workingfortheman.com

When Ms. Ming wants to talk to you, she doesn't just come by your desk or simply call you at your phone extension. She gets right on the office-wide intercom and screams, "Uhhh... Phil... Phil... Can you come to Ms. Ming's office... Phil... Can you come to Ms. Ming's office."

And by God, if you get called by Ms. Ming, you better high tail your ass into her office. Otherwise, she'll get back right back on that intercom and scream even louder.

Ms. Ming is an absolute terror, an omnipresent nightmare, a bitch times ten million. She will make you work until sunrise, then tell you the work you've slaved over is a total disappointment. She will talk behind your back to other employees. She never, ever, has anything nice to say. She will make changes in your work for no other reason than to have a say. She laughs about the times she has made employees cry. She will stand in the office lobby and wait for employees to return from lunch to insure that no one breaks her strict "one hour for lunch" rule. She will ask you to work overtime, and if you have a prior engagement that you refuse to break, she will throw a tantrum and scream, "The people just do not care. You just do not care." She will yell at you at the top of her lungs for extended periods of time, sometimes in her office, sometimes at your desk, and occasionally over the phone while you're at home. Simply put, Ms. Ming is the worst boss ever.

I remember when I interviewed for the marketing director position. Ms. Ming and her partner, Mr. Chin (who, by the way, is treated just as horribly as the rest of the employees), asked me the usual questions. At the end, Ms. Ming looked directly into my eyes and asked, "Are you hard worker?"

"Yes, I am," I replied with fierce determination. And then I followed up with the usual comments, about how the work day isn't over at 5 p.m. if the work isn't done, how I'm ready to pour my heart and soul into my work, how I gain the ultimate satisfaction through hard work, etc., etc., etc.

My theatrics proved strong enough to win the approval of Ms. Ming, as I was offered the job. But I'd like to point out here that during my entire year at Ming + Chin, it was the only approval I received from Ms. Ming.

Of course, while things were bad right from the start, I was too thankful about getting a regular paycheck to really take notice. I could get yelled at and roll it off my back. I could be told that my work was no good and keep working constructively to make it better. But this resilience didn't last long.

Part of my duties involved handling correspondence to prospective clients. An easy task, something that should take just a few minutes per letter. But Ms. Ming, who reviewed all my work, would send these perfectly fine letters back to me gushing in red pencil. One simple three sentence thank you note could go through six drafts before being sealed in an envelope and mailed off. And without a doubt, some rude comment directed at me would be scrawled in all caps across the top of every letter: "THIS IS A TERRIBLE LETTER."

I should admit that another one of my duties as marketing director included answering the phones when the receptionist went to lunch. If Ms. Ming called (which she did often while out of the office) and I put her on hold for a mere five seconds, she'd hang up and call back, unhinged and furious.

"Phil, why did you not get Mr. Chin. I need to speak to him. Why do you make me wait?!!"

I would also spend countless hours putting together company brochures. Each brochure sent out of the office involved spiral binding sheets featuring projects by Ming + Chin. On a regular basis I'd put together a group of ten or so brochures made up of 50 sheets each, only to have Ms. Ming rearrange the order, add sheets, or pull sheets out at the last minute. Petty meaningless changes to satisfy the evil whim of Ms. Ming, control freak extraordinaire.

But Ms. Ming didn't even have to open her mouth to make you feel like shit. She'd come sauntering by your desk, throw a disgusted glance at you, and then make this annoying snapping sound with her tongue. I always just wanted to get up out of my chair and scream, "Get the fuck out of my face." Of course, I never did that. I'd just suck it up and pretend to be looking at papers or staring intently at my computer screen. But I'd always know she was there, slithering by.

This bullshit started to overflow to a level I just couldn't handle anymore. I simply dreaded being in the office. And if I wasn't in the office, I'd be depressed about having to go back. The mere thought of Ms. Ming, no matter how far away she was, made me sick to my stomach.

One time, near the end, Ms. Ming decided that the presentation boards prepared for an important meeting the next day were "terrible, just terrible."

She asked me - the only person who knew how to prepare and print out the boards - to stay late and re-do the boards. A standard, normal request of Ms. Ming. However, this time, I said no.

"I've got a commitment," I braved.

"What commitment?" spewed Ms. Ming.

"I have a class."

"What class?" she hissed.

"A psychology class," I deadpanned.

So Ms. Ming, knowingly foiled, stormed off, shaking her head.

In a few minutes, she could be heard telling Mr. Chin, "No one cares about this presentation. The people just do not care."

This kind of shit was never going to stop. I knew that, deep down, the day I got there. Ms. Ming's reign of terror started long before I even got involved with Ming + Chin, and it would continue well past my departure. It was just a matter of reaching my limit, which I did after being berated and harangued and specifically, told to open Ms. Ming's drapes before she arrived at the office.

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