Choose Your Own Adventure

I am totally bored and unsatisfied with my current state of affairs. I'm sure it’s due to the tantalizing excitement of my baby and move that both seem so close, yet so far. And the lack of good summer TV.

So in a rare hip-hop reference, I've decided to brush that dirt off my shoulders and set out for some fresh adventures of my very own. On the 15th floor of my office building.

My LA office building is a beautiful zen oasis complete with a domed pile of cobalt gravel and cocoa shells as mulch. The guard desk downstairs is always stocked with helium balloons. I believe this week we are celebrating Flag Day.

Our elevator bank is in a comforting NYC style, with discreet sections for floors 1-10 and 11-21. My office is on the 16th floor and our lunch room overlooks LAX and the ocean, so you can watch the planes as you enjoy your chicken vindaloo.* We also have mad snacks available at all times, including cheese. OK, I think I need a cheese break now.

Yum. Cheese break.

To access my office is fairly simple, provided you arrive during business hours. Off hours require a badge swipe. I think this is a reasonable level of security. The folks on the 15th floor, however, disagree.

Something on the 15th floor is so top-secret, so death-defying, that you can't even access the elevator without swiping your badge. The 15th floor also requires a constant influx of likely IT drones toting bags of McDonald's in and out at all hours. There is a definite morning and night shift. They do not speak in the elevator - even when they travel in packs. The 15th floor has an air of mystery, and an air of paranoia as I ponder what I am sitting on top of day in and day out.

What is going on down there?

It is my desperate hope that they are working on the next Twitter or some other harmless project, and that their funding is tied to an impossibly condensed timeframe that necessitates the 24/7 attention. But I fear it may be something far more sinister.

The 15th floor could be the Dollhouse or the Company or Massive Dynamic’s LA branch. But with less telegenic help. I sure as hell hope so. Because I need something cool to happen to kill some time over the next 2 and a half months.

* Of the 60 people in my office, about 40 are Indian and here on work visas. Lunch time is an olfactory delight of curries and rices. It’s a good thing that my naturally hyper-sensitive snout did not go into overdrive during pregnancy and that I love Indian food – unlike CinS who likens it to “chicken soup that fell on the carpet.”

G'Day Douche.... Update

Dear readers and sympathizers to my plight, as described below in "G'Day Douche."

Since posting the aforementioned blog, the cube-mate has swapped Australian morning shows for an Australian dance radio station. He left his cube about 3 hours ago, leaving the music blasting unattended.

Just had to share.

G'Day Douche

OK. I've held this in long enough. I hate my cubicle-mate. HATE.

I know, I know, hate is a strong word. But I'm sorry, it's also the only word that is appropriate. And yes, I also know that I have a strong tendency to hate my neighbors, but honestly, I've tried. Hey, it's been over a month since I've talked openly about this, so that has to count for something.

But here it is. My cubicle-mate sucks.

He started the same time as me, which I thought would bond us for life, but he is one of the worst people ever, so forget about it. I will bond elsewhere.

The first week on the job, my cube-mate (who is literally a mate, as he hails from some douchey section of Australia where one's accent sounds like those giant-jawed editors at The New Yorker from Family Guy) was having some phone trouble. He was trying to re-route his international number to his new US line and the company responsible for this was clearly incompetent. Or so he screamed. He spent hours on the phone, berating customer service reps until I had to walk away out of embarrassment.

The worst day was April 13, the Monday after Easter. He was outraged that no one was working on Easter. The man is Godless.

The next offense involves a blatant disregard for personal space. Something that I moved away from New York to avoid.

Picture a giant commune of cubicle space meant for three. Now imagine that the space itself is divided by a wall - making one cube on one side (mine) and two on the other (cube-mate and an empty).

Granted, if I had the extra space on my side of the wall, I would definitely let some files stray into the empty territory, but cube-mate has gone too far.

One day, some files appeared. Benign. The next day, he hung pictures on the cork board of the opposite cube. Brazen. Today, he is rocking a television constantly streaming Australian public access. Bastard.

Not only has he effectively taken over two spaces in the office, he is also blasting Aussie morning shows not two feet from my head. This sir, does not make you awesome. It makes me hate your marmite-eating guts.

But the straw that broke my back (wait, did I just make myself a camel?) happened this morning. There has been a large, framed soccer jersey on the floor in the corner of the office since I started. I has nothing to do with our company, our clients, or our products. It always seemed a bit out of place, but not today. Today, the jersey was handing on the wall. The wall just off our cube section. Hanging there. Like it belonged.

Yes, the jersey is cube-mate’s. Yes, he hung a picture on a shared corporate office wall. A wall that is not even attached to his work space. A random wall. For him.

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, BUDDY? Are you that important that you not only need your own television, but your own wall for personal art? Seriously?

I hope you can agree that this hate is justified. And if you can’t, then I will come after you with all my might – by putting my conference calls on speaker phone. Take that Aussie Scum!

Top Ten Things I Hate About Public Office Restrooms

1. Pubes on the toiletseat (seriously?)
2. An unflushed toilet (takes so much effort!)
3. A fine spray of urine on the toiletseat (gross!)
4. Women breast-pumping (TMI!)
5. Other people choosing the stall right beside you even though every other stall is available (personal space, much?)
6. Toothpaste smell (inappropriate!)
7. Other people talking to you while you are doing your business (privacy please!)
8. Toiletpaper all over the floor (raised in a barn?)
9. No soap (sanitize!)
10. Other people

I have none of these problems at home, and I share my bathroom with a man.

PowerPoint, You Are My Only Friend

I've been working like mad on a deck for a pitch I have next week in sunny Florida.

For those of you not in the business world, "deck" is code for presentation. I have no idea how this phrase was coined, but I embrace it. The alternative is, as my husband would say, actually quite offensive.

I was on a conference call with a group of people who are working on some mobile marketing evangelism pieces, (my contribution: "MOBILE - You Know You Want To" bumper stickers) and one of the participants called the deck we were working on a "preso." As in pree-zoh.

Preso? Really?

Like lopping off two syllables of the word makes it that much more efficient in corporate speak.

As a rule, I hate corporate jargon. It inevitably and seeps into your everyday lexicon during business hours. But some people can't turn it off.

I'm sure we’ve all caught ourselves saying something completely corporate and douchey at an inappropriate time. But I hope you're trying to better yourself.

Imagine organizing something with a group of friends, let's say a bachelorette party or a baby shower. Both scenarios are good because you will likely be co-planning with some very close friends and some mild acquaintances.

Now, a lot of time, energy, coordination, and political-correctness go into planning such an event, so you may be tempted to lapse into corporate speak to get everything done in an efficient, polite manner. But please refrain! Can you imagine the horror of your planning compatriots at the following?

Hi Girls - Please find attached my draft evite for Jane's Bachelorette Party. If
you have any edits, please send them to me by COB today, as I want to send this
to Jane's friends tonight so they all have enough time to RSVP.

I want to make sure we're all on the same page in regard to the color scheme. I know we discussed using the brown and baby blue that Jane is using for her wedding, but
the invite I found was too cute to pass up! I hope you will agree.

Also, I am working on a Dick and Jane Q&A doc for Dick to answer for the preso we
will be showing at her lingerie shower.

I think that's it for my list of deliverables. Sally (cc'd here) and I also have been discussing party favors and penis straws, but I will let her send an update on this.

I'm sure the grown-up side in you finds such correspondence only mildly annoying, but the Frosted-Mini-Wheats-eating kids side is actually doubled over with mocking laughter. And the kids are right.

I am trying to rebel against corporate speak, but find myself powerless against its power. Maybe it's because I've spent that last 20 hours writing in it. Or maybe it's because my preso is so damn good that the Scientologists are interested in screening it during their clearing sessions.

Inappropriate Workplace Slogans

A funny thing happened on my way in to work today....

At my previous job, a few of my co-workers gave me some going away booty on my last day of work. I got some sassy post-its, a bottle opener, and a mug. All items are in my new office and make me nostalgic for the good/bad old days.

But the most used gift of the three is definitely the mug. I am a big tea drinker and chug down 3-5 mug fulls per day.

At the end of each day, I lovingly hand-wash my mug and tea press and return them to my cubicle. Until last night.

I was working late last night and didn't have the stamina for hand-washing. So I left my stuff in the kitchen sink for the cleaning lady to contend with. I figured I'd give myself a break, and just pick up my stuff in the morning.

But because I worked late last night, I was late to arrive this morning. And when I walked through the kitchen, I noticed that my mug was filled with coffee.

And holding that coffee-filled mug of mine?
The in-house counsel from Sony/BMG.

And on the mug?
A woman from the 1950's in a purple pantsuit, lounging on her settee, under the phrase, "Queen of F*cking Everything."

Nice choice of mug, buddy. I love a good female slogan on a male executive in the morning. Way better professional choice than the styrofoam.

Nailed!

Do you remember charades?

If you are one of my friend Sharon's bachelorette party attendees, you may have played mixed-company charades as recently as 2006. But for those of you who opt for more exciting things while in Las Vegas than playing drunken charades at 5am with strangers, it may have been a while since you last played.

But like riding a bike, charades is something that you don't forget. Slapping out words and syllable counts against your arm is not an act one forgets easily.

And I bet you even have some old standby moves up your sleeve.

Like putting a hat on your head as a "sounds like" clue for "that." You know what I'm talking about. And if don't, yeah, you can use that one next time you're in Vegas.

There are also some trademark moves that symbolize different types of careers. For example:

• Riding a bike, resting a box on your upturned, open palm, and ringing the doorbell. Pizza guy.
• Listening to someone's chest with a stethoscope and performing CPR. Doctor.
• Driving, honking and cursing. Cab Driver.
• And my personal favorite: typing, chewing gum, and filing your nails. Secretary.

I must now admit that if someone were to observe me at work for a few hours, they would most definitely translate my non-verbal cues into one definitive career. Secretary.

And to be fair, I do type for the better part of my day, and while I never chew gum, I am always filing my nails.

When I left my last job, a co-worker of mine asked the gang to go around and answer silly Melissa-themed questions like, "What was your first impression of Melissa?" (another Puerto Rican joined the office) and "What does Melissa do that really drives you crazy?" (nothing).
One friend was asked what I would bring if stranded on a desert island. Her answer was simple. A nail file.

It's not that my nails are Streisand-worthy daggers of buttah. It's more that my nails are easily controlled in the chaotic business world. And my file brings a much needed respite from spewing corporate jargon to potential clients.

I know that the sounds of nails being filed drives some to madness, but I don't really care. I guess I would be more considerate if anyone ever called me out, but there is a lunatic woman in our office always screaming into the phone who goes unchecked, so I doubt I'm causing any trouble.

I guess that constant nail filing could be deemed office inappropriate behavior for someone with a good career. But then again, so could blogging during business hours.

The bottom line is, you gotta do what you gotta do to stay sane throughout the day. If I was a super high-powered exec I would probably have something more business appropriate going on. Like a treadmill in my office. A treadmill made of nail files.

Dirty Mouth

I have a pet peeve. Don't we all?

I absolutely LOATHE the smell of mint. Especially spearmint and toothpaste. It makes me physically sick.

I can't be near someone chomping on spearmint gum. Actually, all gum grosses me out - probably due to one too many lunches staring at a chewed wad of gum perched on someone's plate (full body shudder) - but spearmint is intolerable.

I once shared an office with a woman who chain-chewed spearmint gum. It was revolting. I was constantly using fragrant lotions and sniffing my hands. She probably thought I was doped out on the Bath and Body Works. I probably was.

But spearmint gum is generally avoidable. At least, for me it is. I can smell it from a mile away, which comes in handy when trying to avoid someone.

What is unavoidable, however, is walking into a public bathroom and getting smacked with the scent of freshly-brushed teeth. That person may feel tingly fresh, but my bowels feel otherwise.

Please people. Do not brush your teeth at work! Use some mints or a Listerine strip like the rest of us. Using the sink that I wash my hands in as your Crest-foamed spittoon is not OK.

Honestly, these people are taking dental health to an extreme. I do not recall any elementary school assembly instructing me to brush my teeth 3 times a day.

My Burritoville dentist (long story for another time) is probably rolling over in his high-fluoride reclining chair as I speak. But I cannot allow this highly inappropriate office behavior stand! The delicate noses of the workforce must have their voices heard!

Amen.

And yes, I am very happy that David Cook won Idol. But I am happier that I get to see him for two more weeks during the relentless American Idol media junket.

Eardrums Rejoice!

Super Annoying Intern has left the building!

There's a little moppet in my office who drives (drove, hooray!) me bananas. My office is pretty quiet, considering it is a den of cubicles, yet when Super Annoying Intern is here, the office is transformed into a shrill, flirty mess.

Now, I've had my fair share of internships. Probably more than my fair share. But I can't seem to recall ever crushing on an actual employee. (For those that know my marital story, you will recognize that this is Melissa writing, NOT CinS) And even if I had been interested in someone a decade older than me, it just would not have been appropriate to fawn all over them for an awkward semester.

But it seems our fair Super Annoying Intern feels otherwise, and is taking a page from the CinS playbook. She clearly loves her supervisor, Hipster Beard, and makes it very well known to all.

Twice-a-week, Super Annoying Intern flitters (flittered, YES!) into the office, shrieking some greeting, aimed at no one other than Hipster Beard. She then rolls her chair over to his cube, where she continues to shrill about inappropriate topics. Like her hopes and dreams.

She says some pretty ballsy stuff for a college kid in a room of 30-somethings. I wonder if Hipster Beard is impressed.

Super Annoying Intern has earned her moniker for a few other reasons aside from her love of the Hipster Beard and her ear-piercing cadence. She also wears severely office inappropriate clothes to work.

OK, I get that you are a student. I get that you can pull off those leggings. But really? Leggings and a t-shirt and Chuck Taylors? To work? Maybe she's not getting paid and feels she needs to stick it to the man by dressing like she's rolled out of bed to go to class. But even Hipster Beard wears a nice button down and real shoes with his jeans.

But at the end of the day, it’s not really the clothes. It’s all about the grossly lame flirting and the pain of watching a girl make a complete joke out of herself day in and day out. Well, twice a week.

It seems that the days of innocent hard work (read: internet cruising disguised as industriousness) are long gone. The office is just another classroom – a classroom of the world, where you can get 3 credits and a piece of adult ass.

Slip-N-Slide

Question: Do women wear slips anymore?

Answer: YES

I was walking to the train this morning and saw the woman in front of me wearing a skirt that came above the knee, with sheer hose and a slip dangling out the bottom. I checked her other items, desperately seeking striped legwarmers or pink highlights to prove that the visible slip was the next big hipster craze, but she looked as "normal" as could be. For someone wearing a slip.

I don't understand the purpose of a slip, especially in this day and age. Perhaps a slip was used under sheer or tight fabrics so the ladies of yore wouldn't show too much junk. Perhaps a slip was worn to smooth unsightly bulges. Perhaps a slip was just something that felt nice and silky under a scratchy Amish wool skirt.

The slip probably had many good uses at some point, but surely one does not need to double up with a slip AND sheer hose, which would alone serve the purpose of said slip in any of the above examples.

I had a slip recommended to me once, and because I cannot wrap my brain around wearing one, I ignored the advice and quit my job instead.

I was interning in the ghetto one sultry DC summer, and had to hoof it 20 blocks to my office from the Metro. Needless to say, I dressed in office-appropriate sleeveless blouses and skirts so I would not melt into the molten pavement of the Alexandria projects.

My office was spread across two stories and had a large spiral staircase in the middle to join the floors. And some perv timed his day so that he could look up my skirt as I descended the staircase. As horrifying as this sounds, I do believe that I had not yet discovered my love of the thong at this tender young age, and so I wasn't all that traumatized upon hearing the news.

What did traumatize me, however, was my boss's recommendation for me to wear a slip under my skirts to avoid this from happening again.

I had a bad reaction to her suggestion.

• How the hell was a slip going to prevent someone from looking up my skirt? Wouldn't he just as easily look up the slip?
• Why do I need to wear an extra, unneeded layer of clothing in 100 degree heat with 97% humidity?
• Why was I the one given a stern talking to? Was there not someone at this workplace sexually harassing interns?

So after much thought and consideration, I realized that this slip-requiring job was not for me. I told my boss that I got Mono so I could leave gracefully and still use them for a recommendation for my next internship... where I planned to wear pants.