There are things worse than XXX

Like staying home from work sometimes. I took a day off to bring my ailing kitty to the vet--hardly playing hooky. Note: I need to learn how to be more of a badass. "Sick" days have been few and far between. This is my first one in over a year, and they're good for one thing, if nothing else: They reiterate that daytime television is reason enough to go to work every day (that whole getting a paycheck thing aside). I'm glad I spent a majority of the day in the car as there is NOTHING on television. Rewind. There are plenty of shows on television, but wow. It took five minutes of viewing to realize that there are many things worse than data entry. Many. For example, the Maury Povich show focused on women who can't seem to find the father of their children. We're not talking about deadbeat dads here--we're talking about women who slept with so many men that they can't seem to pinpoint which one could be the dad. Example: One woman, Shawn, has a 3-year-old. In the three years of her son's existence, she hasn't been able to find his father. Why? Because, whoops, she was a prostitute for a bit and there are at least 15 men who could be the baby daddy. She brought a sixth guy to the show to have a paternity test, and surprise, surprise, he is NOT the father. This, naturally, is followed by Shawn making a dramatic exit offstage and wailing, "Hooow could this haaaapen???" in the corner of the green room while XY #6 celebrates. Honey, I think we ALL know how THAT happens, and most women try to limit the can-dad-ites to one--two, if it's a daytime soap opera. Prostitution and paternity testing: both worse than punching trade tickets.

Paternity testing got boring after a while; turns out all of the women were pretty...umm...busy at the time of conception, so their poor kids remained fatherless, and their mothers went back to the drawing board to think of more potential pops. Really, when does humiliation on national television ever get old*? I breezed through the channels, and was offered the following options: The Tyra Banks Show, Malcom in the Middle, Dr. Phil, Al Rojo Vivo, Top Ten Canadian Wildlife, Pokemon, Charmed and Liar Liar. Slim pickings, here...

Malcom in the Middle won until the father went in for career day with his youngest son, and was battered with questions pertaining to his (hated) career:

"So the only reason you like your job is because you won't die in a fire?"
"If you don't like your job and it's so boring, why do you do it???"

Trying to defend your run-of-the-mill job against a bunch of kids who want to be astronauts, police men and lion tamers? Worse than punching trading tickets. Also, my chances of dying in a fire are minimal, unless one of those jackasses puts something metal in the microwave. Those kids have a point.

It didn't take long to realize that Al Rojo Vivo was probably the best option as, if nothing else, at least I wouldn't have a clue what I was in for. I turned off the TV.

Tomorrow, it's back to work. And, as it turns out, it's going to be a short week.

* It's okay--Maury got his. NOTHING--not even 6 failed paternity tests--quite compares to Connie Chung's farewell performance on MSNBC except, maybe, for when I step on my cat's tail. This is best watched with earplugs and an empty stomach: http://youtube.com/watch?v=lAXwT_I1yYM

Bad Gas

Not a whole lot going on in XXX Land.

The latest news in the finance world has centered around another hedge fund, Amaranth, who managed to lose $6B THIS MONTH^ thanks to a natural gas trade gone awry. Way awry, apparently. If I'd known they were giving money away like that, I'd have written them a detailed letter explaining exactly why they should donate some money to the A Fund, but it seems a bit late for that now. I'm not sure what type of risk metrics they had in place that would permit a massive loss like that to occur ("It seemed like a good idea at the time?"), but to say someone dropped the ball would probably qualify as the understatement of the month. I'm certain we'll continue to read and hear all about the high risks associated with hedge fund investments and the need for regulation during the next week or so (along with e.coli infested spinach), but I'm not concerned about my job stability--particularly since Sean seems to be sticking with his diet. We'll never lose that much money because we'll never have that much in the first place, and we tend to be conservative with what we do have.

Anyway, I was reading a bit more into it and found out that Amaranth was founded by a University of Connecticut finance graduate^^, Nick Maounis. For those of you who don't know, UConn is also my alma mater. While it wasn't Maounis's trade that resulted in this "WHOOPS," he must have approved the positions and had knowledge of their potential repercussions. Regardless, God help me if Michael gets his hands on this juicy tidbit: He hates UConn more than I hate the Nutrisystem woman. Or the smell of bacon. Or trade ticket entry.

It goes without saying that it's highly unlikely that this recent "accomplishment" will be showcased alongside the basketball teams' national championship trophies. While Maounis & Co.'s error wasn't illegal, I think it should still be displayed with some of the other UConn blunders. I secretly hope there's a room buried somewhere in the guts of Gampel Pavilion that displays the various arrest records accumulated by the basketball teams (and associated parties):

2006: Andre LaFleur (Asst. Coach); breach of peace
2005: AJ Price / Marcus Williams; The Great Laptop Theft
Antonio Kellogg; criminal attempt to assault a peace* officer, 1st-degree criminal trespass and interfering with an officer, possession of marijuana
2004: Clyde Vaughn (Asst. Coach); solicitation of a prostitute**
2003: Ben Gordon; 3d degree assault and disorderly conduct
Johnnie Selvie; 3d degree assault, threatening, unlawful restraint and breach of peace
Mike Hayes; possession of a controlled substance, possession of a controlled substance with the intent to sell and possession of a controlled substance within 1500 feet of a school
2002: Rashad Anderson; disorderly conduct
2001: Marcus Cox; possession of marijuana
1999: Khalid El-Amin; possession of marijuana***
Doug Wrenn; alleged shoplifting
1998: Antric Klaiber; speeding and drunken driving
1994: Sue Mayo; breach of peace
Rudy Johnson; breach of peace****
1993: Brian Fair; larceny*****

I guess the good news is if a team member has a hard time getting into the NBA, at least prison is a viable option. Despite the Huskies' obvious lack of a squeaky-clean image, I still love that damned team (and I'll take our bad boys over poetry-writing goody two-shoes any day).

Chin up, Maounis--you have Midnight Madness to look forward to, and hey--you and your team aren't the only ones who may need a rebuilding year. U-C-O-N-N, UCONN, UCONN, UCONN!


* What the hell is a "peace officer"?
**Fun Fact: Vaughan entered a plea deal in which the charges would be dismissed if he 1) completed 10 days of community service 2) attended a hygiene class and 3) submitted himself for STD testing.
*** Entering the draft back in 2000 was STILL the stupidest thing he did during his stint at UConn. As for the weed, maybe it's legal in the Ukraine since that's where he's currently playing.
**** They got in a fight. With each other.
*****According to the police report, Fair "admitted stealing the item and admitted it was a stupid thing to do." Please note that he stole a $4.99 piece of electronics. Stupid doesn't quite capture the idiocy involved with something like that.

ARTICLES
^"Amaranth Losses Swell to $6 Billion After Transfer" - Katherine Burton and Justin Baer (Bloomberg), Sept. 21, 2006
^^"Amaranth Transfers All Energy Trades to Third Party" - Katherine Burton and Matthew Leising (Bloomberg), Sept. 20, 2006

I'm With Her

Ideally, I'd spend all of my free time thinking about ANYTHING but work, but last night XXX robbed me of an enjoyable, restful night's sleep. My dreams were so realistic, I woke up completely confused as to what the hell had happened: Did Kevin get a divorce because he was gay? Did Paul quit the company? Was I still there doing data entry? And that damned bicycle shirt!!! Just kidding, this wasn't a nightmare but still--if you dream vividly about work, you should receive some sort of comp time.

All of those sheep...wasted.

Fortunately, this doesn't occur very often. Several of us attended a part thrown by an energy brokerage last night, and this set me up for a night full of trade ticket entry.

Last week, Sarah invited Rich, Katie and I to what she referred to as a "dinner" with a few energy folks. I've always wanted to get to know Sarah outside of the office, I'm never opposed to meeting new people and I'll never turn down a good meal so I submitted my RSVP (as did the rest of the invitees). Upon arriving, however, I realized that I had been seriously misled. This wasn't a dinner. This was a macho-man sausage-fest.*

My lack of knowledge pertaining to the energy/freight markets and absence of male anatomy put me at a disadvantage here. I couldn't bullshit with the guys--all activity appeared to revolve around comparing whose balls were bigger than whose** or throwing back drinks that will put (more) hair on your chest.*** My options basically boiled down to 1) talk to one of the myriad British men with their shirts unbuttoned dangerously close to Frankie level, 2) drink alone in the corner, or 3) stick to the folks I arrived with like a bad habit. I figured I was exposed to enough chest hair at work and felt no need to prolong my suffering and drinking alone in the corner is generally a bad idea. Why not hang out with my crew and observe?

Sarah and David were already several drinks ahead by the time I arrived. A perfect stranger could tell that Sarah was in her element, proud to be the one knowledgeable female in what is obviously a man's world. She flitted about, talking to various gentlemen--not as a potential lay, but as a peer. I'm not sure what, if anything, she means to the industry but it was nice to see her trading ideas back and forth without criticism. David and I began talking, and I guess Sarah is spending a lot of time grooming him to (eventually) become an energy trader. In return, he has to spend a lot of time hanging out with her and this seems to have resulted in a big sister/little brother relationship. He'll be attending several conferences in the upcoming months (one in South Beach, another in Las Vegas), and while I won't deny that I'm jealous of all of these opportunities afforded to him, a wise person once said "don't hate the playa, hate the game." Good for David. Go get 'em, tiger.

The XXX group sat down together for dinner as one big, happy, tipsy family. I'd been conservative with my drinking, and noticed that Sarah was starting to get a bit sloppy with conversation. She wasn't slurring or anything of that nature, she was just saying a little more than perhaps one should. The filter that most of us employ on a day-to-day basis was disabled, and she began outwardly expressing her dislike of Kevin and also began chatting with Katie as a friend would--a dangerous move, as Katie will typically report any info she receives back to anyone who wants to hear it. Dinner was otherwise uneventful, but I did find out two very important pieces of information:

1. Sarah advocates for Katie and I. She wants to see us develop and flourish in this business, and has pointed out to the XXX men that Katie and I won't be stamping tickets forever. She asked what the had in store for us. Which leads to...

2. They have nothing in store for us.

Rich explained that Greg is supposed to be splitting many of his "former" responsibilities up between the two of us per Sean's orders. I made it very clear that I ask Greg for something to do every day, and receive either a blank look accompanied by a shoulder shrug or an unanswered IM rather than a task. At this point, David was drunk enough to throw in his two cents on any topic up for discussion, and added, "Someone needs to give her SOMETHING. A'S BORED." Sarah agreed, stating that she thinks that Katie and I are grossly underutilized, and Rich absorbed it all. Greg has all of next week to come up with something for me to do. Otherwise, I'll be asking Michael. Dun, dun dun...

Sarah's somewhat on to me, and asked when I plan on doing what I want to do. Good question, Sarah. I'll figure it out eventually.

Until then, I'm on her team.



* I should have taken into account the fact that Sarah's somewhat notorious about not telling the "whole" story. Not in a "liar, liar, pants on fire" kind of way. More like a "Michael Moore" kind of way.

** Mostly because you take on the risk of running into "that guy" who is drunk enough to drop trou' and prove it.

*** Gentlemen, is unbuttoning your shirt a way of monitoring your alcohol consumption? I've said it once, and I'll say it again: THERE IS A TIME AND A PLACE FOR THE MAN SWEATER. Just because you wouldn't mind seeing us walk around with our shirts half-buttoned doesn't mean we want to see you doing so.

! On a completely separate note, David encouraged me to begin sending out the GregFat reports that I used to write. When I mentioned that this had gotten me into a bit of trouble in the past, he recommended that I start a blog. Miraculously, I stifled my laughter.

RIP weekend

'Twas the night before Monday and all through the house
My kitty went crazy on a catnip-filled mouse.

I looked at him jealous, knowing well the next day
While I dragged myself to work, he'd stay at home and play.

My alarm clock was set with regret and despair
Knowing that the morning would soon be there.

At six a.m. sharp, the radio will blast
Knocking me out of bed and flat on my ass.

Rather than beeping, I'll be greeted by song
Like "Sexual Healing" or something equally wrong.

(It used to be oldies, but my station was dropped
and replaced by "adult contemporary" and terrible pop).

I'll smack the snooze and roll back into bed
And rather than one "snooze" cycle, I'll take 4 instead.

Then the clock will say 7, and I'll begin to panic
while my pokey morning behavior turns borderline manic.

On shower! On toothbrushing! On hairdrying! and more.
Without fail I'll forget something as I run out the door.

Like my lunch or drycleaning or the embarrassment I face
When realizing one armpit of two escaped a shave in my haste.

Let the countdown begin, my weekend is done
So bring on the boredom and pack up the fun.

Here's to all Mondays--there is one in sight.
Happy Monday to all. I hate Sunday night.

Dress Code

I'll open this entry by attempting to even out my stream of bitching about XXX by mentioning a few good things about working there. Like they pay me (unless, of course, 100% of my check is mistakenly allocated to my 401k account...or if Eric is out the Monday before payday...or I accidentally receive a paper check instead of the electronic deposit I signed up for). More importantly, XXX is involved in many charitable organizations, particularly the American Cancer Society and Big Brothers/Big Sisters. This goes beyond the simple, "Everyone, please make a donation,": We've stuffed Christmas stockings during the holidays, and backpacks in the dog days of summer for underprivileged kids. We raised an astonishing amount of money for the ACS Relay for Life, and even shaved a coworker's head to auction off "advertising space" for the benefit of pediatric cancer research.*

Today, Sean was attending a benefit for the colorblind, or at least one would hope based on his choice of apparel. Let's start with the good: The Nutrisystem diet appears to be working as I no longer feel as threatened by being shot by a wayward button as I used to (but I also won't dismiss the possibility that this was a larger shirt). Also, the clothing appeared to be pressed, rather than "hopefully clean." He was "dressed up" which would have been a refreshing deviation from the norm if it hadn't included a lime-ish dress shirt, maroon (or maybe burgundy?) tie and navy blue jacket. Woah. He could have accessorized it with a fresh shave, but I guess there's no need to pull out all of the stops when your audience has already been stopped dead in their tracks by the palette of pain that is your wardrobe. I'll be the first to admit that I'm no fashionista, but I can recall observing my father's attire at the breakfast table with half-closed eyes several times while growing up (and this was a time when I was even more oblivious than I currently am about what matches/clashes, what's in, what's out, what's what) and asking, "You aren't REALLY going to wear that to work, are you?" This query was posed out of sheer disbelief/confusion rather than out of bratty spite, and I can prove this by stating when he would ask my mom if she agreed, she appeared horrified that this fashion disaster didn't crash prior to reaching the kitchen. How did Sean leave the house this morning unnoticed? Where was the intervention?

I'd mentioned that the habits of dress at XXX should be discussed in a future entry; I didn't think that entry would occur this afternoon. Still, dressing up is really one of the easier things to do if you're a guy. You don't have to deal with nylons, pointy-toed shoes, locating the appropriate supportive wear, trying on bottoms that are sized in either odd numbers, even numbers, or the European sizes, overdressing or underdressing, waxing, manicures/pedicures, accessorizing, etc. If you disagree, please let me know all about the last time you had your eyebrows waxed while worrying about which polish to paint your fingernails for fear of it mismatching your clothing. That's right, when was the last time you poked a hole through your nylons before shoving your feet into some pointy shoes. When did you last suck yourself into a size 8 skirt (that you thought was a 27, but that's the LESS dressy black skirt) and struggle with the zipper/button/and eyelet closure all the while cursing yourself out for forgetting the damn control-top pantyhose you REALLY should be wearing? After all of this preparation, when was the last time you finally got to your destination, sucked/tucked and generally uncomfortable, and then realized that your stupid handbag doesn't match, or that you have ANOTHER run in your nylons and the rest of your coworkers are wearing jeans? I'm not bitter, really, it seems (and this is coming from the female perspective) as though you guys can throw on a pair of pants, button down shirt, jacket and tie and be set for almost any occasion. This results in a whopping 4 items to match. Furthermore, it seems as though all men's shirts come in either white or blue. The fact that Sean found perhaps the only lime-green dress shirt ever manufactured is noteworthy; the fact that he paired it with a maroon tie is, well, it's something. It's typical of our office dress code.

As far as I've been able to tell, our dress code consists of two rules. 1) Cover anatomy that would be blurred out by cable television 2) Avoid wearing items that would merit calls to the CDC. This obviously leaves a lot of room for leeway and our special little corner of the world should not be trusted with such discretion. We are too busy alternating our time between making important business/trading decisions** and acting like 12-year-olds.

The CX attire was "business casual" which basically translates into "dry-clean only." Aside from the ridiculous amount of money I had to pay to wear my clothes each week, I enjoyed being part of such an environment--it was sort of like wearing a uniform to school. Everyone looked the same, everyone looked nice and there was never that hesitation as to whether or not something was appropriate. If it was boring, it was appropriate. I wore the same stuff every week, and fudged the rest of my appearance. Time willing, I'd throw on my version of "makeup" (equivalent to fast food; it's quick, easy and could be better, but held me over) and attempt to dry my hair in an effort to avoid being characterized as "lazy," "unprofessional" or even "unfeminine"***. I put in minimal effort, and this fact was recorded pointedly by another coworker (proving maybe some people are more observant than others).

Once I interviewed with the laid back patriarchs of XXX, the less formal code employed by them immediately appealed to me and my inherent morning laziness. Throw on clothes, and the rest was optional. No need to worry about catty women, looking cute up at reception or stabbing my eye out in an unfortunate mascara accident, if I didn't feel like taking the risk. Perfect!

But everything is at first, isn't it? This was back in the fall, when most people were covered in things like...well...pants. And hoodies. And sneakers. Oh, the horrors unveiled in the spring!

Again, please keep in mind I don't exemplify office chic. My typical uniform is jeans and a tshirt. Once in a while, I'll dress up in the old CX threads. I've found this turns heads, mostly because they think one of the neighboring bankers has entered the wrong office.

Anyway, in no particular order, here are my favorite XXX fashion WTFs:

1. Dan's perpetual gym class. I really should nail Rich on this as well, but Rich's shorts tend to be a bit looser and he doesn't tuck his shirt into them. So yeah, that's pretty much it: All summer long, Dan wore gym shorts that were a smidgen too tight, and tucked his shirt into them. It was one of those things that seemed wrong and/or appropriate, but I just couldn't peg why. Other than maybe we aren't at gym class, no matter how many pieces of sporting equipment are flying around.

2. The rumored jock in the freezer. I can't remember who said it was there, the timeframe it was there, or even the reasons behind its cryogenic state. I have never been able to confirm its existence as it no longer seems to be there. Unfortunately, I can't dismiss the image that maybe at one time, a time before estrogen warmed the walls of XXX, that it was lurking amongst pints of Ben and Jerry, frozen corn dogs and microwaveable Whitecastle burgers. That enough earns it a place in this list. A jock in the fridge? WTF?!?

3. FlipFlops and sandals. Let's just say we aren't a pretty-footed group of people. AT ALL. We'll never be foot models, and the livestock we trade is stepping prettier than the rest of us.

4. Frankie's sweater in a sweater. While most people began shedding clothing in April, Frankie kept his traditional sweater with a collared shirt beneath it. Shorts, sandals, a button-down shirt and a sweater. This posed a bit of a problem with temperature regulation around the office. Everyone was freezing, Frankie was burning up, and an all-out thermostat war followed. "Just take off your sweater!" we'd cry. "It's too damn cold in here!!!" And then, one day, he did. What we hadn't realized was that he had a sweater BENEATH his sweater. Don't misinterpret me--chest hair is sexy when in the right setting. Like a private setting. Or at the beach. But in the office, your shirt should be buttoned up to a level where your coworkers don't have to worry about catching a glimpse of your navel.

5. Last but certainly not least...the neon green bicycle shirt. The first time Sean wore this, I wasn't sure if I should laugh, cry, or call the jaws of life to pry the man out of that thing. It's exactly what it sounds like. It's bright, it's tight, and my God, what a fright. Evidently, he has missed the memo regarding spandex: Don't wear it unless you're in the gym, and in that case, it's really best to wear something over it. He's not on a bike, he's in no danger of being lost and on a day-to-day basis, there's no need for compression garments at work. Failure to lose this shirt may result in Sean's usurping of the moniker "The Green Monster" and the subsequent suicides of Red Sox fans everywhere since, after all, that's pretty much all they have left at this point in the season.****

Anyway, that's all I've got for tonight. I'm sure there will be mention of more fashion felonies in the future, and I hope those already mentioned haven't been traumatic enough to turn you off from reading the blog. Actually, hopefully they will. I've noticed some inconsistency in my blogging habits...


* Please visit the homepages for the American Cancer Society, Big Brothers/Big Sisters, St. Baldrick's and Operation Backpack for more information on these charitable organization, including ways you can become involved.

** Which, I will concede, they do with a notable degree of success.

*** The best part? Most of this effort was to fit in with the women!

****That one's for you, my Favorite Bostonian. :-*

You're never too young to be old

Buy it. Now. You will be quizzed on this later.

Or, you'll just thank me. It did, however, remind me that each day spent behind those 3 Bloomberg screens is one more day I'm not learning how to play canasta. Dammit.

Labor Day

My loathsome job sucks.
I eagerly await a
Fatal papercut.

A case of the Mondays on a Monday where you aren't actually AT work due to a holiday should be outlawed. Still, here I am, bitter and confused. I'm beginning to think that these sentiments aren't entirely about going to work at XXX tomorrow, but perhaps because I don't know where the hell I'm going, period. A brief conversation with the BF about this troubling job situation has my wheels turning (albeit 10x slower as it IS a holiday).

While growing up, our future "careers" were idealized: They were something we'd be "passionate" about, something we would "love" and something we'd waited our whole lives for. "You've gotta love what you're doing." "Find a job that suits who YOU are, not who everyone wants you to be." "Deep in your heart, you know what you want to do. Go do it!" I'm beginning to think that the truth of the matter is that maybe 5% of people get to do what they really want to do; the remainder do what they have to do to get by*, and that small portion who remains convinced that anyone can do whatever he or she wants to becomes a guidance counselor. This being said, what kind of ground rules does one establish when deciding which occupation she’d like to give a whirl? What happens when those ground rules change? How do you accommodate these changes? I've always been somewhat indecisive to begin with, which complicates things further. Don't get me wrong--when I DO know what I want, I want it (and will get it eventually), but I have very diverse interests, so narrowing the field down to several realistic occupations has proven particularly difficult. This indecisiveness has resulted in low standards and minimal thought. For example, when I embarked on this field trip toward "adulthood" my guidelines were as follows: 1. Job must prevent me from moving back home and 2. Job must provide health insurance. This resulted in me accepting a position that I was in no way qualified to do (or so I thought) in a business I'd never envisioned myself in. Still, the job with CX satisfied the aforementioned criteria successfully. After several months of enjoying my independence and insured health, however, I began to realize that I was teetering on the brink of insanity thanks to countless hours of data entry, and that there was no plan in place to end the madness and perhaps give me "challenging" work (like, for example, coloring within the lines of a workbook or memorizing numbers 1-10 in Spanish). I was given the job with CX because no one wanted to do it. I should have known better when one of the women I was working with seemed a little too eager to train me and get the work off of her plate. At the end of the day, I was employed to type in 2 to 9 digit numbers for hours a day, and to smile up at the reception desk until I couldn't take it anymore. And one day, I couldn't.

So it was back to the drawing board. The requirements for my next job included 1 & 2 mentioned in the paragraph above, but then I added a few more: 3. Job must offer some sort of future/promotion potential 4. Job must offer dental benefits (since without them, having teeth is of no benefit to me at all) and 5. Job must be challenging. I went on several interviews during my stint with CX, and after a few duds found my "dream" job as a marketing associate with a small cruise line. The work would entail conducting market research, assisting with the development of a marketing strategy, writing copy for promotional materials and aiding with website development. I basically had the pen out and was ready to sign the dotted line when I was informed, “By the way, we can only start you out at $12/hour, and currently do not offer health insurance to our employees, but you’re going to LOVE it here!” It was like taking the biggest gulp of freshly-squeezed orange juice ever...and forgetting that you just brushed your teeth. Son of a bitch. In obvious violation of rules 1 and 2, I regrettably had to turn it down.

So here I am today, with XXX. During my interview, it seemed as though this trading assistant position would satisfy all 5 of “A’s Established Guidelines for The Best Job Ever,” and I took it. Previous entries may have led you to believe that I’m not happy at this job, and you know what? You’re totally right. Again, guidelines 1 and 2 have been met (although this insurance isn’t as good as the previous), but no one is willing to give me work to do regardless of how many times I ask for it, the dental plan that lured me in was axed and I perform the same exact routine every day without fail. I’m also working an average of 10 hours more per week, am commuting 6+ hours to do it, and, on a per hour basis, am making less money. So what next?

A lot of this anger toward my job is misguided. At the end of the day, I can only be angry with myself for failing to take the steps necessary to discover what it is, exactly, that will make me happy in the workplace. The Prince Charming of jobs may not exist, but I’m choosing to spend my time with one who refuses to give me greater responsibilities, fails to recognize the work that I do (spare Paul), serves salad with his bare hands, and for God’s sake—flaunts his loogie construction at the desk (I’ve heard noises that would make Regan from “The Exorcist” quiver and shake in the corner). Regardless, I choose to get up every morning and go there, and I choose to limit the activities that I do outside of work to accommodate the hours. I’m limiting my work life to what it is--50 hours of “getting by”--and am doing so resentfully. I owe myself more than that. And I owe my employer more than that.

It’s easier for me to be miserable sometimes than it is to abandon my fears of future disappointment and roll on with my life. I’ve postponed the task of job-hunting for fear of taking another one and experiencing more aggravation—what if it’s worse than what I already have?!?—but I’ve always been advised against settling with something “tolerable.” This attitude has stunted me, and reduced me to a bitter blogger.

So maybe it’s time to be a little bit proactive here. Yes, there is the lure of the bonus in December, and don’t get me wrong—I will be staying until then (at least). It’s just that it’s never too early to start thinking about what needs to be added to my list for when job-hunting season arrives, and what it is that will make me happy. Please send along any advice those of you who ARE happy might have. In the meanwhile, I’ll just go ahead and add numbers 6, 7 & 8 to the list:

6. Job’s commute must be limited to 1 hour per day, if at all possible. Exceptions will be considered for an exceptional job.

7. Job must exclude coworkers who openly accuse others of failing to flush, who growl/snort/snarf/hack/hairball in the office rather than in the bathroom, who treat public food as finger food and/or who wear neon-yellow bicycle spandex as office casual attire.**

8. Job must leave me feeling as though I actually made a difference at the end of the day/week.

In the meantime, it could be worse. After all, shorts/spandex season is drawing to a close.

* Which isn’t to say they don’t enjoy what they do in one way or another—it’s just that not everyone gets to grow up to be an astronaut. Or a rockstar. Or an actress. Or a Playboy photographer. ;-)

** Our office dress code will be a-dressed in a future entry. It merits its own discussion.

Pizza Friday

Every Friday, we've gotten into the habit of ordering pizza for lunch. The typical order consists of several pizzas (margherita, some sort of meat extravaganza, "Grandma's Pizza" and a random pie), garlic knots, garlic bread with cheese, fried calamari...and garden salad, for good measure.

I watched amazed as Sean stuck to his NutriSystem guidelines, and served himself some salad.

With his hands.

I don't think he's a "washer," if you know what I mean. I need to talk to someone about adding a "salad is not a finger food" section to the employee manual.