls.
"Uh oh," she said in response. "He really said 'no phone calls'?"
I nodded a confirmation, and allowed her uneasy expression to mirror in my own.
"I'm gonna guarantee that means one thing...his mother must be back from Zurich."
"His mother?" I questioned, my curiosity needing more information.
Lizzy took a deep breath, "You better hold onto your britches darlin' cause I'm bettin' his mama will grace us with her presence before we even make it to lunchtime. And Eleanor Branault makes Antarctica look like the beaches of Hawaii."
"She sounds lovely," I sarcastically announce.
"Just you wait!" Lizzy says, rubbing her giant belly. "You may need to sensor me, because it takes all my patience to deal with that women, and I'm afraid my pregnancy hormones might ruin my self-control."
From the sound of it, I should be terrified of meeting Mrs. Eleanor Branault. Instead, all Lizzy has managed to do, is make me super curious. I'm dying to know if his mother is really as bad as Lizzy says she is.
Is it weird that I'm kind of hoping she's a terrible person?
It makes me think about these online reviews for sugar-free gummy bears. One guy ordered a 5lb bag and wrote a full page review about the violent ramifications these gummy bears caused to his bowels. He apparently spent days confined to his bathroom. Do you think that stopped people from purchasing them?? Of course not!
The sugar-free gummy bears became an internet sensation. People's curiosity got the better of them, which resulted in hundreds of hilarious stomach churning reviews. Apparently, the gummy bears exceeded their expectations for Montezuma's revenge...so, like the gummy bears, I'm kinda hoping Mrs. Branault exceeds my expectations by being a full on cold and calloused crone.
Lizzy interrupts my thought process, saying, "At least Charles, isn't some kind of mama's boy. Don't get me wrong, he treats her with respect, but he's well aware that his mama is a pill and crazy to boot."
"What if it isn't his mother coming by, and he just had like a terrible weekend or something?" I ask, exploring other possibilities.
Lizzy, however, seems convinced. Since I'm the newbie here, I take her word for it.
A few minutes later, a silent Bao strolls past our desk chucking two bright red little bags in our direction. "Skittles!" I yell out, catching mine while Lizzy's bag falls to the floor. She claims that pregnancy has stolen her cat-like speed and reflexes. I believe her. At this point, she is moving slower than a sloth swimming in peanut butter.
"Thanks Bao," Lizzy calls out as he disappears down the hallway. "Emmy, would you be a
dear and pick that up for me?"
"Finders keepers, losers weepers," I taunt her, after snatching the bag from off the floor. We are both giggling as I play a game of 'keep away', and she's too immobile to reach the Skittles.
Our laughter is interrupted by the feminine clearing of a throat, and we both startled and turned at the noise. A blonde woman, probably in her early sixties, is standing in front of our desk. She's wearing a navy sheath dress, a giant gold bracelet, and an 'I eat girls like you for breakfast' scowl on her face.
Is this lady a ninja? How did she get here without us seeing her? The elevator doors didn't even open.
"Elizabeth. Glad to see your professional behavior hasn't improved," the lady greets, grasping her brown Hermès handbag.
I feel Lizzy tense up beside me. "Back from Zurich so soon?" she responds, with some clear passive-aggressive undertones.
"It's been six months, which is quite long enough." Mrs. Branault disapprovingly eyes Lizzy's baby bump, saying, "Clearly, you've been busy. I trust you know who the father is?"
WOW. So far, like those sugar-free gummy bears, she is meeting all of my horrific expectations. Eleanor Branault's rudeness is so extreme, I'm having a hard time not laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.
"Yep, I'm 100% positive that the baby's Father is my husband of the last seven years," Lizzy defended, and I felt like high-fiving her.
Eleanor turned in my direction, as if noticing me for the first time. "Who is this?" she asked, visibly disgusted at the sight of me. I had to fight the urge to smell myself just to make sure I wasn't the actual problem.
"Hello. I'm Emeline Adkins," I warmly greeted, because there's no way I'm stooping down to her level. "I'm Lizzy's replacement while she's out on maternity leave."
"Riiiiiight," she voiced, before turning her unwanted attention back to Lizzy. "Where is my son?"
"In his office. I'm sure he'll be happier than a pig in mud, knowin' you're back in town," Lizzy said with so much artificial sweetness you might confuse her with a packet of Splenda.
Eleanor narrowed her eyes at Lizzy before turning on her heels and sauntering down the hall.
"Well, isn't she lovely," I say, once Mrs. Branault is out of earshot.
"The fact she's made it this many years without someone murderin' her seriously boggles my mind."
"Perhaps you'll get the privilege," I joke, and the look on Lizzy's face is a bit disturbing. She seems to be genuinely considering the idea. Mental note: don't get on Lizzy's bad side.
"So, how did she make it to the desk without either of us seeing her? Unless I've gone crazy, the elevator doors didn't even open," I ask, voicing my earlier observations.
"Because the crazy lady took the stairs! Eleanor always gets off on the 18th floor, talks to Mona in legal, and then takes the stairs up here. She claims to do it to stay healthy, but I'm pretty sure she just wants to live long enough to drive me to an early grave," Lizzy summarizes, and I shoot her an amused but sympathetic smile.
We field phone calls all morning, and a little before lunch our office messenger dings, and Lizzy and I simultaneously look at the message.
CharlesBranault: Emmy, I need you to accompany me and my mother to lunch at LeFevre's. Take Elizabeth's IPad with you. (You're welcome Elizabeth)
Lizzy smirked to herself and then turned remorseful eyes toward me. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad it's you and not me. I owe Charles big time. But don't worry, they'll be talkin' all business. She won't have time to berate you, and she usually cools down the hatred in front of her son."
"That's comforting...I guess," I shakily respond.
EmelineAdkins: Yes Sir, I'll get my stuff together.
CharlesBranault: Emmy?
EmelineAdkins: yes?
CharlesBranault: stop calling me Sir
EmelineAdkins: will do Sir 😉
For some reason, my usually awkward self feels almost confident and a tad cheeky when corresponding with my boss.
I look over and notice Lizzy grinning at me. I ask, "What? What are you smiling about?"
"Nothin', nothin' at all," she suspiciously replies, and leaves for the break room.
But I don't have time to over analyze, because I have a fancy business lunch to prepare for...
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