Thunk, thunk, thunk.

That is the sound of my head slamming against my desk. Again and again and again. I have somehow allowed myself to slide down the slippery slope of workplace aggravation and have found myself irrevocably mired in a frustration that has me threatening to unleash a torrent of uncensored commentary regarding a certain person. I apologize, but I am left with no option but to use this forum to vent.

I have reached the point where the sight of her, the mere mention of her, or even the idea of her sends me sputtering and twitching in fits of, “How could she?” I hate being here, mainly for the lack of control it makes me feel and the degree of power it seems to give her.

The title of this post? That’s in reference to her shoes. Her misshapen mules with their pointy toes, fashioned clumsily from tired faux leather and punctuated by peeling heels. They seem not fit her feet appropriately as she walks down the halls and they slap obnoxiously against her feet, the lines of her self tanner resembling the smudges of dirt the girls have after playing in the backyard.

It is October in the Adirondacks and she is still wearing capris. And the tops, the tissue paper thin, cut-down-to-here-tops. They are neither appropriate nor flattering. I suspect they are selected solely on their strength in highlighting the burnt umber shade of artificial tan she sports, highlighted nicely against the misguided shade of khaki that her I-wish-I’d-been-born-a-blonde-but-since-I-wasn’t-I’ll-just-thrice-weekly-dye-it hair is.

And you know, it’s not even really these things that get to me (I mean, obviously they do, but I could handle it and just laugh if that was all). It’s the pathological lying in the workplace and the inability of the people capable of addressing the situation to see what is so clear to the rest of us-

A consistent failure to perform the responsibilities as assigned to her.

She takes it further by requesting additional responsibilities from our boss and then sluffing the duties off on us as she twirls the aforementioned straw-like hair, round her French manicured nails feigning (or, perhaps not) ignorance. Then, as she is not doing the things she asked to be able to do, she dives head first into non-work related activities that preclude her from handling the basic responsibility of answering the phone and greeting visitors.

I have worked hard to fight the “I’ll just do it myself” mentality, knowing that I cannot do it all myself, but honestly, with her, it’s true. So I find myself trying to drown out the sound of her regaling friends with the latest cheer she has taught the squad, or campaigning for her husband, or spreading the Mary Kay gospel and just put my nose to the grindstone. And I am close, so close to being able to do it, but then she brings her STOMP knock-off sounding walk down the hallway and it takes everything in me not to leap over my desk and take one of those godforsaken Payless , special occasion mules and stuff it sideways in her tequila sunrise frost lipstick shellacked mouth.

Help, this cannot be good for the baby.