Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? (12 page)

10:09 a.m.
—
Alarm bells! Fire! Fire!! Fire?
Oh. No fire. It’s just a fire drill. Must walk down fifteen flights of stairs in stupid pointy shoes.
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Lumber along behind two dumb guys drinking

coffee and chatting about Cubs’ chances this year. Naturally if this were a real emergency, I would
stomp all over their flaming carcasses in stupid pointy shoes
to get to the bottom first. Because for $11/hour? I could give a shit about
your
safety.

10:09 a.m.
—Jesus? Did that on purpose.

10:31 a.m.
—Duck out of fire drill to buy a certain permanent employee some Kleenex.

10:44 a.m.
—Snort.

10:45 a.m.
—Snuffle.

10:46 a.m.
—Oh, yes. Jesus taunting me.

10:47 a.m.
—Sniiiiffff.

10:48 a.m.
—
“Blow your freaking nose!”

10:49 a.m.
—Apologize.

10:50 a.m.
—Profusely.

10:53 a.m.
—Totally not sorry.

11:54 a.m.
—Called into EVP’s office to discuss expense report. Found over $300 in missing receipts from last trip. Am
rock star
—which will hopefully make up for flaming shredder foolishness last week.

12:14 p.m.
—EVP does not think my idea of sending out a Save the Date e-mail with the title “I Have an STD with Your Name on It!” is funny. Regardless, I laugh myself into an asthma attack.

12:15 p.m.
—Am no longer a rock star. It’s still funny, though.

12:30 p.m.
—Attempt to eat lunch in cafeteria while reading new Marian Keyes book. Am accosted by Disney-sweatshirt-wearing permanent employee who thinks “nobody should eat alone.” I reply, “Unless of course you have a good book and enjoy quiet time.” (Hold up book to emphasize point.) Pretend to read, but Big Fucking Mouse Shirt will not be dissuaded. Spend rest of meal hearing pitch for Discovery Toys interspersed with stories about Big Fucking Mouse Shirt’s own toddler, Little Fucking Mouse Shirt. Added bonus? Stories told in baby talk! Vow to eat lunch at desk. For rest of life.

1:42 p.m.
—Given press release to write. Finish in fifteen minutes.

1:57 p.m.
—EVP’s socks? Completely knocked off. Rock star again!

2:30 p.m.
—Given presentation written by Jimmy Neutron to proofread.

2:55 p.m.
—Explain to Jimmy that he should avoid using made-up words like “mandation” when asking donors for money.

2:56 p.m.
—Jimmy may possibly want to kick me ’til I’m dead.

3:00 p.m.
—Whatever. Tell Jimmy I must leave for important medical appointment.

3:01 p.m.
—What? Hair is body part. Is totally considered medical.

3:10 p.m.
—Ahhh, bleach? Is good.

5:24 p.m.
—Arrive home. Voice mail from temp agent. Says I am fired from job because Jimmy claims I said “filing is
not
part of my job description.”

5:25 p.m.
—Lies! Such lies! I would never say such a thing!

5:26 p.m.
—Bitch? Sure! But never slacker.

5:27 p.m.
—Well played, Jimmy Neutron. And Jesus? Obviously still pissed.

So that’s the nice thing about temping—I’m just that—temporary. No matter how good or bad the job is, it’s going to be over relatively quickly. I enjoy being able to slip in and out of the shadows and not be noticed, because the last thing I want is to get embroiled in someone else’s corporate culture. For example, it’s United Way Week here on my newest job, meaning this particular company is doing all sorts of “cute” things in the name of fund-raising. They’re having a balloon drive, and for a dollar donation you can send one to someone in the office. Overjoyed employee volunteers
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dance up and down the cube farms distributing balloons to delighted recipients with cheery notes attached stating sentiments like “You’re the very bestest boss!”

Yeah, you’d line up and pay $10 US to see
that
film, right?

The company must be raising a shitload of money because when I walk out for the evening, each cube has at least five to seven balloons.

Except mine—exactly my intent.

On the way home from work, I laugh about my balloon-free cube. Frankly, I’m delighted to have avoided the whole socially awkward aspect of it. I just don’t enjoy everything that goes along with the politics of working in an office; it’s a lot of the reason I became a writer. I don’t always play well with others, but by temping I can make a few bucks while avoiding foolishness like Secret Santa drawings, obligatory employee outings, departmental baby showers, retirement parties, and all the other small-talk-making, not-getting-my-work-done distractions that used to make me want to take a hostage.

Naturally, I’m greeted with a desk full of balloons and happy notes when I arrive this morning because I am so irony’s bitch.

Yes, I should be flattered. But, here’s the problem: in the course of this assignment, I accomplish very little that a helper monkey couldn’t do once he learned to work the copy machine. So there’s no need to thank me for my hard work with a bunch of balloons because it’s
not hard
. Knowing how easy this job is means that I got balloons because
people pitied me
.

Now I’m faced with the dilemma of how to thank the people who thanked me. Should I send them balloons? Because then they’d thank me for the thanks of thanking them for thanking me and then what happens? I’d get more balloons? And then I’d have to send more? Would they then react in kind? When does it stop?

This has the potential to turn into a helium-based arms race.

Or a fucking Dilbert cartoon.

Of course, no movie, no matter how dramatic, is without comic relief. But in the Hollywood version of my life, I’d always be right and everyone around me would be the ones to look foolish. But the unfortunate reality is sometimes the dumbass in the office? Is me.

I’m working at a lovely hospitality company where I’m given an easy project. Although the task is basic, I have a couple of niggling questions, so I leave my workspace to ask the project manager. He’s an easygoing, funny guy named Matt and sort of reminds me of Jim on
The Office
. I’ve been here about a month and we’ve become friendly, so I feel like I can let my guard down around him.

“What’s up, Jen? You need something?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I understand I have to upload the spreadsheet and save it to the new directory, but I don’t have a copy of it.”

“You do,” he explains patiently. “It’s in the archives.”

“Oh. But where are the archives? I didn’t see them. How will I know which ones they are?”

He sighs. “Because they’re labeled
Archives
.” He starts to say something else when I spy a little figurine on his desk. It’s a man in a light suit with a weird little black bow tie, wavy white hair, black glasses, and a white goatee.

“Oh, my God! You have a
Colonel Sanders
action figure! That’s so cool—where did you get it? eBay?”

He shakes his head. “Ah, no. This is Sigmund Freud.”

“No, it can’t be. He looks just like the colonel. Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Are you super-sure?”

“Yeah. Now, about the archives—”

“Are you extra-crispy, eleven-herbs-and-spices sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is he clutching a chicken leg in his kung fu grip?” Ha! Touché!

“Jen, it’s a
cigar
.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So, once you grab your document from the archives, you—”

I explode with laughter. “Ha! I thought
Freud
was
the colonel
! That’s hysterical! No, better yet, it’s
Freudian
! Sometimes a cigar’s not a cigar; sometimes it’s a drumstick!
Ha!
So, would my KFC obsession be considered an oral fixation? Or maybe my unconscious is telling me I want poultry for lunch?”

The conversation deteriorates from here because I sort of go off on a tangent about Kentucky Fried coleslaw. By the time I walk back to my cubicle, I’m pretty sure I hear Matt thunking his head against his desk.

Perhaps I should probably cross “Makes a concerted effort to stop saying everything I think” off my skills assessment?

I’ve been temping a few months now and the whole business is starting to wear on me. It’s not that I mind the work—I quite like being helpful, actually. I’m just so tired of staying in an office all day. Back when I had a “real” job, I was in sales and was perpetually on the road. Coming into the office was practically a treat; it meant I wasn’t carting my suitcases through O’Hare for the umpteenth time, nor was I being grilled in the boardroom by a client angry at items outside of my control.

But now that I’m in-house all day, every day, little things are grating on me. Take, for example, the microwave. I generally bring my lunch to the office, as do many. The floor I work on has only one microwave for about a hundred employees. This shouldn’t be an issue because the lunchroom has an entire bank of microwaves. However, it is apparently
far too difficult
to take the elevator up two floors to use one of the many spare microwaves. So, starting at eleven a.m., people begin jockeying for position in the heat-my-lunch line. Some days there are ten frozen Lean Cuisines in a row slowly defrosting on the counter waiting their turn.

But this is not what annoys me. If there’s a line, I eat later or take my food upstairs.

What makes me want to go all Russell Crowe is the stupid bimbo who brings in a gigantic raw potato every day and then nukes it for fifteen minutes. And since my desk is closest to the kitchen, people stand and whine about it
right next to me
. This happens
every single day
. This means fifteen minutes of potato-complaining times five times a week times the six weeks I’m to be on this assignment equals 450 minutes of my life I will never get back. That’s seven and a half hours. I could fly to Las Vegas round-trip and people would still be bitching about the potato in the microwave.

The state of being annoyed is like a cancer. My aggravation spreads and begins to encompass everything around me. Like right now, I’m bugged by what I’m wearing to the point I want to tear it off and stomp all over it. I’m wearing one of my dozen similar Ralph Lauren wrap skirts; this particular variation has been hanging in my closet for years. It’s a pastel madras plaid and it’s very long and very straight—practically to the ankle—and it’s greatly limiting my range of motion. If I don’t take tiny steps like a geisha, I’ll totally bite it as I scurry off to the copy machine. I guess I could pull the wrap apart so I can run better, but it might be nice if I stop accidentally flashing my support garments to the rest of the secretarial pool for once. (This has been the Summer of the Flippy Skirt. Which, I learned too late, tends to fly up at the slightest breeze, like from when someone sneezes. Achoo and voilà—your nonstop ticket to Girdle City!)

Anyway, when I got dressed this morning, I couldn’t remember why I never wear this skirt. With its lavender, pink, green, and turquoise stripes, it matches almost everything in my closet. But as I bunny-hop over to the Xerox machine, I suddenly remember Fletch used to call it
The Hobbler
. I flash back to the last time I wore this skirt—it’s summer of 2001 and I’m in Orlando for a big investor relations conference. The New York Stock Exchange has rented out a large portion of Universal Studios to host a party. I spend the evening woofing down top-shelf scotch, networking with other corporate executives, and, when not movementally challenged, admiring my place among the financial glitterati.

Which causes me to glance at the stack of paper in my hand and grow more annoyed. And even though I already know the answer, I can’t help but wonder how I’ve gone from making million-dollar decisions to making copies.

I collate and glower, and when I finish I stop into yet another new boss’s office with a stack of warm-from-the-machine papers. He looks up at me with a big grin and nary an ounce of condescension to say, “Thanks, Jen! You’re a life-saver!”

This stops me in my tracks.

When I used to wear this skirt, no one said thank you. Ever. Back when I made the kind of decisions that impacted stock prices—positively, of course—no one verbalized appreciation. Ever. Nobody valued my fourteen-hour days. No one cared when I sacrificed my weekends to tweak proposals and prepare RFPs. I was barely ever congratulated for projects implemented, deals closed, agreements struck, and when I was, it was in a backhanded, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately sense. Even though I gave my company my all, nothing I did was ever good enough.