lobster bake.

On Thursday night, I thought I was quitting my job. After careful consideration, however, I have decided against this for several reasons:

1. I'd have to search for something else to bitch/blog about.
2. I'd have to resort to drug dealing and/or prostitution to ensure that both cats remained well-fed until I found a suitable place of employment. Juuuuust kidding. I'm not a creepy cat woman. Really. I'm not. I swear. Just ask Hobbes.
3. I don't have the balls to do it. Not yet.

The evening started off well enough; the office was going to have a lobster bake at Sean's house. This event was to be sponsored by Michael, as he had recently lost a bet regarding the size of an incoming investment (note: Paul was in on the bet and admitted to me that it was totally rigged). We finished up work, and headed over to Casa Sean for drinks, dinner and fun.

We definitely had drinks. And dinner. And then some of us had more fun than others.

Everything started off innocently--we all kicked back poolside and had a beer while waiting for the food to finish cooking, and shot the shit regarding our outside-of-the-office happenings (this is where I learned that apparently, some people have outside-of-the-office happenings--note to self: look into this). Everyone--Sarah, Poolboy and Dennis included--was there, except for the guys' wives. Most of them live in the area, several insist on being involved in all of their husbands' happenings and if nothing else, Sean's wife LIVES at the party's venue. I remain convinced that they were given the "boys' night out" story, but I guess that's irrelevant at this point.

Anyway, drinks happen, food happens and Katie finally makes her grand appearance complete with a makeup reapplication and low-cut halter (she had to run home and ho herself up. I mean this IS a lobster bake!). This earned slight eye-rolling on Beth and my behalf, and feel free to chalk it up to cattiness, or my desire to dropkick the girl (which probably can be attributed to cattiness as well). It was par for the course, and no one batted an eye (except, of course, for Katie). As the evening progressed, however, she and Sean began acting a little too friendly. The hot, humid day (great softball weather, by the way) opened up into a torrential downpour, and while the rest of us congregated beneath the tents resurrected for such an event, Sean and Katie shared an umbrella at the picnic table. This wasn't a "I'll sit next to you and I'm sorry if this is weird because you're my boss, but I promise I won't invade your elbow room--I just don't want to get wet" kind of distance, this was a "it's raining pretty hard and...well, you have an umbrella...is this lap taken" kind of distance. I had no intent on voicing my particular feelings about the situation for fear of sounding petty, but I didn't have to as both Greg and Dan pointed out that it was a little weird. We all peeked out at them, equal parts confused and disgusted as the unlikely pair continued chatting and sucking down cigarettes. Frankie sulked in the corner as he is typically the object of her affections in the office. It was entertaining to watch him pout, but this entertainment wasn't worth the expense of my discomfort as I walked away from the evening.

Soon, the rain ended and their moment was over. Sort of. Aside from his hands resting around her waist and whatnot. It wasn't that uncomfortable--except for the fact that this was at his house, with his wife somewhere in it. And in front of all coworkers. And in the presence of his oldest daughter. Excuse me while I go dry-heave. Rich pulled me aside and apologized for Sean's exhibition and tried to pass it off as being related to his marital problems (as if THAT is going to evoke any pity!). While I appreciated confirmation that someone else was at least NOTICING what was going on, his attempt at damage control was...well...probably as effective as Mel Gibson's. It's easy to point out that something is wrong; it's something different to be a man and step up to try to change the scenario.

In summary, this whole display was both 1) nauseating and 2) somewhat disconcerting. Most people around the office have made it very clear that the work that I do for Paul and Sarah "doesn't matter," so I already have stress related to my feelings of worthlessness around the office (I know Paul cares, but he doesn't sign my paycheck). I do NOT need the added stress of wondering if stuffing balls down my shirt (interpret that however you would like) also impacts my worth. It's very obvious that this type of behavior may not be encouraged, but will certainly be tolerated for as long as I stay. Every single person from the office (except Paul, who was chastised for leaving early) watched this happen, and not a single one opened his or her mouth in protest. It was extremely uncomfortable for Beth, whose ex reportedly engaged in similar behaviors, so she and I left together (albeit 2 hours too late). She and I have since had several discussions regarding where the women really stand in the office, and it seems as though the conclusion is if we don't like it, we'll have to leave.

This being said, I'm packing my shit up. January 2007...

I'm too pissed to leave anything of interest. Please try back later.

Sorry.

Kitlers and the Threat of World Domination

Once in a while, you get a nice phone call from an old friend. Or, you get a random email.

Subject Line: Actung Kitty!
From: Lovable Lyle

Does your cat look like Adolf Hitler? Do you wake up in a cold sweat every night wondering if he's going to get up and invade Poland? Does he keep putting his right paw in the air while making a noise that sounds suspiciously like "Sieg Miaow"? If so, this is the website for you:
http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com

Take a gander.

Now, the above had never concerned me until I acquired my second kitten. While this new cat in no way physically resembles Hitler, his actions point to a devout interest in world domination. You've been warned. For those of you who are questioning this second cat, I'd like to reassure you that I'm NOT becoming a crazy cat woman--a crazy cat woman must meet the following criteria:

1. her significant other has 4 legs and a name like "Fluffy,"
2. she has more than three (3) cats
3. she has more than three (3) litterboxes and
4. she lacks a social life as well as the desire to have one for fear of failing to care for her felines.

Please let me know if you observe any of these warning signs, and stage an intervention. If you don't, my mother may never forgive you.

Anyway, after carefully reviewing the email and the website for any offensive material (God forbid I breach the moral turpa-whatever section of the employee handbook), I decided to share this with several coworkers (Greg, Katie and Rich) on Friday. Big mistake. Cats that Look Like Hitler has become the theme of the week, beginning with the following response from Rich:

Subject: Allied Cats against Kitler
From: Rich

Rich's next step was to deface Jessica's poster of Coco Crisp (she had taken the day off) with a Kitler head. The office is comprised of devout Yankee fans, and it's safe to say that Rich is one of the more rabid ones. This being said, the circumstances surrounding her interview/hiring process remain a mystery to us all (obviously someone forgot to ask the important questions). She likes to leave Sox paraphernalia around the office for the sole purpose of pissing off Greg as he's hyper-sensitive to the Red Sox propoganda. Exposure induces curse-words, convulsions, stuttering and other idiotic behaviors. She's taped photos to the fridge***, brought in a Red Sox children's book, various posters and I think there may have been an action figure of sorts. Anyway, a little printing, cutting and pasting later, the transformation was complete. Jessica now sits next to Kitler Crisp.

Rich's borderline obsession with the website continues, and he insists on sending me any news story that could point to overzealous Kitlers. Today's headline:

"Over 100 fowl killed when rockets hit farm near Maalot" www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-3281794,00.html

I'm going to take Rich's word as he is becoming the resident Cat Man: This is indisputable proof that the apocalypse is on the horizon, and its heading toward us with paws flexed and hair on end. The good news? It wears a bell collar, so you'll hear it coming and apparently it likes its belly rubbed.

***Note: This is also a practice adopted by those who are betting that Greg will lose weight by December in an effort to keep him far, far away from the fridge. They do take the necessary precautions, however, and handle these materials with industrial-strength gloves.

A completely porpoiseless entry

Accomplishment of the Week: The mercy rule was not enforced in Monday's softball game. In fact, CX emerged victorious! That's right ladies and gents, the same team that has fallen victim to the mercy rule in each of the last 4 games and has suffered losses exceeding a dozen runs, celebrated its first legitimate victory, beating the second to worst team in the league 10-9. It counts for something, I'm just not quite sure of what yet. I will say that I briefly experienced this tingly feeling that I haven't had since college...I think it's indicative of "accomplishment." I'll have to consider incorporating it into my daily schedule somehow; it felt quite nice.

GregFat settlement was today, and from what I gather, Rich was the only BIG loser (it should be noted that he was conveniently absent from work). Greg, on the other hand, was a loser in no way, shape or form: he tipped the scales at a hefty 268 pounds (a 14 pound gain since November). In an effort to teach everyone something new today, this is the average weight of a Dall's porpoise. There are several other striking similarities that have led to office suspicions of a Porpoise Conspiracy: a stocky body, especially in the mid-region, a small rounded head, short beak, and white in color (although Greg is missing the black markings--maybe an albino?). They, like Greg, also tend to eat 28-30 pounds of food each day. The porpoises max out at 350 pounds, so if you want to trade GregFat, you may want to take this into consideration when planning your position (all porpoise info can be found here: http://www.nceas.ucsb.edu/nceas-web/kids/mmp/dalls_physical.htm ). At XXX, it would make total sense for a cetacean to be the "Risk Manager," and in retrospect, he does make a lot of really weird noises. I also wouldn't dismiss the possibility that Sean would have hired a porpoise in order to screw anyone participating in the GregFat market (after all, Sean is the one who set this whole thing up). I'll keep an eye out for a dorsal fin.

Supposedly his crash diet begins tomorrow in hopes of hitting 210 (low-fat herrings? seaweed salad sans dressing?), but I'll believe it when I see it. Somehow, I see the trade of Burger King Stackers, milkshakes etc. for low-fat granola and cottage cheese to be about as likely as pulling off the tuna-fish for PBJ trade in elementary school (you know you tried it). It would probably be best if we didn't go to the Bahamas, anyway. It would be a damn shame for Sean to be taken out by a harpoon wielded by a peg-legged, crazed sea-man instead of the expected heart attack.

Just another Manic Monday

You know what's worse than Mondays?

Me neither. And no, the softball team doesn't count.

There was no bacon-waving today, however, Taco Bell was the restaurant du jour. Again, this is mainly in celebration of GregFat settlement tomorrow (Sean sponsored the trip). Greg didn't disappoint, either: He put down 6 Taco Supremes, or 66% of his daily caloric intake (assuming he's dieting, and consuming 2000 calories a day) as well as 84 grams of fat. On the upside, he pointed out that he received SIX whole grams of fiber which is nearly 20 % of his daily recommended value. I'm of the opinion that if you're throwing back 6 Taco Bell tacos, you probably aren't going to have to worry much about fiber, but I'm not going to rain on his parade.

Misfires and ball-busting

First and foremost, it's time to recognize 2 notable accomplishments. Today is the 1 year anniversary of Paul's metals fund. Good for him (and good for me, as it ensures that I remain gainfully employed). I taped two balloons to his computer monitors. One offered congratulations, the other said "happy birthday" and collectively, they confused him for a good twenty minutes. It's a good thing I didn't grab the random ear of corn balloon, or the one that says "it's a boy!" He'd still be sitting there pondering the whole situation. May he enjoy continued success.

Secondly, I have posted a blog entry for five consecutive days which qualifies this as my most successful "diary" attempt ever. I guess that makes me an overachiever. Which, as far as I'm concerned should compensate for being an underachiever at work this week (Note: a majority of this was written on 7/21 and I fell asleep with the computer on my stomach prior to pressing "publish").

Anyway, as you've likely caught on by now, I work with men. Actually, according Dave Barry, they should be categorized as "guys". In the introduction to his book, Dave Barry's Complete Guide to Guys, (ladies, this is NOT a dating how-to manual; it may actually encourage the collection of cats) he proposes the following characteristics as differentiating "guys" from men:

Guys like neat stuff. We have 2 very nice TVs with 5 remotes. Only one of us knows how to use all 5 of them, and he can only figure it out 50% of the time.
Guys like a really pointless challenge. Have I mentioned that Rich blew his knee out in a softball throwing contest? Or that Greg accepted the challenge of eating 10 Devil Dogs in 15 minutes without a beverage to wash them down? Or that they've placed bets on David's date of resignation? Or...I think you get it.
Guys do not have a rigid and well-defined moral code. Moral code: don't kill anyone on purpose. They should consider rewriting the whole moral turpitude section of the employee handbook.
Guys are not great at communicating their intimate feelings, assuming they have any. I feel better thinking that they have 3 basic feelings: 1) I'm hungry 2) I'm thirsty 3) I feel like throwing something.

Definitely guys. As can be expected with most guys, their age is in no way, shape or form indicative of their maturity level. As a consequence, we have a vast array of balls (bouncy balls, golf balls, wiffle balls and even a dodgeball) laying all over the office ready to be picked up and launched at any given moment during the day. Typically speaking, there is an unwritten "cease-fire" during trading hours. Katie has made a concentrated effort to acquire all of the balls in the office and hide them in her car trunk for fear of being hit, but this is only a temporary solution. The following day, one of the guys will disappear and return with a bag full of balls.

I never take place in this ongoing game of catch, mostly because I don't want to hear about how I throw like a girl (which, by the way, is totally the case and explains 50% of my softball problems). For those of us who choose not to play, it's really more of a game of dodgeball. Greg is particularly bad at catching, so I'm always prepared for the occasional deflection. I'm not sure if it was my tomboyish childhood which included hitting and/or being hit with various objects or my general apathy at work, but I'll take one for the team. They never throw the ball too hard, so getting hit is more of an inconvenience than anything else. I shake it off, and then (pitifully) throw it back and carry on with my work. Katie finds the whole situation distracting, so if a ball happens to fly/roll/bounce into her territory, she promptly stuffs it up her shirt before walking out to her car and locking it in her trunk. The guys will always plead with her, "It didn't even hit you! It won't happen again!" but their pleas fall on deaf ears, and they watch defeated as she dumps their losses in her car.

She'd never been hit. Until today.

The moment I felt the ball whizz past my ponytail, I figured the situation was not going to end well. I turned around just in time to see the ball hit Katie directly in the headband. Keep in mind this was not a good week to be hitting anyone. She grabbed the ball completely disgusted, and carried out her normal routine. "THAT'S IT!" she cried as she stormed toward the door, "I'M IN FULL-ON BALL EXTERMINATION MODE!!!" Frankie winced.

"WHAT are we going to do about this?!?" asked Eric.

"Does this qualify under moral turpitude?" jested Rich.

"No," I replied, "But I do think there's a section about retrieval of property."

And there is: "Occasionally, XXX may be required to conduct internal investigations pertaining to security, auditing, work-related matters, or retrieval of XXX property."

XXX Law is on their side as technically, the balls belong to XXX. Now it was just a matter of strategizing. "We just need to steal her car keys," concluded Kevin.

"I wouldn't recommend going through her purse," I advised.

"Why not? We go through yours all of the time," said Rich.

"That's fine. You won't find anything good in there, anyway."

"We know."

After rolling my eyes, I decided that I'd lend my scheming capabilities (which are definitely underutilized) to the Dark Side. Particularly because Katie drives me crazy. The remote door-unlock function on our keys works from inside of the office. I know this, because once I spent a solid ten minutes locking my car (resulting in a honk) while a serviceman was working on his computer in the van parked to me. He'd ignore it, peek his head outside of the van and then get out of it altogether to investigate the situation as I laughed indoors. Very entertaining. I digress...back on track here. My solution to the problem...drumroll, please... Katie leaves her keys on her desk in the morning once in a while. What they need to do (to avoid searching through her belongings and earning themselves a potential lawsuit thanks to playground equipment) is to plant a receiver outdoors with a trash bag. When she gets up to go to the bathroom, the closest guy must take the keys and hit the pop trunk button to enable te receiver to empty her trunk of their seized goodies. The whole operation should take 2 minutes tops, and the element of surprise gives them an extra 30 seconds or so.

When the stars align just so and the keys are present for the pressing, the guys will take the offensive. Until then, they wait.

Happy weekending, all.

dance part 2

I didn't think that guys really worried about this kind of stuff. Apparently, some of you do. Gentlemen, a helpful article on how not to look like an idiot on the dance floor:

http://www.askmen.com/fashion/how_to/42_how_to.html

As far as I'm concerned, flailing your arms while screaming "woooo!" is always a crowd pleaser.

Also, some forgotten moves:
The Running Man, The Urkel, Chicken Dance, The Humpty Dance,The Pony, The Robot, YMCA...

He moves in mysterious ways

Ted caught on to "the week", and brought in 8 bags of assorted chocolates today. God bless him.

The office was relatively quiet. There is a noticeable increase in anxiety, however, as the last GregFat settlement period is coming up before the FINAL one in December. There isn't as much money riding on this weigh-in as there is on December (some men will be sleeping on the couch for their stupidity, if not the street--one of the participants has promised to pay for a New Year's Eve trip to the Bahamas for all employees AND their SOs if he hits 210), but his weigh-in will still cost a few guys a pretty penny. This has caused a heightened interest in Greg's weekend activities. Paul asked where he would be eating this weekend, and he mentioned that he was going to the city...and then quickly slipped in "to go dancing."

Un momento, por favor?

"You will NOT!" exclaimed Paul. "THAT constitutes exercise, and you will be staying at a healthy 270 until Wednesday!"

"Who's the guy?" queried Kevin.

"You do understand that you are very, very white, right?" mentioned Rich.

Greg is 6'4, 270 (?) pounds and about as graceful as Cosmo Kramer. The rhythm in his step is painfully offbeat. Those of you who know me will be quick to point out that I'm no ballerina either, but hey--I'm not the one going out on Saturday night. He attempted to defend his weekend plans by pointing out that he doesn't want to go; that it's his wife's friend's birthday and she has insisted that they go dancing in the city. "You'd better drink a LOT," advised Paul. "And you may want to make sure your wife has 2 for each 1 of yours. Can you even dance?"

"I sorta move from side to side. Like shuffle or whatever."

Oh no. We jogged our memory for classic white boy moves, and came up with the following:

1) the lawnmower: Pull that cord, pull that cord, put both hands on the handle, lean back and mow!
2) the sprinkler: Put one hand on the back of your head, and the other either a) pointed straight in front of you or b) (advanced - please do not try this at home) holding the opposite foot, rotate and convulse!
3) the shopping cart: I'm not sure how this one ever made it into the library of white boy dance moves as 9/10 men I know would not be caught dead pushing a grocery cart (and the one that will is only pushing it because he can't carry 3 cases of beer at the same time), but regardless, push that cart, push that cart, take something off the shelf on the left side of the aisle, put it in the basket and repeat on the right side
4) the truck driver: You're drivin', you're steerin', you take your hand off that wheel, change gears and honk the horn. Beep beep m' beep beep, YEAH!
5) the double arm pump: Best exemplified by the Numa Numa dancer--6) the head bop, or anything performed by the Roxbury Brothers
7) any form of line dancing: Achy Breaky Heart, Boot Scoot, Electric Slide, Macarena, etc.
8) the white man's overbite: pull that mandible forward like you're going to swallow your own head, and accompany with any of the aforementioned dance moves. Typically displayed when the dancer is drunk and feeling confident that they are tearing it up.

Greg was encouraged to take notes and practice prior to Saturday's outing (feel free to share favorite dance moves with me. I'll make sure he receives them). In the meanwhile, we are desperately trying to find out where this atrocity will be occurring in order to harvest some quality blackmail. Watch out NYC: King Kong is on his way, and I've heard he has a mean overbite and 2 left feet.

Probably Menstrual Synchronicity

There is a black cloud lurking above our office, and my suspicion is that its laden with estrogen and progesterone. Everyone has been somewhat tense this week, mass quantities of potato chips and cookies are being consumed, and I think I overheard Frankie complaining about feeling bloated.

We have PMS.

Now gentlemen, I know you're saying, "We don't get PMS!" Please let me explain. You get ours. It's as simple as that.

As reported in an earlier post, the office is predominantly male and the vast majority of them worked with other men in their previous workplaces. One may criticize this lack of diversity in the workplace, but I'm not going to lie--it was a safe move on their part. Listen, I know none of us ladies want to 'fess up and you guys will never point it out in a woman's presence (if you had, natural selection--which, by the way, may come in the form of a stiletto pump--would have kicked you out of the gene pool already), but let's just go ahead and face the facts: Women can be...umm...a little different once in a while (::cough::onceamonth::cough::). When you isolate us, you're likely to stand a chance of survival. When faced with a pack of women working/cycling at the same time, however, my, my, my, you are in biiiiig trouble. Why? Because it's contagious. The whole situation is comparable to being the one sober guy/gal at a party while everyone around you is trashed. You may not realize it, but you start to assume the behavior of the drunks around you (minus the puking, passing out, and, if you're lucky, the beer goggles). It's an inexplicable phenomenon, but it does happen. I've seen it.

While I do believe that several of my officemates suffered from these symptoms prior to the arrival of the XXX ladies, I've noticed a change in behavior in some of the men over the past 9 months. For example, Dan (nicely) asked Paul to write up a few tickets for trades he had done overnight. This launched a tantrum which included a brief period of yelling, one good punch on the trading desk, a period of silence and, a few hours later, a heartfelt apology for his outburst: "I'm just...I'm just really sorry. It's just, you know, I've been really busy...I've just got a lot going on." Nothing a quality chocolate bar can't cure, honey. He should have asked Greg for a fix--he was downing truffles all day long. Dan had a migraine, Katie had a fight with one of our equities brokers, Beth was "just tired" and I have the complexion of a 13-year-old. When Sean was told that there were new rules for the office golf pool (note: these people are addicted to gambling, and will bet each other on any sports event--actually, ANY event you can think of), he refused to participate unless the rules were repealed. He was (in essence) told tough shit, and so he spent the remainder of the afternoon sulking elbow-deep in potato-chips. It's time to start thinking about setting aside this week each month as one where we abandon all hope of getting along, and, instead, beat the crap out of each other. It isn't too late to include two of those American Gladiator jousting pedestals in the office renovations.

Anyway, it's time to run to the armory to prep myself for tomorrow. I'll be outfitted with a bottle of Motrin, a snack-pack, a Lindt bar and maybe a mirror, just in case someone goes Medusa on me.

Moral Turpa-wha?

Moral Turpitude: It is critical to our organization that all employees exhibit high standards of personal conduct. No employee shall conduct himself/herself in any manner which could bring dishonor or embarrassment to XXX. Anyone found to be involved in criminal, inappropriate or unprofessional behavior is subject to immediate termination. ~ Employee Manual

I've "officially" been reprimanded once at work. Back in January, the crew had tired of trading GregFat futures and decided that all males would weigh in each week. Their collective weight would be the basis of the "Tons of Fun (And More!)" market. As a joke, I sent out the following waiver:

I, the “Tons of Fun (And More!)” participant, in consideration for my participation in the “Tons of Fun (And More!)” (“the Program”) offered by XXXX, also known as XXXX and , do hereby covenant and agree to the following:

Program. I understand and agree that:
1. I will be weighed in each and every Tuesday, and that Beth will take all measurements. These measurements will be kept confidential unless I refuse to weigh in, at which point all of my previously recorded weights will become widely publicized. In the event of Beth's absence, Jessica has been selected as an alternate judge;

2. I will neither tamper with the official “Tons of Fun (And More!)” scale, nor will I alter my own weight by any unnatural means (i.e. carrying heavy objects in shoes/pockets). Suspicion of this activity will result in the enforcement of airport-like security. Consumption of excess water is permissible, however, is not advised;

3. If more than half of all Exchange participants are absent, weigh-in will be canceled. A trading session may still be held at the discretion of the attending members;

4. In accordance with the “Tons of Fun (And More!)” NO-SHOW policy, if I do not attend the weigh-in, I am responsible for weighing in as soon as possible. Failure to do so will result in punishment determinable by Beth, Jessica, A, Katie or any outside party holding a grudge against me;

5. I will not try to influence fellow market participants through any means that may be detrimental to his or her health. This includes tainting food and/or intentionally causing physical injury.

6. XXX, its employees or agents, have not provided me with any warranties or representations that participation in the Program will improve or enhance my physical condition, appearance and/or self-esteem.

7. XXX may collect and obtain data as a result of my participation in the Program and use such information in internal reports or publications. My identity will not be associated with my specific weight unless I give my consent to do so.

Waiver and Release. I acknowledge and agree that:

By signing this document, I declare that I have no known medical problems that would preclude my participation in the Program. My Participation in the “Tons of Fun (And More!)” program is completely involuntary, but regardless, I assume all risk of injury or contraction of any illness or medical condition that may result, or the aggravation of any pre-existing medical condition I may have, or any damage, loss or theft of any personal property resulting or arising out of my participation in the Program. I understand and acknowledge that my status as a “Tons of Fun (And More!)” participant may subject me to ridicule, embarrassment, taunting and/or peer pressure by fellow exchange participants and/or observing parties.

Now, I found this to be pretty neutral. I tend to be pretty conservative when determining whether or not something is "appropriate" before sharing it with coworkers. I'm not here to offend anyone or to hurt feelings. I'm here to work. I hit "send" with the expectation that the message would be received with some chuckling and eye-rolling, at worst. One miscalculation later, I was sitting in a closed-door meeting with a very reluctant Michael. He informed me that one of the recipients was concerned about the potential legal ramifications a "document" like that could create, and while he personally was not offended or worried about it, it would be best if I didn't send out material like that in the future.

Today, someone (who shall remain nameless) prefaced the forwarding of an email by stating, "Just remember, this was sent to me by a large white man who grew up in Tennesee and currently resides in Alabama." He then disseminated a photo to the firm entitled, "Fatal Overdose," which shows a Black man laying down on a sidewalk next to a McDonalds cup and several large watermelon rinds. I will not discuss whether it's funny or not--that's strictly a matter of taste/opinion, but I think most people would agree that this most certainly was NOT appropriate for the workplace. Another email forwarded from the same individual a month ago: "A British company is developing computer chips that store music in women's breast implants.This is a major breakthrough, as women are always complaining about men staring at their breasts and not listening to them."

Don't get me wrong here--I appreciate a good joke, and am not easily offended. Generally speaking, I am not a serious person. If, however, you are going to discipline someone for sending out a fictional waiver that is neither sexually nor racially sensitive, the examples above should also be disciplined, no? Apparently, if we can't pronounce a section in the handbook we don't have to abide by it. I need to work on my mispronunciation of "attendance." At-ten-dance? Attend-ance? Atten-dan-ce? I'd better go home and work on this.

(Aside: That British company is really on to something! I've heard there will be a variety of chips offered (A - dPods), depending on the size of your speakers...)

Medusa

Medusa, as described on Wikipedia, "was a monstrous female character whose gaze could turn people to stone."

She's got NOTHING on me today.

For those of you who don't know me, I have big hair. Bigger hair when it's warm out; biggest hair when it's humid. Therefore, when it's 95 degrees (and feels like 103) with 46% humidity, the curls spring into frizzalicious action and I resemble Tina Turner circa 1985 (minus the voice, the legs, and the fame--you know, those things that cause you to forgive her for whatever's happening on top of her head.):
Combine the 'fro with a bad attitude, and I can become an entity that would send Medusa screaming back to Athens. I'm not sure what, exactly, turned this even-tempered trade assistant into a raving bitch today. It may have been the heat. Or lack of sleep. Or the 8 million mistakes made by Paul, and his incessant stream of questions. Or Frankie's comment about the state of my hair (which earned him "the look," immediately turning him into granite). Or the fact that Greg tried to pass off a project that took me a substantial amount of time (yes, I do work sometimes) as his, or at least as a collaborative effort. The day's overall effect was "GRRRR", and not in the Tony the Tiger "grrrrrrrrreat" kind of way. Rather than continuing to blah-g, I figure I'll perform a public service and identify the Medusa Warning Signs as well as how to avoid being cast in stone. I do not believe that these are specific to me, so feel free to apply them to daily interactions with your own coworkers:

1. Drastic increase of 4-letter word usage. I try to watch my mouth most of the time, so when the obscenities are being dropped like an organic chem class, this should be taken as a warning signal that my temper is creeping up into Medusa territory. Seek shelter from the f-bombs.

2. Limited conversation. If I'm having a rough one, expect one word answers (or grunts, groans or whines) for pretty much every question asked. If I don't respond, I'm pretending I can't hear you. Don't ask a second time.

Innocent Bystander: "How's your day going?"
Medusa: "Okay."
IB: "Do you have any weekend plans?"
M: "Dunno."
IB: "How was softball last night?"
M: *grumble*
IB: "That good, huh?"
(silence)
IB: "It didn't go to well?"
(Medusa unleashes the look, Innocent Bystander is frozen.)

3. A failure to make eye contact. When entering full-on Medusa-mode, I won't look at you. As exemplified above, this is for the safety of everyone involved.

4. Finally, if any of the previous conditions are observed, and I'm asked if everything is okay and respond, "I'm just tired," I'm not really tired. This is short for "tired of putting up with your shit," "tired of coming to work," "tired of being underestimated," "tired of _________ (fill in the blank)." If I'm fatigued, I'll say that I'm "sleepy", and will usually initiate conversation afterward.

Now that you're aware of the warning signs, if observed, there is a simple solution to avoid statue-dom: Run like hell.

(Most Medusa circumstances occur within the confines of the office, however, there have been instances where this behavior has been exhibited outside of that environment. Anyway, time to go decompress, so until the next time...)

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

This post is only kinda/sorta work related.

I play softball. And by play, I mean I stand somewhere in the vicinity of second base, depending on who is hollering what at me. Don't get me wrong; I always put forth the effort--it's just that my hand-eye coordination has always been lacking (sometimes silverware misses my mouth). This lack of fine motor skills limited me to sports like swimming and track. This being said, I never played softball until Monday, May 22nd. After having participated in several games, I think the world was probably better off that way.

I never intended on being named on a softball roster. Ever. I know my place in the world of athletics, and second base isn't it. Neither is first base. Or even deep right field. My place is on the bleachers with a frothy beverage, or maybe over by the water cooler. Even that is limited to instances where I don't have to aim the water into the cup. I was given word that my former company (CX...the company that roped me into this whole finance thing) was participating in a "coed industrial" league, and upon hearing this, decided that I would be attending as many games as possible. After all 1) the BF works there and signed up 2) it's a good excuse to see old coworkers with whom I was friendly and 3) all of the games are within 2 miles of my apartment. I attended the second game they played and cheered for the team, but was thrown into the mix at the third game in order to avoid a forfeit (you need 5 women and 5 men--I didn't even know there were 10 positions...are there 10 positions?). Since then, I've helped the team continue their phenomenal losing streak. "Phenomenal" may sound a bit harsh, but honestly, these losses have been awe-inspiring. I believe we went 3 games without a single run, and the last 3 or 4 have been cut short by the mercy rule (which, according to the rule book, is implemented in the following circumstances: "After 4 innings if a team is ahead by 20 runs or, after 5 complete innings, if a team is ahead by 12 runs [...]."). This is slow-pitch softball.

The loose tie to work is that Rich and the rest of the crew are softball-crazed, and will only allow me to leave early for 3 things: softball, illness or death. My softball Mondays are considered "training" for a game my current employer has scheduled against former colleagues some time in August. Oh my, are they going to be disappointed.

Anyway, each week, CX seems to get progressively worse in relation to other teams despite the fact that our fielding seems to have improved (marginally). It's a damn good thing too, since we spend 90% of our games out there. Today, we completed our batting order twice in 5 innings. The IT guy's wife (and ex-softball player) noted that we had just enough time remove our mitts and open a bottle of water--but not to drink it--before having to return to the dust bowl. As a naturally competitive person, something like this should bother me, but my ego is forgiving as I (and 80% of the team) am laughably bad. I have wondered, however, what could be worse than CX's softball team.

Today, that question was anwered. CX playing softball in 100 degree heat and humidity. Woah.

In all fairness, the heat was unbearable, the sun was blinding and the air was so thick that if you were fortunate enough to accidentally hit the ball, you had to swim to first base. Conditions were less than optimal. Regardless, we stepped up to bat, and miraculously scored 3 runs in the first inning. We proceeded to hold our opponents to 1 run in the bottom of the first, and did likewise in the second. That's right: We were winning a softball game. We resisted the urge to quit while we were ahead and crack open the champagne, and took to the field for inning 3. The other team picked up 2 runs, but still--the game was half over and we were TIED! This is where things began to fall apart. Rather than describe our painful demise in detail, I'll just end it by stating that we lost 3-24 (?), and that the only hit we had from that point forward occurred when our shortstop threw a ball home and it smacked a runner in the leg.

The highlight of the game was its end. The team may not have caught onto the whole catch/hit/throw the ball process, but FINALLY someone recognized that beer is an integral part of the game and came prepared with a cooler (the other team outdid us in this regard as well; they showed up with beers, a hibachi and some sausage. Bastards). The team paired its post-slaughter brews with complaints about the weather, the umpire, the other team. As someone who is taking this whole experience as seriously as I do the Tooth Fairy, the whining was pretty entertaining. It's not our fault we suck. The other teams are more experienced, they have better equipment and are well acquainted with the rules of the game (2 strikes?!?).

This being said, maybe our team really isn't all that bad. We just need an appropriate benchmark. Like maybe the Special Olympics B squad.

It's time to start drinking before the games.

(my apologies in advance for any offense)

Makin bacon

Life expectancy would grow by leaps and bounds if green vegetables smelled as good as bacon. ~Doug Larson

It's 9:01, and all is well. Or, more accurately, as well as it can be for a Monday morning. I'm exhausted, but this isn't abnormal. I've never, ever been a morning person, and should have taken this into consideration prior to accepting a job where I have to report to work at 7:30 a.m. Oh, and there's a nice 40 minute commute on top of that. Even as a child, I'd sleep in until noon or so--so late, that my parents would periodically check in to make sure I was still breathing. This being said, a 6 a.m. wake-up call is a rough one (at best). Also one I ignore 4/5 mornings. I'd be lost without my beloved snooze bar...or at least 3 hours late on a daily basis (and probably unemployed).

There's something extra-special about Monday mornings--I consistently feel a little nauseous. My current theory is that I've had the luxury of sleeping in during the weekend, my body mistakenly slips back into its normal sleeping pattern and is then brutally awakened at 6. Whether it's lack of sleep, dreading work, a severe "case of the Mondays" or a low blood sugar level (or another scientific/logical reason), I feel like I might throw up for the first few hours of wakefulness, and this problem is compounded by the fact that Sean nukes bacon EVERY SINGLE MORNING. Now don't get me wrong: Bacon is wonderful. I've always loved strips of bacon, BLTs, club sandwiches, bacon in omelettes, bacon-wrapped scallops...you get the picture. The hissing and sizzling of it used to jog fond memories of family vacations and mornings of fried bacon, eggs and toast.

Unfortunately, the past 9 months of employment have ruined it. Pair an upset stomach up with this distinctive smell for 3/4 of a year, and you too, can learn to hate it.

Today, I thought I was going to escape the stench of microwaved pig fat. I beat Sean in, settled into my morning routine and braced myself for the inevitable. 8 a.m. came and passed...8:30...9...I was in the clear! There would be no microwaved meat! I made the obligatory coffee run to Stop and Shop (I go to S&S as much as possible to pass the time), opened the office door and WHAM! was slammed by bacon-rific smell of the office.

Ugh.

It's a good thing bacon's effects can't be absorbed through inhalation. I'd be 400 pounds by now (which, according to researchers, is the average weight gain of unhappy wives after 25 years of marrriage).

Cast of Characters

"It's time to play the music, it's time to light the lights
It's time to meet the Muppets on the Muppet show tonight."

(After careful thought--and a recommendation--I've decided to provide a brief cast of characters.)

TRADING DESK:
Sean: Managing partner. Sean calls all of the shots, and isn't afraid to throw his weight around (the rest of us are terrified as we're talking about a LOT of weight here). He's generally pessimistic about everything, but seems knowledgable about what he's talking about. His jokes are often cutting as much as they are funny. The entire firm's employment literally depends on his ability to remain alive. I should mention that he adheres to 4 basic food groups: Bacon, Popcorn, Chips and Scotch (a fifth, if you count cigars).

Paul: Metals trader, also runs a discretionary commodities fund. Paul takes a lot of abuse on the desk, and this seems to be for 2 reasons: 1) He is genuinely interested (read: obsessed) in his work and 2) as a result, he can be somewhat robotic, paranoid, annoying and any combination of all three. I work primarily for Paul, and hold him in high regard. He is grateful for all work completed, and lets me know. He occasionally drives me crazy due to numerous trade ticket errors (wrong prices, wrong quantities, wrong month, wrong commodity), and definitely contributes the greatest amount of $$$ to the fine box on any given day (traders are fined for making errors on their tickets as these errors often result in trade breaks, confusion and mass hysteria--fine, maybe not mass hysteria, but it's a big pain in the ass).

Frankie: Primarily a softs trader. He bears a striking resemblance to Squiggy (http://www.davidlander.com/images/lander_pics/med_res/squiggy_bw_med_res.jpg) from "Laverne and Shirley," and almost has a father/son sort of relationship with Sean (although they are similar in age and he helped start this whole operation). He's all bark, no bite, and his temper is shorter than he is. It's fair to say that he has a bit of a Napoleon complex, despite the fact that Sean has him pinned under his thumb. He has a strange habit of whispering to some brokers with his hand covering his mouth; Rich refers to this as "moomoo talking." He can be condescending from time to time, but I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it's unintentional. He's a lot of fun to go out with, and loves to dance.

Rich: Energy trader, dabbling in the livestock market. Like Frankie, he also helped set this operation up. Rich's primary function is to perturb Frankie, and he has perfected it into a science. He has been known to IM Greg messages to laugh in order to pique F's curiosity. Whenever F asks to be let in on the joke, Rich will always respond, "It's nothing." He seems to have assumed a secondary role of office mentor, and will always take time out of his day to teach you anything you would like to know about the markets. He never speaks down to anyone, and his attitude and desire to maintain a pleasant work environment makes him one of my favorites. An avid baseball player in college, Rich recently blew out his knee in an office softball throw-off. No, I am not kidding. He was also the recipient of vibrating nipple-clamps at our last holiday party. Again, I am not kidding.

Kevin: Energy guy...he occasionally trades, but his true role seems to be researching the energy markets. He's the office hippy, and frequently walks around barefoot. He somewhat keeps to himself, and is relatively quiet unless provoked by Rich (who sits next to him). He once sent an email from Katie's computer claiming that Greg was sexually harrassing her which nearly resulted in Greg's dismissal from the firm. I won't even tell you what Kevin got at the holiday party.

Sarah: Energy trader. Sarah's overly enthusiastic (and, it's been noted, overly bullish) about the energy market. Her addition to the firm was a controversial one, and I suspect that this is because she is the first female trader that most of the men have worked with. Her physical presence is somewhat intimidating, and she's certainly not shy about speaking her mind. For this, she has earned my respect. She manages her own account, and it's my suspicion that there are several people who would like to see her go down in flames. She is socially awkward, and accidentally abusive to her trading assistant as she can't seem to discern where the joke ends and the hurt feelings begin. She calls her new trading assistant a pretty boy, and has repeatedly encouraged him to get out of the business and join a boy band.

David: Sarah's bitch. There's currently an over/under on him leaving by December 1. Please let me know if you would like to place a bet. I'm not sure if he will become the 99th degree, or a Backstreet Boy, but as a recent MBA grad, I can't foresee him tolerating this abuse for much longer. Substantially younger and exponentially more attractive than Sarah, we refer to him as her poolboy.

Jeffrey: Sarah's previous bitch. Jeffrey was very, very passive. Frankie once hit him in the head with the freezer door, and the man didn't even blink. Quiet and vulnerable, one day Jeffrey opened up his eyes, quit and ran like hell. I only include him here as we still like to pretend he's there from time to time--especially when large packages are delivered for Sarah. "Rich, poke some holes in there so Jeffrey doesn't suffocate!!!"

Greg: I don't exactly know what to call him. He refers to himself as the "risk manager," but I find this to be a bit of an overstatement. As far as I know, Greg 1) has no background in risk management 2) does not have the ability to instruct traders to scale back on their risk and 3) was doing the job that I'm currently doing prior to this promotion of sorts. Don't get me wrong--he is very talented with Excel and MatLab programming, but he is NOT a risk manager. The desk is grooming him to become a trader, and he's currently trading cotton. He is very patient with Katie and I, and does his best to keep us in the loop and teach us a thing or two. He was recently married, and, as mentioned in the previous post, his "fat" is traded in the office. The guys got special trading jackets (a few actually wore them to the ceremony), name-tags and trading cards for this particular activity, and there is a rumor that a small trading pit will be included in the renovations to the office. This pit will later be converted into a sand trap for putting practice.

Dennis: Softs trader. He manages his own account, works in NYC most of the time, and looks frighteningly like a mannequin. He provides us with lots of coffee research. I can count my interactions with him on one hand, but he seems decent enough.

Katie: Trading Assistant (she and I do the same thing). Katie embodies several positive qualities: she's attractive, does her job well (for the most part) and...I'll have to think harder about this and get back to you later. She epitomizes the phrase "spoiled brat," and the way she talks about and treats others (business associates included) makes me cringe. Regardless, I maintain a positive relationship with her and have been successful in restraining myself from hopping the desk and giving her something to scoff, rant and rave about. I should be more tolerant of her, but that would require a degree of maturity that I don't possess. She has the tendency of getting overly intoxicated at company outings, and her behavior has prompted Sean to refer to her town as being home to white trash. She has a long-term boyfriend that she shamelessly fights with both on the desk and at any outings he has been invited to. Most of us find this particularly entertaining.

THE REST OF THE CREW:
Eric (CFO) and Michael (COO): These two seem to be the glue that holds this whole operation together. Both are professional and dedicated to doing their jobs well. Michael's attendance is the butt of many jokes as he is frequently out of the office. Still, I would feel comfortable addressing any personal issues with him as he is committed to ensuring that we are all one big, happy family. His introduction of the employee manual was subject to ridicule, and this was after months and months of drafting/editing to fit into Sean's standard (his standard being, "I don't want any rules."). Despite the chiding, he is well-respected. Eric is very serious about his job, but when he gets giggling (he really giggles) he can't stop and neither can the rest of us--it's infectious. He's all business, and (rightfully) expects everyone else to treat their positions with the same degree of professionalism as he does.

Dan (Controller): Dan may be the controller, but his control over alcohol consumption seems to be minimal. He works hard, and plays hard. He has the tendency of being "that guy" whenever we go out, and his attendance to outings is always one that is worried about. He's a rabid soccer fan (and ex-college player), and I think most of his questionable behavior (ex. tackling Katie to the floor in an attempt to get wiffle balls back) can be chalked up to a sports-team mentality. He's the kind of guy who would smack you in the ass in a, "Nice job," kind of way, completely oblivious to the potential repercussions. He reminds me of friends I had growing up, and therefore, I cut him some slack.

Jessica: (Asst. Controller): Jessica is probably the newest employee, and is obsessive-compulsive about having every single number exactly correct. She has been an valuable addition, and has alleviated Dan's workload (making him a much more pleasant person to deal with). She's consistently bright, cheery and a lot of fun. She's in the process of planning her wedding, and has basically reached the point where she just wants to be married already. She she has not lived her life to plan her wedding day, and isn't a "girly-girl" for whatever that's worth. She may still be engaged 3 years from now, but she will still be happy.

Bill/Ted: Bill and Ted work in their own little office, and I'm pretty sure they spend a majority of their time doing research. They previously worked together at a fund of funds, and joined this firm in the hope of pursuing excellent adventures. Ted seems to come in on a "if I feel like it" basis, and, as far as I know, is not on the payroll. As for Bill, he is there full-time and seems particularly helpful regarding equities. Bonus? His son works in a chocolate shop, and he brings us goodies. Both gentlemen are friendly...but veeeery mysterious.

Beth (Office Assistant): Beth is definitely the Office Mom. She is loved by all, intolerant of excessively bad behavior, and keeps her personal life miles away from the office. She was the first (brave) woman to work with all of the guys, and appears to have made it clear that she will not tolerate their shit. A recent divorcee, she is quite attractive for her age and is dating a guy 15 years her junior (she was teased at work for this, and has since quit sharing information like that). She advocates for the females, and is always up for some gossip. She performs an array of duties for Sean, and it's my opinion that he'd be completely screwed without her. I probably should have mentioned her first (yes, she does THAT much), but I'll just say I was saving the best for last. We love her.

Hope this is helpful...

welcome, welcome, welcome

My name is A, and I work at a hedge fund. Sort of. I think.

To say that I've always been directionally challenged would be a grave understatement, and this might help explain how a comms major stumbled into finance when looking for a marketing position. I didn't have a clue as to what hedge funds were, where they were, what they did--I've never even TRIMMED freaking hedges. Fast forward two years, and here I am today, reconciling daily trade breaks. Ah, progress.

I graduated in 2004, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and prepared to take over the world. As I sit here stamping trade ticket after trade ticket after trade ticket, I occasionally wonder where the hell everything went awry.

Do I like my job? No, not really. Fine. Not at all. Finance is like physics to me: As long as it works, I don't really care. Then why, you ask, do I continue to do this day in and day out. Easy. The initial purpose for staying was that I didn't want to move back home, and even if I DID, my bedroom has since been converted to a bathroom (no, I'm not kidding. Apparently, one of the benefits of being the first-born is that your room becomes the first major renovation. My parents were practically salivating when I told them I had a job offer at the southern end of the state). Regardless, the money is okay, the trader that I work for treats me well (he neither curses nor throws objects at me) and the shenanigans around here are mindboggling. I'm certain that no matter where I travel next, I'll never meet a motley crew quite like this. My boyfriend has referred to our firm as the "island of misfit toys" (still not quite sure where I fit into that equation...note to self: ask for clarification), and generally speaking, he's right. We have all come from different backgrounds, with completely different (and generally incompatible) personalities to form a commodities hedge fund that has enjoyed a relative degree of success. It would be impossible to describe each person in this initial entry, so hopefully you'll get a feel for each of my coworkers as the days go by. Obviously, I will not be using their real names, and I would appreciate it if anyone who knows me refrains from stating my name, location, etc. in any comments left for confidentiality purposes. I'll try to focus most entries on the office happenings rather than my specific job and responsibilities, but reserve the right to bitch if I've had a particularly bad day. This is my blog, dammit.

The office is comprised of 5 women and 14 men, and there are typically 14 of us on any given day. All of the "usual" men are married, all of the women are single. This occasionally prompts discussion about relationships; the men encourage all singles to remain single for the rest of eternity, the women remain hopeful for a happily ever after (aside from our jaded office divorcee, "Beth"). "Greg" was the last of the guys to bite the dust, and from his wedding day forward, the other men have been actively trading his fat. Yes, we have a GregFat market where the traders place trades based on how much weight he will gain or lose during his first year of marriage. I am not involved in the trading, and instead contribute by researching fat-related articles and sharing with the group so they can make informed decisions. I used to write a weekly commentary but had to stop when one reader (the reader that happens to sign my paycheck) was offended by a projection I made about his weight (I maintain that this was a gross underestimate of his poundage). Regardless, today I found an article that stated:

"We’ve all been there—you get into a relationship, and suddenly you’re trying out new recipes all the time and cuddling instead of exercising. Well, things tend to get worse with marriage. A recent Cornell University study found that women generally gain five to eight pounds in the first few years of marriage and unhappily married women gain an average of 54 pounds in the first 10 years."

54 pounds! That's a 7 year-old's (http://www.babybag.com/articles/htwt_av.htm) worth of unhappiness! Now, although this study pertained to women, Greg has already put on 27% of this in a mere 8 months. One cannot be certain whether this is indicative of an unhappy union (highly doubtful--I've met his wife and she is 1) disproportionaly more attractive than him 2) disproportionately funnier than him and 3) just all around better) or a desire to provide volatility to the GregFat market. The managing partner found the research above to be both ridiculous and unbelievable, and polled all of the men to see how much weight their wives have put on over the years. Apparently, the average is 13.6 pounds, so the guys must be doing something right. There was only 1 wife with a weight gain of 25 pounds, and there were three claims of "unchanged." A second informal, non-scientific poll demonstrated that the men have gained an average of 18 pounds. "Jessica" who is engaged and (sort of) in the process of planning a wedding absorbed this research, absolutely horrified. There have been several unsuccessful attempts to change her mind about the whole situation, and I'm not sure what impact this will have on her. After the discussion, we broke out the menu for a nearby cafe and ordered greasy burgers. Bring on the gorgonzola. I'm still single.

Lesson: If you would like to stay svelte, don't get married. And if you do, you'd best be damn sure you like the guy or else put yourself at risk of having a 7-year-old...around your hips.