I'm a college graduate, I've traveled a good part of the world, I've held a job since I was 15, I can carry on an intelligent conversation, I completed a summer study program at Oriel College in Oxford (yes, THAT Oxford), and I can recite several movies from the '80's. So I'm trying to figure out why so many people need to explain themselves to death and 'coach' me on how to send an email, make a phone call, or ask for something. Please don't insult my intelligence by discussing an issue with me, ask me to follow up on it, and then dictate to me what the email should say. I'm 100% confident I can draft an email requesting what is needed. If you'd prefer to dictate it because you're a raging bitch of a control freak, please hire an Executive Assistant (not me) to accommodate your irrationalities and narcissism.
One of the personality traits I find most attractive is when someone knows how to leave a conversation. I do not like - nay, can't stand - dawdlers. And I'm surrounded by them. These are the people that will come to you to express their thought/question/concern and once you've given your answer/opinion, the conversation is over, right? WRONG! They will then re-read the email they brought with them, stand in your doorway in silence, slightly vary the whole of what they just said, or look at you like a deer in the headlights as if there were something more to say when clearly there isn't. Once they realize how awkward the situation is they start all over from the top and it becomes this vicious cycle until you are forced to be an asshole in the hopes of getting them to leave.
NEWS FLASH: Just because you say the same thing twenty different ways does not mean my response will be any different than the first time you said it.
Here is a prime example. This was an actual phone conversation I had with Debbie* last Thursday afternoon:
D: Can you call the regional loan center tomorrow and find out what we need to get this resolved?
Me: Sure.
D: Because I'd really like to enjoy my day off tomorrow and not have Steve* calling me every 5 minutes like a psycho.
Me: Ok. (Hoping this is the end of the conversation)
D: Do you have the phone number?
Me: Yes. (Seriously, where is this going?)
D: Ok, because if you need it there's a binder in my office with all of the phone numbers in it. I think it's on my desk next to a stack of papers. If you need it, just go in there and grab it and get the phone number.
Me: (uncomfortably long pause while I consider asking her if she has a Rolodex, too). Um, ok.
(At this point, I want to make a drinking game out of it - every time she keeps talking instead of getting off the phone, I get to do a shot.)
D: So yeah, if you could just call and ask to talk with an underwriter in the production department, actually they're all underwriters in the production department, and see what they'll accept since we can't get what they want and Steve is going to keep hounding me until we get this figured out.
Me: Yeah, ok. (omg, where's my shot?!)
D: I just don't know what we can possibly get but if you could call and ask them what they'll accept, that would be great.
Me: Mmmhmm. (chastising myself for not keeping alcohol in my desk)
D: Ok, and if you guys need anything tomorrow just call me. I'll be around so just call if anything comes up or if you have any questions.
Me: Ok, will do. (at this point I'm thinking "Fuck the alcohol, get me a gun.")
D: Ok, bye!
Me: Bye.
I hung up the phone with nothing less than sheer wonder. Wonder that someone can make a 15 second conversation into 5 minutes of complete torture; wonder that there are actually people in her life who can tolerate her; wonder that I haven't gone postal yet; and wonder that she is in a position of power.
*Names have been changed to protect the idiots
