monster sarcasm rally

Oh bla dee, oh bla da... Work goes on

So, my top-secret super-fancy-pants promotion got quashed. However, it has now been replaced by a top-secret role change that is 3/4 super-fancy-pants promotion and 1/4 career-killing demotion, complete with pay raise (hopefully) and impressive title.

The promotion side is partially because I earned it, but mostly to placate me into taking the demotion side. The demotion side is because nobody's as good at clicking 'create PDF' as I am, apparently.

My boss has approved it. The new head of the company has (verbally) approved it. It's now caught in the giant tangled ball of red tape that we laughingly call HR. It doesn't actually matter whether the head of the company approves it, because nothing happens without the go-ahead from HR. I expect to hear back from them within the next 6-8 years or so.

Slight tangent here, but I read this article the other day. Two key fact to take away:

1. Men still make more than women do, by a significant margin.
2. One of the only professional-level jobs where women outnumber men (by 2:1) is human resource manager.

Conclusion: the people making the decision to pay women less than men are women. Oh let's see... Not smart enough to get a real job? Not even in marketing? Well, I guess there's always HR... But hey, on the bright side, you get to decide how much everybody else earns...

Darnit — a fairy tale of mixed metaphors

And now because I can't tell you the real story the way it actually happened... A fairy tale.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Once upon a time there was a little girl. Let's call her — oh, I don't know — Sars. Sars was a slave. She worked alongside all the other slaves in the kingdom of Eh Bee See.

Sars had an SEP field (which some might call a Cloak of Invisibility), which was both a blessing and a curse. Because of the SEP field, Sars was able to go unnoticed when the random beatings were handed out. Of course, it also meant that she was passed over whenever the king decided to bestow small gifts on his slaves.

Then one day the king came to her and told her that the strange scar on her forehead was actually a sign that she was the true heir to the throne of the province of Ruskana Lateeks. The province was living in anarchy, awaiting the beginning of her rule.

When Sars was just a baby her mother had sent her away to her aunt and uncle who were slaves. They protected her and raised her as their own, never giving her any hint of her royal background.

Meet me in the courtyard tomorrow morning just after breakfast, the king said. I will take you away to your new home, where you can live the life you were meant to live. You still have to be a slave for one more night, though, until I defeat the beast that guards the gates of your new castle.

In the meantime, tell nobody about our meeting, for you never know when the beast's allies may be listening. Be brave for one more night, good Sars. I shall see you anon. Fear not; I'll explain all the plot holes tomorrow.

At breakfast the next morning Sars could hardly contain her excitement. Soon she would no longer be a slave! She would have her very own castle! She would rule over a whole province! She might even get bags of gold! She could use as many exclamation marks as she liked!

And then a strange man arrived. He spoke to all the slaves at a big meeting in the courtyard. He said he was sent by the high king, who sat upon the throne at Cair Paravel in the kingdom of Ex Why Zed, of which Eh Bee See was merely a colony. He declared himself the new king of Eh Bee See, for he had battled the old king and he had won. He held the head of the old king aloft to prove his point.

Sars pulled her SEP field tightly around herself and returned to scrubbing floors, the dream of becoming queen of Ruskana Lateeks dissolving in the clear light of day.

Life soup

Oops. Guess who didn't pay her Typepad bill for a while...

Some snippets of life from the past few weeks:

• VelcroDog has decided to stay, which means he has to start the doggy visa process right now-ish for the move to London.
• The Blue Jedi, alas, he is gone*.
• One of the chuckleheads at work was handing out free fruit-juice popcicles one day. I took an orange one. At least, I thought it was orange. One lick informed me of my error. Pineapple. My lips were numb for several hours.
• The dude I work for/with/whatever shall henceforth be known as Kara. No, not that Kara.
• Speaking of Star Trek, Sylar makes a hell of a sexy Spock.
• VelcroDog performs the sacred rite of the dinner dance, but not at dinner time. At pretty much all times except while I am making his dinner... While I'm making his dinner he sits patiently by and watches. Beandog would be horrified, or at least perplexed.
• I am so done with this MBA. I mean, I'm not, but I am. You know?

And now an office tale from this morning...

Last week the company president (henceforth: Gaius Baltar) pulled me off what I was doing and had me do a project for him. I spent a day scrubbing, sorting, aligning, and analysing 200 rows of data, and turned my report in at the end of the week.

On Monday I was told I'd been given the wrong file. The file I was supposed to have been sent contained 600 rows, not 200. So I scrapped my work and started fresh. I did up a report and sent it to Baltar on Wednesday night. This morning Bridget told me to call him. Now.

Baltar picked up the phone and demanded to know if I thought this was good work. Do you really think you're good at your job? Let me ask you something: are you actually proud of this? He spat the questions at me, more hissing than yelling. This is a man who enjoys making people cry. His non-work hobbies include stealing chocolate from small children, kicking puppies, and expensive women.

Oh dear. Did I screw the whole thing up? Make a typo? Put too much effort into a little thing? Put not enough effort in? What?

Um... Well, I was until about 10 seconds ago. Now I'm worried.

He laughed and said, I am so funny. I crack myself up. I should be a stand-up comic. Ya, shades of David Brent. He went on to say the report was great. He loved it. It's excellent. From now on, do the same thing every month.

Ya, Kara ain't too pleased about that part.

*He's not dead. He just lives with his new forever home now.

This is Spock's Brain on drugs...

From: Sars
To: Girl Named Schmoo
Sent: 18:42:07

Ugh. The guy that I'm working for (henceforth known as Kara) is making me sit around and wait while he finishes stuff, so that I can do two minutes' worth of work when it's done. It's almost seven o'clock. I've been here since before seven this morning. I asked if he wanted to keep doing what he was doing and I would come in early tomorrow and finish it then (it has to be done before seven). And he gave me grief. Like, do you have somewhere better you need to be right now?

Um... Well, anywhere would be better than standing next to your desk, watching you think at a snail's pace, bub!

Gah! I want to go home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From: Sars

To: Girl Named Schmoo
Sent: 18:44:52

Maybe I should offer to help the cleaning staff with their vacuuming until he's done.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From: Sars
To: Girl Named Schmoo
Sent: 18:46:38

If this goes on much longer, I'll stab myself in the eye with a pen. Maybe then he'll let me leave. Nah, he'll probably just drone, Weeeeeelllllllll, hold on. [pause] Let me fi [pause] nish with [pause] this first. [extremely long pause] Okay, there we go all... [pause] No, hold on. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From: Sars
To: Girl Named Schmoo
Sent: 18:48:56

Careful now [pause]. Your eye is [pause] dripping blood [pause] on my desk. [pause] Hold on. [pause] Let me think about this. [pause] 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From: Sars
To: Girl Named Schmoo
Sent: 18:48:56

I said I was just going to run to the washroom, and that I'd be back in a sec. 
No, hold on [pause] I'm just about ready. [pause] Oh, hold on. [pause] That's not right. 

Then I pooped on his desk. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From: Sars
To: Girl Named Schmoo
Sent: 19:37:42

Oh, thank sweet frak... I think he might be done.

Pissy friggin' frak and crap

I told somebody about the London plan. I wouldn't normally tell anybody at work anything personal, but I figured I was safe as she's not in my department and doesn't talk to anybody in my department. Except I forgot... There is one person around here that she talks to. 

Mimi. 

And because the person I told is somebody with no career-climbing ambitions, she didn't think it was a big deal if anybody knew that I had long-term goals that didn't include this company because it was so far into the future (like six moths). 

Of course, Mimi is the one person who's job I'm next in line for (and would do a better job at). And she knows it. So Mimi, in turn, told the bossman. 

And that's how I got called into the bossman's office yesterday to discuss said plans and my future with the company. 

Not happy. It's my own stupid, stupid fault. But still... 

Not, not, not pleased.

Seven-layer post

Every day I think of things to write and every day I'm too lazy to follow through. 

_____________________________________ 

I've been speaking with several dog rescue groups about fostering. Most have turned me down (mainly because I can't commit to more than 6 months). Two accepted me, but then didn't have any dogs in need of care. 

Today one of them called me about a German Shepherd. They're currently doing a temperment assessment to see if he's suitable to be placed with me. If he is, he'll be coming later this week. 

Then one of the groups who turned me down called me. Well, okay, they didn't so much turn me down as just hate every answer I gave to their questions (for starters, they really didn't like that I had a job). But now they're desperate, so suddenly I don't seem so bad. Anyways, I said I didn't want a bonded pair as it would be unfair to my dog. So of course, they called about a bonded pair. 

Whatever. 

_____________________________________ 

We'll see what happens. A few weeks back I had a finance exam. I sat down to write it and promptly forgot everything I know. I barely remembered my own name. Since I'd done well in the class to that point, they agreed to let me rewrite, on the condition that I do so in Waterloo (150 km west of here) during business hours. So I arranged to take Monday off. At the last minute though something came up and they decided I had to work. 

I left the house at seven, drove 90 minutes to the university, wrote a three-hour exam, grabbed a smoothie to suffice as lunch, drove 90 minutes to the office, and worked until eight. Nice day off, eh?

_____________________________________ 

So, this swine flu thing... Love this article, by the way... Now normally I'd disregard all the hype and carry on with life as usual. But two things are making me just a wee bit paranoid this time. 

First off, I just finished reading Earth Abides by George R Stewart. If you haven't heard of it, it's a sci-fi book from the 1940s. It starts off with a post-grad university student doing an eco study of some isolated area in the mountains in California. He returns home after being completely alone for a month or two to find everybody's gone. It becomes apparent that some plague has wiped them out. 

He travels all over the US searching for survivors, and finds a mere handful. The book follows the changes in the earth as well as his life (and ultimately his little tribe) for a period of about 60 years. It's an excellent, well-thought-out and profoundly sad book. But, yes, the fact that I was reading this as the swine flu began to hit the news... Um, ya, little paranoia going on in my head. 

The other thing that's adding to my paranoia is that... Well... Remember the allergy attack I've been having for the last year? Did I mention I was on nasty, evil drugs I was on? Right. I'm taking immunosuppressants. I'm supposed to stay away from anybody who's the slightest bit sick. I've been instructed that if I have the slightest fever or anything, I am to check myself into the nearest emergency department. 

I may be a wee, little bit paranoid, but I think it's understandable. 

_____________________________________ 

Also, speaking of the nasty, evil drugs... My scalp is finally in good enough shape to colour my hair. Yay! I don't even care what colour it is. Just different, you know?

_____________________________________ 

Also, also, why does nobody ever understand when I'm joking? I hate that. Somebody will be joking around, saying absurd, blatantly obviously untrue things. I'll say something equally ridiculous on the same theme. Then the original joker will explain that he was joking and that I shouldn't take everything so seriously and that there's no need to get so upset. Sometimes they even apologise for having upset me. Really, what's up with that?

_____________________________________ 

Also, also, also, um... I forget.

Excel tips for the deeply stupid

So, the new guy I'm working with... He's a good guy; really he is.

But (you knew there'd be a but, right?) He's um... He's got a very different style of working than I do.

An example... He asks me to collect all the exchange rate data for a group of six currencies for the past 10 years (daily data), and then provide quarterly averages for each. So, 4 quarters per year x 10 years x 6 currencies. Sure, no prob.

I collect all the data in a big giant worksheet. Then I create a new worksheet, and build a little table. Currencies across the top. Quarters down the side. I spend 2 or 3 minutes writing a complicated formula in the first cell in the table.

Basically, the formula says go to this other worksheet, find the column with this exchange rate and then sum all the rates that fall within this date range. Divide the result by a count of the number of dates that fall within the same range. Then I drag this formula across the 6 columns and highlight all 6 cells. I drag it down to the 40 time periods.

Five minutes work. Maybe 10 if I make it pretty.

I take it back to the dude. He opens up the file, looks at the table, nods his head. Then he clicks on one of the cells in the table. Whoah! What is this? I don't understand this formula. It's too complicated.

I explain, much as I did above.

No, he says. What you do is click in the cell and type AVERAGE. Then you go over to the sheet with the data and look for the cells you want. You highlight them and press return. See, very easy.

Ya, then you have to repeat that TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINE TIMES!

[sigh]

StairMaster to Heaven*

There was a long-standing argument amongst people in my department about the Bobbleheaded Moron's sexuality.

I maintained that he was in love with Not-Amy. Everybody else said: no way! Not possible! He so does not bat for that team.

Right... Well, today I found out that the day he started with the company Littlebabycryingpants took him home. You know, to show him some company spirit. And then she complained afterwards that he was into really freaky stuff and it creeped her out.

Um... Ya, maybe not so smart to sleep with your new co-worker until after you find out if he's got a head full of cheese curds and maybe-just-maybe likes to slap women about, dumbass.

Also, did she not notice the bobblehead? For that matter, did he not notice the crazy?

Anyhow, none of these people work for the company anymore, so it's all pretty much moot. Still, eeew!

*The title of this post has nothing to do with the post itself. It's a line from a book I'm reading, and it amused me.

That's not funny

Back up 14 months...
I was promoted from The Girl Who Makes the PDFs to Professional Staff, an unheard of jump. The starting salary for the new position was 150% of what I was making at the time. Yes, that's right, I said 150%. Did I get that raise? No, I did not.

Maybe they're waiting for a probationary period, I thought.

Then they promoted somebody else in the same department. Do you think he got a raise?

12 months ago...
I talked to the boss. He made a big speech about how he couldn't give me a raise, even though he knew I deserved it, and he was very sorry, but he'd give me one as soon as he could and blah blah blah. Then he capped it off by telling me he had given Littlebabycryingpants a raise. Littlebabycryingpants! The same Littlebabycryingpants who:

1. had less experience,
2. had been there a year less,
3. was still support staff, and
4. was unreliable as all crap.

So, ya, she made more than I did.

8 months ago...
When the new boss took over, I talked to him about it. He said he was sure it my imagination.. I told him to look it up.

Then they hired a new guy. Do you think he made more than I did?

6 months ago...
When the bonuses dried up, I lost the excuse that maybe they make up for the difference in salary that way. So, I brought the issue up with the boss again. Again, he said he was sure it my imagination.. I told him to — really, really this time — look it up.

Then they hired 3 new kids (all with far less experience than I've got). Do you think they made more than I did?

A week ago...
I brought it up again. This time the bossman knew what I was talking about. He acknowledged that I really do make substantially less than my peers (all of whom have been with the company less time and the majority of whom have been in this position for less time). He apologised, but said there was no money in the budget for a raise.

A few hours ago...
They promoted a guy who's had my job for six months. Gee, I wonder if he'll get a raise? AND they announced they'll hire some newbie to take his place. Do I even need to ask?

I can't even pay my bills. And they keep hiring children for more money than I make.

And then the children I work with invited one another out for drinks to celebrate, making sure to leave me out of it.

And then one of them (the youngest) said he had to be home this evening to interview new potential housemates. Which led to a discussion of the candidates... Which led to the fact that one of them was a 30-year-old woman. Which led to much mockery, because what kind of 30-year-old woman is so pathetic that she needs to live in a house with a bunch of random people? She must be a complete loser.

And then I got an e-mail from Hans, who clearly thinks I am still just The Girl Who Makes the PDFs. This would explain why I get paid less than the admin staff. I mean, clearly I never really was promoted. I was officially, but in everybody's minds I'm still just The Girl Who Makes the PDFs. That's all I'm capable of, apparently.

$50 thousand for my MBA, and I'm still just The Girl Who Makes the PDFs. Good grief, I'm overpaid if that's all I am.

I have never felt worse about myself or my life or my future.

This is not a karaoke bar

There is this woman at work. I don't know what she does, but she has really stupid, overly fashionable hair.

Her office is near where I sit. It's one of those little offices with the cardboard walls. All day, every day, we get to listen to her insipid phone conversations with her friends, her stupid cooing at some child on the phone, and her shouting at her mother on the phone.

That was bad enough.

The other day she was in a really good mood. It was much, much worse.

She spent the whole day belting out retro diva tunes in a warbly, off-key voice. Seriously, does she think those walls are soundproof? Or is she just too drunk to spell inappropriate?

Behold, your luck runneth out

Before leaving for Costa Rica, She decided to head out of town for a weekend of snowboarding. You knew She was a snowboarder, right? I mean, it's obvious, isn't it?

Anyways... She fell and broke her something. Her whatever... A bone of some sort... It doesn't matter which. As a result, She had to cancel the Costa Rica trip.

Say it with me now...

Aw, muffin. So sad.

Pros and cons

Today was good. You know, mostly...

Things are going well with the new guy. I'm learning a lot and feeling both productive and useful.

But not everything's sunshine and puppy dogs... I had this one colleague who has always inspired the green-eyed monster in me. She's teensy-tiny and blonde. She's smart and funny. Her personality is essentially all the good bits of mine plus none of the bad. And she's substantially younger than I am. Her name isn't Amy, but it should be.

On my last holiday I had a tragic death in the family and had to fly home a week early. Then, because of Littlebabycryingpants's hissy fit/departure, I also had to return to work ahead of schedule.

Not-Amy's recent holiday was a tiny bit better. She went to Cambodia in mid-December. While she was away she received a better job offer. Her response was to extend her trip by a full month while the two companies duked it out.

She got back to town on the weekend. She came to the office today to let us know that the other company had won the negotiations. She starts her new job in 3 weeks, so she's going to Costa Rica until then. Ya, I'm not jealous at all; can you tell?

On the third and slightly Beeblebroxian hand, at least the office didn't smell of poo today.

On the fourth and entirely superfluous hand, the phones cut in and out all day and randomly emitted horrible screeching, jackhammering noises.

Happy trails, Hans (part 2)

Mr Gruber finally found out today that I was no longer working for him, effective immediately. I expected a certain amount of drama, but apparently his response was oh, okay. Whatever. The bossman says he takes this to imply that he's planning on quitting soon.

Of course the bossman's reaction to that is okay, whatever.

The new guy started today. He seems like a good guy, although a bit fond of paper copies of completely useless documents for my liking. Still, decent guy otherwise. So far, at least...

Happy trails, Hans

As of tomorrow morning I no longer work for Mr Gruber. Apparently everybody in the company knows this — except Mr Gruber.

Tomorrow's going to be interesting.

Bizarre lunchtime ritual

Today at lunch, in our office kitchen, I observed two of my male colleagues calling one another cupcake while [ahem] tossing one another's salad.

No, really...

Such a rebel

There is a possibility that I might 'accidentally' sleep in tomorrow morning and miss my usual bus. If that happens, I won't get to the office until [gasp] almost seven o'clock.

Seriously...

If I were half as stupid as Grubey and his Metatron think I am, I wouldn't be able to tie my own shoes.

I'm here to kill you, not to judge you

Mr Hans Gruber apologised to me. He said that some of this whole mess may have been his fault. He said that he'd been acting under the assumption that I knew how to do my job, but clearly we needed to take things from a more basic level so that I could learn.

Then he offered me a piece of advice. He said that in future if he said stuff to me, I shouldn't take it personally. It's not about me; it's just that he's under a lot of stress. I shouldn't react so emotionally.

Right. When he told me (personally) that I (personally) needed to work at least 100 hours a week (personally) in the office, I took that personally. And refusing to comply... Well, I guess that was emotional, in the sense that I calmly left the office every day at six. It must be because I'm just a weak little girl.

Coming back around again

I've been in Montreal for the past two days training Littlebabycryingpants's replacement. Tomorrow I have to go back to the office and face Mr Hans Gruber. The very thought of it fills me with so much dread that I'm feeling physically nauseated.

I think I'm beginning to understand the effect I had on Littlebabycryingpants.

Getting mathy with it

Take 24 hours in a day and multiply by seven days in a week.

24 x 7 = 168

Subtract 49 hours for sleep.

168 - 49 = 119

Subtract 5 hours per week for personal grooming (e.g. showering, brushing teeth, combing hair...)

119 - 5 = 114

Subtract 10 hours per week for personal tasks (e.g. grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, snow shovelling, conversation with parents...)

114 - 10 = 104

Subtract 10 hours per week for MBA (including 7 hours class time and 3 hours working on assignments not, but including transport).

104 - 10 = 94

Subtract 11 hours per week for transport (i.e. to and from work and the university).

94 - 11 = 83

Since 83 < 100, the laws of physics dictate that I will not be able to comply with the stated demands of working 100 hours per week.

Really?

Repeat previous post, but replace the word 'snoring' with 'texting'.

Frak Earth

Dear Mr Hans Gruber, dark lord and supreme piss-head, BSc, MBA, CA, CPA, CGA, CMA, CFA, CBV, VIP, GED,

Thank you for deigning to speak with me directly this afternoon (while the Metatron Formerly Known as Peter the Zealot looked at his hands). I assure you, I understand what a deep honour you bestowed on me in so doing.

Your words served to set me straight on some of my misconceptions. For instance, I had a silly notion that it was all right to make personal plans for a Sunday afternoon. As I have to be in the Montreal office on Monday morning at 6:30, I (quite foolishly) assumed that I could catch a lunchtime flight on Sunday to enjoy a few hours of Sars time.

You explained that it was both 'unprofessional' and 'unacceptable'. I see now that I should have scheduled one for 3:00 in the morning so that you would not be inconvenienced by my inability to work 18 hours on my day off. Sleep is for the weak.

Earlier today the Metatron Formerly Known as Peter the Zealot expressed his/your displeasure with this fact. At that time I asked Bridget if it was possible to change my flight to one leaving later. She said no.

Again you explained that this was 'unacceptable'. What I should have done was command Bridget to rebook the flight.

Another foolish idea under which I've been operating pertains to the nature of 'work'. I naively believed that after 12 hours of sitting at my desk, I could take my remaining work home with me and complete it there.

Again you explained that this was 'unacceptable'. I now understand that this was sheer laziness on my part. 'Work' means being at my desk. Any work that I do at home or on the road or anywhere else is not work, but in fact rest.

I will take all these new pieces of information that you have imparted and give them all the attention they are due, which is to say I will alter my behaviour not one iota.

I do understand that you will very soon wish to fire me (assuming this is not your desire already). I have two things to say to that. Firstly, I'm not convinced that you would be successful in such an endeavour. This is because you do not have the authority to fire me as YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME. Not really, anyways. You see, your boss (who is also my boss) likes me. Your boss's boss likes me. Santa Claus likes me. So, good luck to you with that.

Secondly, should your boss or your boss's boss comply with your wishes... Well, good luck to the lot of you. Please, fire me. No, really, do it. I mean that. Please. I will walk away with a settlement that would make you blush, you self-righteous twat.

Sincerely,
Sars

PS: You seem to use the word unacceptable a lot. It gets old. Try switching it up with a synonym once in a while, such as improper, inadmissible, forbidden, unconscionable, unforgivable...

PPS: You're got something sticking out the back of your pants. Oh, sorry... Never mind. I see it's just the Metatron Formerly Known as Peter the Zealot's feet.  

Words cannot express

Mr Hans Gruber, the dark lord, does not speak to me directly. He speaks to me through the Metatron Formerly Known as Peter the Zealot.

The Metatron told me today how excited he is about his upcoming holidays, as he hasn't had any in a year. I said I empathised. He said I didn't understand, because I had two weeks off for The Worst Holiday Ever.

Um... Unexpected death in family? Racing across continents to come home more than a week early? Almost $1000 in extra fees for said privilege? Lost luggage?

Ya, he said. What's your point? It was still a holiday.

I'm maintaining my amateur status for the Olympics

Mr Hans Gruber, my lord and master, seems to have made up his mind about me already. I'm very confident in my skills and abilities, but he's dismissive of me. I started with the company in an admin position and for a lot of people it doesn't matter what I know or do or am capable of, I'm still 'just support staff'.

I had a lovely pleasant little chat this afternoon with Grubie's former associate, Peter the Zealot, who informed me (again) that I just don't understand because I haven't been in the industry long enough. I patiently pointed out (again) that I'd been in the industry longer than he had.

Dumbass.

His response? Well, yes, but not really. This is the first time you've been in it hardcore. As if the last five years have been spent sitting on my arse with my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears, singing la-la-la-I-can't-hear-you or something. Like the past 2 years of doing associate work didn't count for anything. Like the last year of having the actual title of associate were just a grand cosmic joke.

Jackass.

I've applied for a few other positions, but there just aren't very many out there and there are so many people clamouring over the ones that are.

Chock full of sanity

Once upon a time I worked 60 hours a week, and life was fine.

Then along came my brilliant idea to do an MBA. Working 60 hours a week plus coursework made me exhausted all the time. I don't go out anywhere. Ever. All my friends have moved on. I don't do anything. I don't see anybody. What little time I have left over for myself is spent staring lifelessly at the idiot box.

But then... Oh, you knew there'd be a but, right? I mean this isn't Monster My-Life-is-Frakking-Awesome Rally here. But then I got assigned to a new team at work. And Mr Hans Gruber, my new lord and master, sits me down and informs me that my days of 60-hour work weeks are over. When he was an associate worked 100 hours a week. His previous associate worked 100 hours a week. If I think I'm special I won't last very long, he says.

Bite me.

It ain't happening. If I get fired, I get fired.