we suck young blood

I was reading Tim Duncan's bio on a site, and it inspired me to, along with my overwhelming sense of cynicism on this Friday of joy and gladness (only 5 days of work left! Exciting!) write something brutally true and yet over the top exaggerated. and that would be how my institution eats its young.

Not the visiting young, but the new employees. I don't know if this is the case in the real world with real money dollar jobs, but I have seen a lot of super-swift hire-quit actions go down here. Let me explain how somehow, a renowned institution of 400+ employees has built a management system that contrives to suck the souls out of people.

Scenario 1: The impossible situation
There is one senior manager here (and by here, I mean collecting a fat paycheck) who actually lives in New York and is getting her doctorate. I'm not sure how that works. Who okayed this? I mean, what person in there right mind said, 'ah yes Barbie, we should pay her a lot and make her supervisor of 15 people on site, but pay for her to live far away and come to town whenever she wants'? I guess it could work, if she was a stellar manager/communicator, but here no one is a stellar communicator, and Barbie is worst than most.

A testament to this is the way that she can't keep people working for here for any long period of time. New hires are not hired/interviewed by her, so they are never forewarned of her *&*#*&-ness. Barbie will then roll into the scene at her leisure, and about 50% of the time, after the visit we are looking for a new hire. The swiftest hire-quit process I saw was within 24 hours of Barbie's landing at SFO. I am not sure if this is her record. I feel a little bad. The only ones who make it are just like her. It's an impossible situation for people who do not want to become conniving.

Scenario 2: Failure to drink the kool-aid
This is common, when the person hired has been a little lured in by our "mission" and "vision." Then they get in and take a good scope around and see that those were some really awesome pretty-lies we construct in order to not hate ourselves at the end of the day. Many people cut and run at this point. A few stick around, and some get so caught up in the kool-aid that they ask to franchise the stuff so they can peddle it to other unsuspecting folk.

An example of this can be seen, ironically, in our recruiter. He started in October. His last day is Wednesday. Which is too bad for Earnesto, because it means the person he was counting on to find my replacement will not be there. Which kind of means it will be a long time before there is a replacement. Oops!

Scenario 3: They saw behind the curtain
Last year for Camille's birthday, we, plus Renaldo, went to lunch. This was still when Renaldo was having a death-crush on Camille, and as part of his awkward ritual mating dance he had the Hopes & Dreams talk. Way too early in the wooing, buddy. No wonder you failed. But even at the time it was apparent that of the three of us, I was a #2, and they were going to either be lifers or have a #3 moment sometime soon. hopes and dreams don't make it very long here.

Think about it in these terms: Under the guise of 'creative engines,' the place sucks hopes and dreams up and then uses them to power the institution's Project Negative Value. I envision the movement to be similar to that of the beast in Yeats' poem "The Second Coming," slouching towards the target.

When people see past the eyewash and the kool-aid, what they basically see is the machine room of the Hopes & Dreams giant vacuum, and scales fall from eyes quickly. This is how we lose the most promising talent. They go and say, hey, if there is going to be a wizard behind the curtain, it should be something that grants wishes, or at least looks like Cary Grant, and not something that will eventually see me a dried up old bag with no additional training. And then they leave (usually not until I have told them something embarrassing about myself; they have phenomenal interrogation skills).

at this point, pretty much un-smirchable

When I was in high school, I participated in that time honored tradition of mediocrity: zero-period health. nothing says that "this isn't important" like having it start at ridiculously early hours. And the teacher was really the coach of the varsity baseball team, because we believe that it is the duty of academic integrity to suffer in the face of athleticism. This fellow thought, as I have mentioned before, that most of the best health knowledge could be gleaned from made-for-tv movies and very special episodes, and films starring comedians named Bill (What About Bob, I hate that movie, but I am okay with When Harry Met Sally).

We once watched the cinematic masterpiece of the small-silver-screen that was the movie in the which Fred Savage is a high school wrestler who abused his girlfriend Candace Cameron and then kills her and puts her body in the lake. Come on Fred, couldn't you think of somewhere more creative to put your dead? The lake is soooo cliché.

Anyway, after this one and the movie Sleeping with the Enemy, Mr. Coach then taught us what to say if we are in an abusive relationship.

PAUSE: THIS IS A DISCLAIMER. I am not trying to say abusive relationships are funny, or that what follows is a useful technique is escaping one. I'm trying to point out the stupidity of the technique. Don't get mad and read me lectures about how my insensitive soul will be forever cursed. It is a well-known fact I gambled away my soul in '01. UNPAUSE

As I was saying, Mr. Coach told us we should look the person in the eye and say forcefully, but calmly the following phrase.

"Look, (place name here), It's Over."

Then apparently the abuser will be enlightened and contrite and wish you well for the future and will not be tempted to kill you and put your body in the lake/bay/body of water.

So, as much as I've made fun of this, and I have, I kind of feel like I have said, 'look, workplace and Earnesto, It's Over.' But it worked this time. I feel borderline euphoric. So when I have had to interact with Rusty these last few days, I didn't have the smirched feeling he usually causes. I have become un-smirchable. Awesome. On the chart of awesome-osity that is my life, that rates right up there with my Mr. Popper's Penguins and Thom Yorke Dream. It's a pretty sweet dream. And it's pretty sweet that finally I can thumb my nose at the collective insanity that is this place.

plotting a karaoke ambush

In my position at this institution, I have been in the position to plan many a going-away "parties." That is put in quotes because sometimes it is a party, sometimes a funeral, sometimes just a going through the motions, and sometimes, like with good-old Battleaxe, it was a chance to kick 'em while they're down/dance on grave. Next up is Marie's farewell: Beer and oysters on the beach. I applaud her simple vision, but can't help but think of the irony that she wants to feed a bunch of people oysters after an oil spill. Neither of the above items really appeals to me, yet I have to plan. It's proving to be a bit sticky, but I will contrive.

But it begs the question: Who will plan my party? Marie will be gone. Earnesto doesn't do details. That is the extent of my lauded department. Conclusion, I will plan my party.

This simultaneously sucks and has it's benefits. Foremost amongst the benefits is that I will allow myself to do whatever is in my imagination. I was talking to the head of HR about it, and she said it sounded pretty awesome. Complete Carte Blanche.

So when I come up with a devilishly good idea(with my creative engines) (and I have) like making it a karaoke party, and asking Earnesto to sing a song for my final request, I will not shoot my idea down. I will say instead, "Self, that sounds like a capital idea, and well within the budget I have established for this party." And Then I will say "Self, thanks for understanding what I am trying to envision." Fabulous. Finally, I get to plot my karaoke ambush.

As for songs that I will ask for Earnesto to sing, I will take written submissions. Although I would love to have it be something like "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Or something by Debbie Harry or Madonna. Or Barry Manilow. There are just so many ways to be cruel on this one.

this cupcake's for you

So, near my place of work is a fine establishment, a purveyor of cupcakes. I love these cupcakes. Brilliant and tasty. Today, in celebration of my quitting, me and Camille went to lunch and then to the cupcake store. I had a sweet chocolate cupcake, and I would like to say, this cupcake is for everyone who has ever been in a work situation that is untenable. It represents the sweet and rich creamy goodness of giving that crappy job the proverbial finger as you leave to do anything but that. Including being unemployed.

So, when I announced I was quitting, Earnesto said that I was too ambitious for this job. Since when is asking for some feedback ambitious? Not accepting mediocrity is not ambition, it is sanity.

As I once said to my #2 favorite Dave, this cupcake's for you, all those who know they are for better things than the dust they have shaken from their feet.

penta-annual faulknerian (near) non-fiction: it'll make you stab your eyeballs out

This is a post for everyone who has ever had to write a scholarly paper in the general field of the humanities, specifically in English. Do you recall the time spent crafting a sentence to say exactly what you mean, pouring through words and phrases until something would click? When there was very little difference to be found between content and style because the two were inextricably linked. Then I recommend that you never have a go at editing the report that is now sitting on my desk.

Usually a visceral reaction to a written work can be considered a good thing. But it has to be for all the best reasons. If the reason is because it is so terrible, so full of errors and inappropriate tone, than no, not awesome.

Granted, this blog is hardly a stylistic achievement of greatness. But it's informal. I don't care, and if you are fretting about my abysmal punctuation, I have to say, get a life. This is something I write on the sly, like when I'm editing papers that make me cry (I wept on the way home last night thinking about how bad this was: truly wretched).

A report that you do five times a year, prepared for your Board of Directors, should not be this bad. It really shouldn't be bad at all, but if it has to be less than stellar, make it M.O.R, or mediocre. It shouldn't be this bad: it could be spread around it leaflets and used as a torture device.

And such a report should have a formal tone. If there is money on the line and it doesn't involve a lotto ticket, you should be formal. You can be conversational without becoming a servant of an Editorial Demon.

Curse you Earnesto, and your report as well.

The intervening moments of life

I know I promised to continue my previous post, but I have neglected in my brief moment of laborial satisfaction to post a few things. First, congrats Camille, for getting that new position at the institution. True, I'll miss you like crazy since you won't be in the cell/cubicle next to me anymore. What will life be without those ridiculous calls between two people less than 15 feet apart? Also, who will I exchange catty gossip with about senior staff (besides Marie, or Bonnie, or Adelaide or a handful of other people such a the head of HR)? But props to you for escaping this cellblock and building. I only wish you were a) not located next to the desk of that media guy who loathes me and b) seated a little closer to the girl with the Scharfenberger chocolate. I take comfort in the fact that it all might change really soon, since they are undergoing the joys of curling for beginners in that building.

Secondly, I would like to say I have reclaimed my brother from the brink of banality. Just as far back as July, he was saying Travis was his favorite band. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Travis, but really, if they are your favorite band you probably are going to eat banana cream pudding for your crazy-go-wild dessert and finish out the evening watching My Best Friend's Wedding. Not a horrible fate, but he is a 21-year-old boy, he should like something really far-out (in either the direction of vile taste (ie. Linkin Park) or towards something surprisingly good (in the realm of My Morning Jacket)). It's like what I think Oliver Wendell Holmes said about politics, there is plenty of time to play it safe when you get older. Anyway, brother dearest has since backed down from his dangerously boring position.

Third, Earnesto will be gone for 3 of the next 4 weeks. Say no more.

Fourth, and most importantly, NBA season starts on Tuesday, opening with the Boys playing Portland. Guess who's leaving work early that day??

In support of the last fact, I link to this. No, I'll embed it. Enjoy!!

Welcome to the Twilight Zone

Things have been a little strange around here lately. I have fleetingly been experiencing something that the astute reader might realize is highly unlikely, job satisfaction. So unprecedented is this state that it has momentarily and profoundly shaken my patterns of usual behaviour. But more on that Later, let's just examine why it is so marvelous that I might actually want to go to work this week.

Why it is Crazy

a) I have actually been working on Project Negative Value. It isn't something that usually brings me great levels of joy on a usual basis. Actually, usually discussion of this project makes me want to Sylvia Plath myself (stick my head in the oven, not read The Bell Jar). It still sort of does. But this time I was doing work that I secretly hope will help derail the futility.

b) I have had to go to MEETINGS OF DOOM where there was lots of yelling and pointed questions and when we weren't meeting, we were prepping materials for the next meeting, which would commence as soon as the latest edit was done.

c) I had no time to do a Pirate quiz or virtual yahtzee. Having to work at work usually sucks.

Why I enjoyed it

a) I was able to do analysis. Marie is probably going to catch it from letting me take a break from my regular scheduling duties (from which I was already on enforced hiatus because there are only so many hours you can schedule). But she asked me to do what I have been university trained to do: analyze. And it involved research. My toes are curling at the very thought.

b) I was treated as an expert. I was all of the sudden a trusted source of information, someone who had answers, or if I didn't have them right then, I could get them. My initiatives were treated as insight the would have otherwise been unable to obtain. It doesn't matter that I am not an expert and anyone with half a brain and internet access could have collected the same information, and anyone with a working knowledge of, and a working calculator could have done it.

c) I was praised. Relying on someone and thanking them are two different things entirely, which is something I do not think that Earnesto has yet learned.

d) A little more indicative of my character flaws, I really enjoyed being part of something that throws a spanner into Earnesto's pie-in-the-sky dreaming. As my roommate has frequently said, I really f@#$% his s#$% up.

More on this later

Discretion is passé

I think that every workplace the size of the institution that I work for has to have a complete jerk who spends copious amounts of time doing nothing but drive everyone around them nuts. The one that stands out today (and most every other day) I will call John, after John McEnroe, because this is a person that thrills to argument. He thrives on conflict, he runs around fighting battles that really have very little to do with himself because he can, and no one has figured out a way to stop him, short of a nuclear explosion. He makes administration hellish.

Today he sent a email, political positioning that would only be tenuously supported because it was sent on the personal list serve. But of course he had to go so far as to make it a personal attack against someone that we do business with, a relationship that works very much more in our advantage. True, Businessman X has been known to ruffle many feathers on the SF scene, but you don't make a billion without breaking some people. Or whatever. But still, group emails on work accounts should not be a platform to launch attacks. Especially not such ridiculously short-sighted ones.

I mean, he enjoys a salary based in part on the revenue generated by Businessman X's association with us, so where does John get off trying to crucify him as a person?

So I forwarded it onto Marie, who hates John. We were once sitting in a meeting with some VIPs and John got up to speak. She leans over to me and says "someone should light John on fire." That's some pretty potent animosity for two people who have shared a workplace for 15+ years. Or maybe it's understandable. Either way, Marie LOST IT.

Admittedly, ever since the reorg her mouth issued some statements that have boggled my mind. This is the person who constantly lectured me on discretion in my position, constantly took time to correct me if she thought I was saying too much. When I said we should take it into her office, not the oh so public hallway, she asked why. She said, "I'm past the point where I have to consider discretion." So, I guess, is John.

What will probably happen is Earnesto will gently reprimand the both of them in a non-committal way, because no one sent him the memo/map that shows the point of discretion was passed by some months back. We shot meteorically past it, or so it would seem. Earnesto probably still quotes "discretion is the better part of valor." He's got himself some learning. But what he doesn't realize is that Falstaff, who said it, doesn't make it to the end of the series, and dies of some disease instead of in battle, and is also considered comic relief. I guess it all sort of transfers. Earnesto can be pretty hilarious with his bright-eyed opportunistic nature. And I wouldn't be surprised if he too ends up in ignominy.

So, today's lesson is, Shelve discretion. Stop biting your tongue and say give that blistering diatribe you have been perfecting in your mind through years of silence. And, as a corollary, start looking for a new job.

I was concerted, I swear it

Well, sometimes work just acts like the wort sort of bully, and it is times like those I remember something I once saw on one of the Blackboards of my high school calculus class. It went something like this:

Math is what we do, but we do not do it well, that is why we DANCE!

I take no credit for this. It was a notice for some sort of dance club that I was far too geeky to participate in. But the line stuck with me, and this was my philosophy today at work (substitute work for math). So when Earnesto left the office unexpectedly for the second time today, throwing his schedule into absolute shambles, I turned on the tunes and indulged in a little chair dancing. You know, when you groove around without actually moving the chair.

I think I was inspired by the exhibition opening/ concert I went to on Wednesday. It was a dreadful combination of rich snobby people sneering at my dress, and then indie rock kids sneering at my dress, but at least it had a rocking soundtrack. Why all the sneering? Perhaps it is because my outfit was a tiny bit prom-night-revisited, not chic enough for SFMOMA, but too dressy for the Independent and the Okkervil River crowd.

My dear friend was kind enough to bring me less painful shoes, meaning I checked my 4-inch black patent leather heels. Admittedly, the skirt, knee-length, benefitted from the tall shoes, but my comfort level did not. So I went to the coat check area, and turned over my shoes (my stockings were filled-in-fishnet, but irretrievably laddered, so I took them off and binned them in the bathroom). Following is the exchange between me and the Coat Check Men:

Me: I'd like to check these shoes.
Them: You have to wear shoes.
Me: I am wearing shoes, just different shoes.
Them: But you would look better in these shoes.
Me: I've already been wearing them for 4 hours, and my feet hurt, so I'll wear these other ones, thanks.
Them: That will be 2 dollars.
Me (paying them): Thank you.

Oh the crazy coat checking fashion police!

It was a great show. I really enjoyed it. I was concerted by the whole experience.


very similar to my shoes

With Defiance, and some peanut butter

Yesterday was one of the few days of the year when anyone who thinks at his fine institution that they should have say over what I do piles it up (their insane requests) and then drops it on me like a ten ton truck. I had to work. In fact, I have a surfeit of actual work to do right now. And what am I doing? Blogging, with defiance, and some peanut butter.

Because I don't think we are seeing eye to eye right now. How outrageous is it that I requested access to the datebase of contact information for people I am supposed to be trying to schedule with Earnesto?? In my crazy pov, the only outrage is that the request has to go through 3 people now. Earnesto's always talking about how we need to act nimbly (that's a quote). Well, my nimbility on this issue is being severely impaired by spangly hoops I am being forced to jump through.

Furthermore, just because someone is working on Project Negative Value, it does not make them my boss. It makes them a b-f-b = blind-following-blind. Or Lemming. Some people didn't get that memo. Maybe they were being distracted by some eyewash. I hope they choke on it.

Please pardon my vitriolic rage. It appears we are fresh out of pinatas

A Reward for your Patience

For those of you who have been patiently awaiting my next post, provided that there are any of you, I am sorry. Pre-vacation prep and vacation has kept me away. Here is a brief update of what went on while I was away from the keyboard.

• Henry had his last day and rode off into the sunset.

• My foot swelled up like a sausage and broke one of my favorite shoes.
  

• I was invited to a very la event at SFMOMA, and will go next week. Apparently the person who wangled the invitation for me said I was qualified to go based of my 'young and fascinating" status. I didn't know I was young and fascinating, but hey, I'm not going to argue with it.

• I went on a leisurely vacation far away from my cell/cubicle. Acquired a bit of color that has in the two days I've been back faded back to gray.
  

• Earnesto and the senior managers went on a retreat I planned for them, enjoyed it, talked me up there, and repaid me by de-authorizing my overtime. What a swell guy.
  

But I promised a reward, and you so richly deserve it, don't you? So I will tell you all about the time when I was driven to the brink of madness by Renaldo. That's right, our very own James Brown of the industry/institute have a fascinating history that includes him driving me so batty I walked a mile to buy a chocolate cake.

I have a lovely coworker named Camille, who all the boys love. Not joking. Henry loved her, Renaldo loves her, and various and sundry other pathetic fellows have prostrated themselves at her feet in the hopes she will pay them some attention. To date, that I know of, she has only dated Henry. She has repeated fended off advances from Renaldo, who has an obnoxious tendency to pout in an obvious manner afterwards and general then endeavors to makes everyone around him feel acutely embarrassed for his complete inability to take the none-too-subtle hint.

One day, many moons ago (think May-ish) I agreed to go out one evening and give Renaldo a few tips about the situation. It was a moment of weakness on my part, but motivated by the excellent intention to give him the tip of 'IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN' and have done with the whole slightly silly saga. It had been going on since last September. Anyway, you know what they say about intentions.

So the evening rolled around and I was already feeling grave misgivings about the whole scheme. Renaldo was just so happy. He was also ridiculously stealthy as he collected me from my cell and we left to the sports bar he had chosen for what would be my torture. I don't drink, but for a fleeting moment I wished I did so I would have something to blunt the agony that loomed. No, just a diet coke and glimpses out of the corner of my eye of a Detroit-Chicago playoff game (that was a tragic series, I rather like the Bulls, but they do have some room for improvement).

Even P.J. Brown felt better than I did that night (and less violated). (Reuters)

Renaldo got himself a beer and what he perceived as license to wax poetical about the virtues of Camille. The best/worst was when he said "She is one in a million, no, one in several million girls." News Flash - That same could be said of me, but it is certainly not high praise, now, is it?

He continued for TWO hours, and every time I tried to reacquaint him with reality, he would reject it out of hand. Add to that overly loud really bad music (pretty much things I would only ever hear if I was being tortured, like being forced to go to a baseball game, or back in time to the 80s ((and not the good bit of the 80s, but the really cringe-worthy parts))) and the fact that I hadn't eaten yet that day, and you will understand, surely. I tried melting into the wooden table top or just disappearing completely, but that is the one time Radiohead actually didn't help. Nothing could prevail against this pernicious crush. It was a new kind of evil.

Finally, I demanded that I be let go. Renaldo relented, in that he took me to the Bart station, but the entire ride was absorbed with his descriptions of his "feelings" for Camille. That's right, he used the f-word. And it wasn't as funny as the clip I just linked and it was more painful than this one (partially redeemed by the Spanish intro). Anyway, feelings are things that should either be able to be explicated - example, I am attracted to Damon, I loathe Styrofoam - or not mentioned. I tried explaining this to him, but something was lost in the English as a second language area.

** DISCLAIMER** Please don't assume this means I am xenophobic or anti-Hispanic or anti-ESL. Not that it matters, but Renaldo is not in fact Hispanic. That's not his real name. It is a simple fact, however, that when going between any two languages there are certain nuances and cultural factors that are frequently misunderstood. That is all I am saying.***

I was in this purgatory of a car ride when by divine intervention, my brother called me to discuss basketball. You can bet our last dollar that I was all over that. Who cares about cell-phone courtesy when their are being granted a reprieve from torture? So I leapt from the car when it came to the station and ran.

I was shell-shocked by the time I arrived home. Shell-shocked and ravenous. All I could think of was, 'must have chocolate.' Indeed, chocolate seemed the only thing that could possible make it bearable. So I proceeded to walk a mile to the store and a mile back (uphill, in the snow, both ways! okay, it's a little cliché, but it is the truth), purchased a fine chocolate cake and ate a healthy slice. By healthy, I refer to my mental health, as it did much to restore my mental health.

Ever since that fateful day, things have never been the same between Renaldo and me. Being around him makes me crave chocolate, even though he has not repeated his version of the Inquisition. It's simply not the way things used to be. He asked, as have his coworkers, what happened that has cause this rift. I don't say anything, because I have realized, it doesn't matter what you say to Renaldo, he has very selective hearing powers. He perceives that which is pleasing to him, and this isn't it.

And to cap this tale, I have made a timeline. Enjoy!

Why I am not a nurse

In some people, empathy lives in never-ending stores, like bottomless wells of the stuff. And in me, I have a small bottle of the stuff.

Is that the mo0st fair way to say this? I don't know. I don't laugh at the sufferers. I just was raised in a bit of a bootstrap environment. As in, "pull yourself up by those bootstraps and stop whining and go kick some butt." And when it came to being sick, it was "stand up straight and smile and you'll feel better by lunchtime." Direct quote. Not joking.

So when Earnesto smashed his finger yesterday morning, and was convinced it was broken, I was "oh well, that sucks." It is broken. and he had to bin his carefully crafted schedule to go to the doctor twice to be told yes it is broken, no, we don't do anything about this kind of break.

It's like he is made of papier-mache. He did have a life-threatening illness within the past five years. That will make you take care of yourself better, be a little more cautious. But when he took more time off for a trifling cold than I did for mono, that's outside of enough. Stand up straight, I want to yell, and make yourself feel better. It's only a ring finger.

Maybe that's why, in the Pirate Quizzes, I always get such a good rating. Black spot on my soul (after the Sydney Olympics), and space in my heart, and the like.

When Things are officially strange

With Earnesto out for the rest of the week, I was at liberty to waste time with the maximum efficiency today. I did so well I didn't have time to write at work. But prior to playing games, taking quizzes, and leaving a word for Henry, I took the time to review my resumé and update it. I felt pretty satisfied with my changes. But when I in passing mentioned my actions to my supervisor Marie, she had some strong feelings. As in editorial changes to improve my chances in getting hired somewhere away from this crazy-house.

And that's jut it. You know things are odd when your supervisor is editing your c.v. You know things are strange when she encourages you to go on vacation and work from home. You know things are off when you spend 30 minutes discussing humus.

But on the upside, I think my resumé is rocking. And I have time to play Yahtzee.

Just because I'm emotional, doesn't mean I wrong

Have you ever been really upset about something? Felt really passionatly about an issue? Had your opinion dismissed completely out of hand because if you actially care, you can't be righ? Or can you?

Earnesto once told me that when I vent about a person or issue, he is unable to really consider my opinions on the matter as valid because "they're just so emotional." Newsflash: Emotional doesn't mean wrong. It just means emotional. It doesn't mean right either.

So I watch him ignore Marie (my real boss) and her actually really valid opinions because she is upset about the issue. Who wouldn't be upset when someone totally usurps their power and treats them like trash? But hey, however ticked off she is, it doesn't mean that she isn't aware of all the issues that go into moving office space and etc. It's in her pervue.

call it a day: why you leave the bar early

For Drinkers and Nondrinkers alike

Are you ready for part II of the Battleaxe farewell tour? No? Because last night was the external party, when every one who has ever worked for her (and it's a lot, can someone say high turn-over?) showed up to drink to her downfall and murmur to each other how well deserved it was. I was went part out of pity and part as an envoy from the Executive Offices. Which is to say, Earnesto couldn't go, so he sent me. Unfortunately, he wasn't bankrolling the venture.

I don't drink. So happy hour isn't my favorite hangout. I just feel redundant as I sip my coke with grenadine and wish I was somewhere else. For example, last night, in the super-posh Fairmont Hotel Tonga Room, I wished I was at home watching the NBA Draft.

(Sidebar: Draft! I love it, except I really wanted San Antonio to take Jarod Dudley from Boston College, but stupid Michael Jordan picked him. Still, some good trading going on, and as a Portland native, I appreciate efforts to retool the team to bring in some quality. End of Aside)

No, I was in a dark and murky bar that I had heard good things about. I guess it shows that everyone who goes there usually is drunk, because sobriety does not make it a fun place. It makes it dark and kitschy and in this case, full of people I didn't really like before, and drunkenness did not add to their charm. Like a guy who used to have my position and filled the computer with porn and demeaning emails about his then girlfriend, one of my coworkers, that I was forced to clean out. Ohhhh, he's a favorite. Favorite person to build a voodoo doll of, that is.

After drinking my coke, and eating some pretty decent Swiss cheese, it was an hour in and it was getting crowded. I opted out, leaving $25 to cover my tab and get one of Battleaxe's. It was a gesture. I left at 6:30, and after a nice walk and train ride, got home in order to catch the end of the first round of the draft. and I only saw one or two of my coworkers fall-down drunk (fast workers).

I just talked to someone there at the end of the night, and it was a great reminder of the evils of an open tab. Apparently they were $120 short at the end of the night. Not my fault. But it sure made me glad I wasn't there at the end to pick up that tab. A good reason to leave early. Which makes the list this:

1. Even if you like a person sober, drunk may be a different story. Avoid being there when the things get so out of hand that someone tears open Hugh's shirt and that way you can maintain good working relationships as well as your eyesight.
   
2. You don't have to pay for all the cheap people who came for the "free" drinks. Just pay what you own (with tax and tip figured in) and walk away, knowing some other chump can deal with the mess.
3. You can still walk in the city without undue fear, and use mass transit without a taser.
   
4. The evening isn't wasted, and neither are you. Go home and do something cool.
5. You cultivate an air of mystery. People wonder where you went. You don't have to tell them you played computer Yahtzee for hours.
   

And the greatest lesson of all is: Never start an open tab.

The dangers of being overqualified for your job

I would like to think of myself as reasonably intelligent. But as was pointed out by my dearest boss, Earnesto, nearly any sentient body, including furbies, could probably be an executive assistant. It's not a terrible job. It just isn't that great. Part of it is the institution, I know, but really, even fresh out of college, it turns out I was dangerously overqualified for the the position.

I say this because in the stagnant pool that become my mind as I thought of the exigencies of trying to schedule 50 hours worth of meetings into 37.5 hours, last summer I developed a perilous infatuation with Rusty (so named because for reasons unknown, he dyes his hair the exact color of iron oxide, and somehow captures the texture as well)

Okay, now I realize he's just not attractive, but I was sensory deprived, and he seemed so splendidly different from that to which I had become accustomed: the executive. And his hair was also not rusted then, it was my Achilles heel color of feather boa blue. Which is also probably not enticing to you, but work with me.

We met, we were friends, I was really silly, etc, and gory details will not be shared because I do have some dignity I would like to maintain. Anyway, fast-forward months and his contract runs out, and I realize I will never see him again, and I come to my senses. Thank you, blessed October. And I move merrily on with life and back to crushes of guys who are actually in some way shape or form attractive. My acceptance of Rusty's departure was facilitated by his new hair color, which just made me cringe. You can't take hair that color anywhere, unless it's to a stylist to repair the ravages.

And then, in January, back he reappears in my life, wanted to start back where we left off as friends. So not going to happen. I have developed super-skills at ignoring him, and he mopes about when we chance encounter. But in January I was so angry.

Despite my new found ability to deny his entire existence, every time I see Rusty, I wince with the reminder of my terrible mistake, and wish I could undo months of stupidity induced by job dissatisfaction. It was insanity. So when I saw him on the bus this morning, looking just awful, I reiterated my vow to trot out the resumé and start applying for a job where I would use my brain enough to forever hereafter avoid dangerous infatuations.

How to throw an uncomfortable party

So, I have mentioned the reorganizational fiesta that has taken place here where I work. The one in which Earnesto pandered to the majority of the people like a middle school kid vying for popularity by shuffling out 2.5 of the most disliked people in positions of authority. These were also the people who had the tendency to rain on the Project Negative Value, throwing unwanted bricks of reality into the mix. Not part of Team Feel-good, not big believers in Boyish Charm or unwarranted optimism. And now, definitely not card-carrying members of the I-Love-Earnesto club.

So, in the beginning of the month we had the first major farewell, celebrated in a low key fashion with a brunch drop-by. I planned it,with the help of some other very useful souls. It was stressful, but simple, and executed with relative ease. Fond Farewells to our HR director, who, despite some people's belief, was not in partnership with the Devil. Best wishes to the Midwest.

Last night we had the second major farewell, our CFO. I generally actually am not a big fan of her. She has been a bit of an old battle-axe, and I can't count how many times she threatened to stop my pay until I did what she wanted. But after 17 years, anyone deserves better than people singing 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead.' In fact, I think probably it is an indelible human right not to be treated that shabbily. Plus, it doesn't help that Earnesto announced her pending departure and then expected her to stay in and work harder than ever before on his pet project, Negative Value. I think it is like picking someone's pocket before you throw them overboard. Not fair play.

Again, I was assigned the planning role. Unfortunately Battleaxe had developed some very definite ideas about what it should be, and so had her crazy assistant. Somehow it would come out of my budget, and be the farewell of their dreams. That's not how it works. You take what you are given.

Not if you are Battleaxe. She told us she wanted a wine and cheese night, which really mucked up planning. It had to be after hours. We had to buy wine etc, I won't give you the painful details, but more than once I swore that the Hatchet (Battleaxe's assistant) was going to be the death of me. And last night was the pinnacle of the ridiculosity.

But enough with the Complaining. I said How-To. Here We Go:

• Make sure the person that the party is for is not well liked. It means that the people there will be split between the few that do lie her, those who are obligated, and those who want to make sure the body is cold/dance on the grave.
  
• Make it at an awkward time. Ideally, you would need to reschedule 2-3 other essential meetings to make it happen. It's even batter if you can arrange a meeting that the boss has to go to midway through, so it's a little reminder that the honoree is important, but not that important.
  
• Plan for a ridiculous number of people, and invite the world. We planned for 75 people, in an organization that max employs 375. That way when the majority of people do not show up, it is patently apparent with gobs of space and plates of food and bottle of wine that won't even get close to being touched. I think we maybe had 40 people, including incidental foot traffic. Can you say awkward?
• Have wine. Alcohol is a great social lubricant. It is also a bit tragically hilarious when the institution drunk indulges and gets soused enough to be utterly ridiculous in front of the two or three visiting dignitaries, and then announces he is going to get back to work. Furthermore, it allows for the awkward toasting moment when everyone seems to have a glass, and not one can think of a good reason to hoist it up besides 'Good riddance.'
• Make sure the cohosts at this close to snapping and getting in a fist fight. If one is for some reason unable to lift heavy objects, it helps, because the heavy lifter is then tempted to heave the table into the other person's head, and it shows.
  
• However, to keep it in the realm of party and not bloodsport, put away the corkscrew and dispose of any empty bottles as they arise.
  
• Do not plan a clean up strategy or a closing time. Nothing says uncomfortable like the visible gasps for breath a party has when an hour in the same people are looking desperately around for an excuse to leave, and no one has the courage to kill it.
  
• Finally, plan another going away party for the next night, to be held at a inconvenient location, and frequently have the honoree mention who will be coming to that party in a manner that looks like a desperate bid to prove that they have friends. Nothing shows a lame party for what it is like the comment that the next party will be much better.
  

All I have to say, is in 16 years if I am still here, please just take me out back and shoot me. Then it won't be so strange that m going away party feels like a wake.

Curling for beginners

Oh, who doesn't love the Winter Olympics? I certainly do. And not just because I will always cherish fond memories of folding nearly 600 paper cranes for a dear friend's wedding in February of 2006 while watching the games. No, I love it because it inspires people to take up sports that seem so much more doable than synchronized swimming, such as curling.

I haven't actually ever curled (played curling, done it, whatever the proper term is). I am not trying to demean curling. There is a lot of strategy that goes into it. And having hefted a curling stone, I know it's not like tiddly-winks. But I have seen curling fever strike. Random people will decide to get together and opine strongly over how great a sport it is and how they have a yen to give it a go.

Be warned. Resist the urge. Curling is not for beginners. It is for people who feel at ease in icy situations. And it should never be attempted in the Workplace.

I know, because I have just watched my boss (Earnesto, let's call him) perform the equivalent of beginner's curling with office arrangements. Let's just say that one hopes that they way an office is set up has more to do with strategy than it does gratuitous movement and the random shifting of heavy objects. I mean, when does it make sense to split up a department and move an office just to move an office? This isn't Art for Art's sake. It's a workplace.

Until now, when it is the office version of curling for beginners.

What Dante means to me

Or: How a man who lived centuries ago and wrote pointed political satire has kept me just this side of sane.

I know, I know, good people believe in thing like the golden rule and turning the other cheek. I try very hard to follow these things as well, I do not mean to mock them. I respect more than I can say the good people who can follow such rules because among their ranks you will not find me.

Because good people do not mentally plot out elaborate revenge against people who have worked meticulously to make life more difficult. And I do. You know the kind of obnoxious troublesome people I am talking about. The ones who always manage to ruin a month running day by pawning off some emergency on you, an emergency that they have been lovingly whittling for you for weeks as you frantically try to fix the last one they foisted on you.

I work, a many people in this good world, with a great population of vastly annoying persons. I have the unenviable tasks of having until recently (and perhaps still do) have two direct supervisors in high ranking positions within the institution. And I have the bonus of many well-meaning souls thinking that they too qualify for supervisorship of my position.

And this is what Dante does for me. He gives me comfort that it i not abnormal to imagine your antagonists being tortured in various ways for their perceived sins. He provides stunning visualisations for the moments that I am so infuriated I cannot think of original ways to torture a person. And he motivates me to think creatively and put pen to paper rather than shoving pen through the eye of the person who just told me that the multi-million dollar mistake they just made is somehow my fault.