5 Reasons Why I Shouldn't Have to Wear Dress Clothes at My Job

1. I have a purple stain on my pants from unloading a case of Gatorade bottles, one of which had a crack in it.
2. I have blue toner on my hands from fixing a paper jam in the copier.
3. My shirt is completely wrinkled from having carried eight boxes of fans, two cases of mail and many other things.
4. Typically, the only people outside of the Happy Cappy Investment Team I deal with are people who deliver or fix things (kinda like me) and they wear whatever they want or company-issued uniforms.
5. I don't wanna.

To be clear, I am not complaining about DOING any of these tasks. After all, if I didn't do them who would? (Did I mention that one of the traders has TWO maids AND a nanny?) I simply would prefer to not look like some bootleg Dockers ad while doing it.

This Spreadsheet is Going to be the Death of Me

Don't get me wrong. I love a good spreadsheet as much as the next guy--possibly more--but fixing the Temp's worksheet is more work than creating this thing from scratch.

To give you a peek into my Monday morning pain this is one entry on the spreadsheet:

Coca-Cola/Diet/Soda/Can/12 oz.

Seriously, dog?

Now I could go on about how we ONLY order cans (the traders aren't allowed to have glass bottles in these rough economic times, no shoelaces either) or that cans are only available in one size from the distributor (12 oz. in case you're new to planet Earth and haven't yet seen a can of soda) or that most mammals are aware that Coke is a soda (the column is ALSO titled Soda) but that's technical mumbo jumbo that will simply bore you folks. Instead I ask, who refers to Diet Coke as Coca-Cola/Diet?

This is supposed to streamline the process of ordering and managing inventory?

When Life Gives You Lemons You Should, at the Very Least, Add Water and Sugar

Good people,

No matter what a certain spreadsheet might say, we at the Happy Cappy Investment Team do NOT serve lemon juice as a beverage to our employees or guests.

That is all.

Smarter than the Average Pear?

In looking over a spreadsheet created by the Temp I have learned that "pear" is a color of apple.

I'm pretty sure this is incorrect.

Have You Ever Been Kissed by a FedEx Man?

Me neither, but I did get a hug at least. (Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.)

The FedEx guy--aka Sweet Thunder--was so relieved to see me, I learned, because the Temp drove him nuts in my absence.

Now keep in mind, unless we start up a conversation, my interaction with Sweet Thunder is less than three minutes a day. And yet this brief exchange with the Temp over two weeks was traumatic enough that Sweet Thunder needed to embrace me upon sight.

What did the Temp do to this poor man?

Maybe You've Heard of Me... I'm the Guy with the Super Hot Package

Good people,

I just received a package from an outside messenger. Often these packages will say "Rush" or "Urgent." Often the calligrapher will add an exclamation point--or many more!!!--to emphasize just how important said package is. However, I've just been handed a package that reads "Super Hot."

I do not want to open this.

Guess Who's Back. Back Again...

So won't the the real office manager please stand up, please stand up, please stand up?

After being the office manager at my hedge fund for the last year--which we will call The Happy Cappy Investment Team for the purposes of this blog--I finally took a vacation. I spent two weeks traveling around Europe, by which I mean I occasionally left Amsterdam for a few hours here and there.

A couple of days before I was set to return I got an email on my work-issued crackberry. It informed me of two things:
1) that my temp replacement would be staying on one more week
2) that my office was being turned into a men's bathroom

At the time I was in an Amsterdam coffee shop. I read the email, turned to the bartender and complimented him on the quality of his product.

The next morning I awoke and checked the 'berry. Apparently, I had read the email correctly. (Who saw that coming?)

First, a word on turning my den of privacy into a crapper. My office is located all of 20 feet from the men's bathroom. I have no idea why this company is going to initiate this expensive, lengthy, loud, filthy process to build another men's bathroom only spitting distance from the current one. But I promise you this, with Zeus as my witness, I will get to the bottom of this mystery and we will have a hearty, if forced, laugh as the end credits roll.

Second, I must admit I am somewhat fascinated to watch someone else do my job. Who wouldn't love to see how someone else would do their job? People should definitely add this to their list of "Things to Do Before I Die": #96. Watch someone else do my job.

It should make for a fucking delightful anthropological experiment, though I must confess I am a tad nervous. Boss of the Boss aka Stone Cold Killer--one of the villains you will come to know and hopefully despise as my story unfolds daily--hates me. When I heard there was going to be a temp to replace me during my vacation I kept hearing that little voice in the back of my head (the non-killing-spree voice) saying "there is no job waiting for you when you come back."

A day before I had left for Europe I met and trained my replacement. I soon discovered that while he can probably do an adequate job filling in for me, in no way is he qualified to replace me. At the time I thought a "boo-yah!" was called for, even though this is not a phrase I ever use in conversation.

Fast forward, 2+ weeks. When I learned that he was staying on another week that voice came back. So we will see how this week goes.

Let the great experiment begin.