Seriously, nothing good about telemarketing on a Friday night

Friday night I didn't get a single lead. Not one. That's not to say I wasn't trying, because I wasn't. But there just weren't any good options. So instead of pulling out my hair or gnashing my teeth over the loss of commission potential, I instead apparently reverted to high school mentality and came perilously close to becoming a "Mean Girl" which I have never been in real life.

Also I am the hands down winner of paper airplanes.

I sit in a dark corner of a cubical landscape, nothing but wall to my left. I have a woman friend who I'll call "A" on my right and a few days a week a young man named "B" sits to the right of A. A new employee named "K" sits in the cubical on the other side of A's cubical. K has become the inspiration for my first foray into the world of Mean Girls.

K is a man in his 30's and is according to his numerous and ongoing stories, divorced, the father of a prescool aged daughter, a karaoke DJ, a paper mache sculpture, and afficionado of art, music, food, travel and even a $10,000.00 lottery winner.

There isn't a single topic of conversation one can have that K doesn't have a bigger, better, more impressive experience with which to top yours. He doesn't even give the courtesy of waiting for a person to finish talking before he overwhelms the conversation with his own grandiosity. B and I have gotten to the point that on Friday nights, when A is generally off, we just find ourselves rolling our eyes at each other, or convulsing with silent laughter behind our cubicals in response to the ongoing ridiculousness of K's stories.

On Friday I ended up no longer able to take it and dropped at note on B's desk as I walked by. It said "I knew a compulsive liar once, the girlfriend of a friend. I destroyed her. Would do the same here, but I just don't care."

This is not a nice thing to say, I know that, but I was overwhelmed by frustration. Between not getting commission, and having every thing I said or B said or even our manager said "one upped" by K, something in my brain broke.

I did not explode upon K. I did not shout or say something nasty directly to K. I did not complain to my manager. No, instead, I started plotting ways to make fun of K. Also I made a point of illustrating my greater knowledge of koi raising in response to a story B had shared. K knew some basic knowledge about koi, but I have had koi for over a decade. Score one for Kir.

Somehow we started making paper airplanes. B must have made the first one. In response of course K had to make a paper airplane. (And yes this feels like high school all over again.) B's paper airplane flew well. K's airplane fell out of the air like a lead balloon. B, being B had to exclaim at the failure of the plane to fly. Blustering and flustered K started weaving a story about how in his youth his father taught him how to engineer paper airplanes that do tricks. And that it was more fun to play with himself making trick planes while his older brothers ignored him because they were so much older. And how (whinning) he never learned how to make a plane that flies straight. By the way, my husband makes loop de loop planes for tricks, and they make perfect circles. K's planes just stuttered and failed.

While musing upon ways to disprove all his outrageous tales, I folded my airplane.

Using a piece of scrap paper, I carefully creased and pressed and turned and folded and sharpened that quarter sheet of copy paper into a sleek, tight, example of aerodynamic excellence. With a bayonet point in front and wide flat wings in back, this marvel of paper looked ready to rain destruction down upon the desks of my coworkers.

With one final press of the creases and a tug at the tip to ensure it was straight, I drew back and launched it at B. Straight and true and fast that airplane hurtled through space directly at a surprised and appreciative B. A gasped and clapped at my airplane making prowess. Who knew this hidden secret talent of mine was the key to being an office deity?

A and B gushed their admiration of my plane, and K continued whinning about his trick planes. How it is more fun and harder to make planes that make tricks than it is to make planes that fly straight and true. He tried to make another looper plane. It landed in A's impressive cleavage. With mock outrage she exclaime that enough was enough because he had defiled her body. By now both B and A were taking turns throwing my plane which continued to chew up distance and maintain accuracy. So I made two more. B examined the engineering and was impressed, A wanted to take one apart and learn the secret. One landed on K's desk and he looked at it and said "oh, its one of 'hers.'"

How dare it do something so concretely better than he? B is an actual DJ with his own equipment and following and mixes. A has been in management and has three grown children. I have a wealth of experience with animals and art. And yet any of our talents are apparently outstripped by K. Except my paper airplane.

For the rest of the night he tried to stick to his "trick planes are better line" but the game was over and I was the victor. He whimpered and whinned and finally was silent and when it was time to leave he said nothing to any of us.

I had gotten a ride into work and my husband wasn't there when I got outside. A and B decided to wait with me and we continued to tell storied about K's stories while we waited, getting harsher and harsher as we went. I cannot believe how his bluster and braggery brings out the very worst in me. Very few people have inspired me to be so critical and dismissive and mean.

I pride myself on being a nice person. My regulars online love my ssweetness and friendly attitude. I'm embarrassed by this response to K.

But I still think I'm going to make up a game based on his stories to play with A and B at night.
I guess I really am a Mean Girl. At least a little bit.