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.