She came on like a superhero, but had power only to annoy

"Here I come to save the day! Mighty Mouse is on the way!" Every time Meredith entered my office, I pictured the cartoon superhero, biceps bulging, wearing a bright yellow body suit and a flowing red cape. The catchy theme song that was her personal sound track accompanied her everywhere. You see, Meredith could never just do a project. Not on your life. Every situation was life or death, fraught with insurmountable obstacles, and rescued through the heroic individual efforts of just one person -- Meredith.

I should have known from the interview that Meredith was "complex." But we were so desperately understaffed that she was as tempting as a Snickers bar to "The Biggest Loser." Although her resume said she singlehandedly won the cola wars and invented beer, her expressed disdain for the limelight was the biggest fib of all. But, there were many. If she were Pinocchio on Newbury Street, her nose could block runways at Logan.

Like most superheroes, Meredith could never get good help. Her staff was "very inadequate" and "unreliable." They apparently belonged to some aboriginal tribe like the "Nova" subjects who walk on all fours. Preverbal at best, Meredith had attempted to teach them to sign, but they were clearly "very limited." No matter what they provided, it always "had to be "completely redone at the last minute!" By Meredith.

One habit of highly effective superheroes is procrastination. Forget status meetings or timetables. Meredith's projects had only two phases: "Not really ready for you to look at yet" and "Omigod, my computer froze, the power went out, Kinko's was closed, everyone else left, I was up all night but here it is. Thank God for me! Whew!"

The key to finishing a project at 1 a.m. is, of course, not to start until after dinner. Filling the daylight hours while looking as overworked as Anna Nicole's bustier requires a very special talent. Meredith was very talented indeed. Looking like a victim of "reverse Botox," her office game face bore the look of perpetual stress, or laxative deprivation.

Wielding a magnum of Starbuck's expresso for "another long night," she'd roam the office seeking anyone foolish enough to make eye contact. Then, circling the victim like a boa constrictor, she'd rant about the incredible stress, ungodly hours, and unreasonable deadlines. Important topics such as "How could the company possibly serve filet mignon at the Christmas party after downsizing 40 employees?" and "Why wasn't it open bar?" were addressed. Nothing short of a stun gun could unseat her. Then, cape flapping in the wind, on to the next. This was good for several hours.

Feature-length conference calls and meetings, preferably immobilizing others with deadlines, rounded out the day. These were bulimic filibusters where the same things come up over and over and over. Through the Triscuit thin wall of my office, it sounded like Borat on Quaaludes.

Superheroes will claim they don't have time for the rest room, which may be why they wear those really long capes. They never stop for meals. Since intravenous nourishment was not an option (although catheterization was frequently discussed), liquids were the next best thing. Meredith would nuke soup foul enough to clear a gym, and then circle the floor so everyone would know she was eating at her desk. Again.

Every time someone left with a gym bag, she'd do the superhero eyebrow lift, snort some cream of cauliflower and sigh, "I wish I had time to go to the gym." The empty food containers and artful arrangement of toiletries and personal-hygiene products made it appear she lived in her office. Picture a double-wide with a river view.

Superheroes also use their powers to escape actual work. Once during a legitimate work emergency, Meredith invited our client, Betty, to town and used her as a human shield for two days. Apparently Betty had such a dire need for lobster, she was on a national transplant list. As they left the team eating pizza in the conference room both nights, Meredith regretted she "had but one life to give for the company" and slithered out the door.

Not long after I left the company, Meredith encountered her personal Kryptonite. She was absolutely shocked when the company laid her off. She truly believed that she was the only one who could do things right, and, without her, the company would go under. Her boss may not have possessed Meredith's superhero powers, but the one thing he could do was see right through her.

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