Need the Microwave? Take a Number.

The perfect storm for bringing in a frozen dinner for lunch occurs about once every three weeks for me. The storm involves two key elements 1) I'm low on time in the morning and 2) payday is too far away for another unnecessary ATM fee. This combination forces me to dislocate my shoulder and reach into another dimension of my freezer to pull out a frozen dinner that is from circa 1997. Cool, this one has Andre Agassi on the back showing off his long hair, wonder what ever happened to him? Oh well, here today, gone tomorrow.

I'm dreading my frozen meal not only because of the lack of taste and third world serving size but also because I'll have to fight the inevitable microwave line at high noon. The microwave per employee ratio on our floor is approximately 1:758 which leads to a packed pantry that is the square footage of a kitchen island. Just thinking about avoiding this scenario accelerates my hunger pangs so I head to the pantry. I know there's a five-minute window before the line of hyenas start forming to microwave their zebra meat.

Today I'm prepared. My body and my frozen dinner are promptly facing the microwave at 11:50. I position myself in front of the microwave in a manner that resembles Shaq fending off Duncan for a rebound. I get a concerned glance from the first hyena entering the kitchen. She tries to feign lack of comprehension but she knows she'd be doing the same thing if the roles were reversed. That's right, I'm boxing you out bitch along with the rest of your carnivorous clan.

My lunch has successfully completed the unfreezing process and I can't help but smile at the mad rush I have so calculatingly avoided. The next time this place will be empty is 2pm. The line quickly forms and the late-comers are forced to either completely ignore each other or engage in painfully polite conversation. The ones who choose to ignore, tap their toes and stare at the T-minus countdown on the microwave timer. Others ask, "what do you have?" followed by a dissertation on the recipe, its ingredients, and how it has been passed down from generation to generation. Really? You are doing it such an honor by placing it in the microwave.

The next hyena in line has to microwave...a sandwich. No, it's not a homemade sandwich. It's a pre-made sandwich specifically designed for microwave use. I can understand not having time to make a sandwich in the morning but at least go to the deli during lunch instead of showing up with that. Those lunches should be renamed to "I F*cking Give Up." The dark stripes on the bread did not come from a Wolfgang Puck panini sandwich press, they're more likely to be pumpernickel flavored magic marker.

And then there is the motherlode, the employee who pops in a frozen pot-pie that takes 10 full minutes to microwave. Anything that needs to stay in the microwave longer than it takes most humans to run a mile is not a food product, it is a chemical reaction. Something heating up this long leads to the "ooh, that's hot" comment.

When you have something cooking in a conventional oven at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, common sense tells you that it’s hot. You put on oven-mitts and remove the meal. Somewhere along the heating evolution chain, people have forgotten this when it comes to the microwave. We pull items out and drop them on the counter with the comment "ooh, that’s hot!". Really, it is? I wonder if it has anything to do with the ionizing radiation that’s heating your food at a frequency of 2450 MHz inside of one minute. Cavemen didn’t put their hands on a burning log, they knew better. We can’t seem to grasp this concept.

Does microwave radiation make my food hot?

The lengthy cooking process of the plutonium pot pie inevitably produces a line cutter who, growing impatient, waltzes past everyone and tries to fire up the microwave. At this point, all of the hyenas have to grit their teeth and politely tell the alpha female that not only is she out of turn but they will resort to cannibalism if her index finger advances one inch closer to the "Start" button. The alpha female meets their eyes, respects their malignant threat, and slowly backpedals out of the pantry in her Luciano Padovan pumps.

While all these dramatic events occurred, I was able to scarf down my Weight Watchers spaghetti dish that consisted of approximately eight noodles. I'm still starving. Good thing I brought two frozen dinners for lunch. The microwave will be all mine at 2pm.

The Benefits of Smoking

The smokers in the 9 to 5 world are a dying breed, literally. They used to be in full force during the 70's when they openly smoked in the office during the day and wife-swapped at night. The 80's and a litany of data against the tobacco companies forced them outside the office building to get their fix while debating the importance of “St. Elmo’s Fire”. The 90's brought the next round of analysis against tobacco use and finally reduced smokers to areas the size of hamster cages in the bowels of underground parking where they discussed the demise of pets.com.

The facts against smoking are astounding. It is an originating point of numerous health problems; lung disease, emphysema, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, and gonorrhea to name a few. Without any research on my behalf I have been able to estimate that smokers are unhealthy and cost employers billions of dollars a year in health benefits. But those are just minor details. The yellow-toothed truth is that smokers have a secret they don't want to share with us second-handers. And I think I figured it out.

The trick is realizing that being 55 and retired is a dream for many workers but tobacco can make it a reality. Sure, smoking takes an estimated six years off your lifespan but who wants to live until you're being fed through a straw (unless that straw has Bombay Sapphire Gin flowing through it). With a shorter lifespan you retire earlier. It’s time we inhaled the aroma of Class A Cigarette happiness. Remember that lake house you’ve been dreaming about? Take a puff, now it’s closer. The cross-country motorcycle tour? Take a puff, you can see it now. Each cigarette will chisel away your working years and put that retirement date within reach.

Back off! I'll be on the conference call in 5 minutes.

Not only does smoking lessen your career but it shortens your day. Fact is, smokers don't work as many hours as their non-smoking counterparts. Four cigarette breaks per day reduces the eight hour workday to seven and a half hours. Toking a fleeting high off of a death stick in a concrete basement seems like a nice alternative to pretending to work. Fight back by smoking. Job's a drag? Take a drag. The hidden bonus is tapping into a new social network by bonding with other smokers who have been ostracized because of their habit. Chances are they will be suspicious of your initial visit to the smoking area but a simple icebreaker will win them over, “Hey, I have an addictive personality and I’m too weak to kick a nicotine habit, plus I wet my bed until I was 27”. Trust me, they’ll be putty in your hands.

The benefits of smoking don’t stop once your smoke break is over because the nicotine is racing like the Baja 1000 through your bloodstream. Now get back to your desk and start plowing through your “to do” list:

• Items for grocery shopping (done)
• Surf youtube.com (je suis fini)
• Assemble pens and pencils by height (check)
• Refill stapler (chickity check)

How productive was that! Thank you nicotine, you’re not so bad after all. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes with my name written all over it.

Rest Assured

The guy in the bathroom stall next to me was giving birth to a calf this morning. It smelt like burnt egg-salad deep fried in gorgonzola fondue. And it sounded as if the Iron Sheik had him in the Camel Clutch. The cold from the bathroom tile combined with the hot gas exorcising from his body created a weather pattern that caused the barometric pressure to drop. The chance of precipitation in my stall was 40% with a high in the 70's when he was finally done. If a person is capable of emitting such horrific sounds and oppressive odors then I'm not completely comforted by my "safe-t-gard" toilet seatcover. Chances are 100% that someone took the Browns to the SuperBowl on the same toilet seat I was using.

The tissue seat covers always glare back in judgment at eye-level when entering the stall, "you're not going to use me?" No, I'm not. I don't have a degree in epidemiology but a transparent piece of flimsy tissue paper is not going to prevent ringworm. It certainly is not going to protect me from what I heard in the stall next door. We have every right to be paranoid in the corporate bathroom, they are rife with disgusting cooties; lice, herpes, rashes, ringworm, and ebola to name a few. However, the elaborate olympic ceremony of unveiling and administering the seatcover only prevents us from going to the bathroom sooner.

The not so easy-to-dispense seat covers serve as an emotional security blanket for our germaphobic minds. Our conscience has gotten the better of us. We think we're scuzzy bacteria whores if we don't place the flimsy tissue on top of the toilet seat. When in reality we're just whores, forget about the scuzzy bacteria part. The false prophets of paper products speak witchcraft when it comes to seat covers because they will not protect us from the residue of a previous inhabitant's germs. It's time to stop allowing the paper companies to feed off of our fears.

Take a stand and protest. Or in this case, take a half squat. If you're too scared to slap your bare skin against the white enamel finish then hover over it like Luke Skywalker with his landspeeder in park and fill the pond with some boneless brown trout. Trust me, no one is looking and no one is judging. I'm the only one being judged at this point and I'm O.K. with that. But wash your hands with Howard Hughes-like vigor before you leave that bathroom and keep a paper towel in your hand when you use the door to exit. Those doorknobs are filthy.

Cocky in my Khakis

I'm not very passionate about my job and my wardrobe reflects this lack of career enthusiasm. Lately my apathetic sense of fashion has transformed into unintentional rebellion. I recently passed by an EVP in the hall and his gaze drifted towards my khakis. His eyes locked on the conspicuously frayed hems at the bottom of my pants which were hanging like tassles from a Bon Jovi concert t-shirt. His eyes said it all, "clean up your act son". Like a parent being dissappointed in you instead of being angry. Just the worst.

After this encounter I knew I had pushed the envelope of business casual to got no business being that casual. It was time for my five year clothing outing. Shopping for work clothes is a costly nuisance. I'm a t-shirts and jeans man but our office maintains a business casual policy. Occassionaly we're allowed to wear jeans to work but it's only if you cough up money to support an obscure cause. Last time we wore denim was to save the flying tree frogs in Bacabal. It's nice to know I had a little something to do with that.

Before my clothing expedition, I sadly departed with my previous "dress pants". The frayed ones were the first to go. Next, a pair with the faded imprint of my bulging wallet on the back pocket. Next, a pair that had a rip near my upper-hip area revealing my tighty whities. Finally, a pair that were obscenely tight with my refusal to believe my waist had expanded another inch. Farewell pants, we had some good times together sleeping in my cubicle, may The Salvation Army have the guts to throw you away.

Time to head to the store with the cheapest khakis coupled with a waspy environment, The Gap. The hardwood floors, the bleached lighting and the bleached employees always give me a leery feeling. But for $23 for a pair of khakis I'll overlook the casting call for "Boys from Brazil". Since I'm starting with a clean slate I have to buy at least one pair for each day of the work week. Three stressfree relaxed fit flat front khakis in three different colors; black, stone, and khaki. And to show that I mean business I'll throw in two dress pants. One hundred twenty nine dollars and twenty minutes later, I'm done, and completely set for half a decade from the waist down.

After placing all of my new slacks in the washer and dryer(even the dress ones), I tried everything on again. All a perfect fit, I felt like a new man. Actually I felt like the same man with a new pair of pants. Things are going to be different in the office now. Look at my trousers, listen to my words, I'm meant to be taken seriously. If you don't think I'm essential to the future of this company then may I remind you to look at my pants. That's right, they're $23 a pair, kneel before Zod.

I walked briskly down the hall with a purpose this time, the EVP once again on the opposite end of the hallway with the same gait. You and me, we're the same amigo. That's right, new pants. He sent another gaze towards my shoes and once again screamed, "clean up your act son". I stared down in horror. My black Kenneth Cole shoes that cost more than all my pants combined had a white streak on both of them from those offsite storage boxes that I keep meaning to send...offsite. Looks like I'm going shopping again. This time to purchase a black Sharpie.

Post Vacation Depression Disorder

I'm back from my 4th of July vacation and some of my predictions were correct. The Big Dog outlet store had the gravitational pull of Jupiter for white people over 300 pounds and the beaches were ridiculously crowded. One unexpected event was witnessing Guatemalapalooza when forty Latinos set up a compound next to me on the beach which included four tents, three tables, fifteen chairs, five blankets, and a partridge in a pear tree. You haven't lived until you've heard Gloria Gaynor's "I will survive" sung by a man en Espanol. And you know what, I had a great time because I wasn't at work.

Making the drive home today I began to suffer from Post Vacation Depression Disorder (PVDD). This disorder is often referred to as "F*ck, I have to go to work tomorrow" and affects a large majority of the American workforce.

Symptoms include:

• Heavy sighing
• Temptations to liquidate 401K
• Feelings of worthlessness
• Yelling "F*ck, I have to go to work tomorrow"
• Uncontrollable flatulence.

If you begin to experience any of these symptoms towards the end of your vacation and/or on Sunday evenings please begin looking for a new job immediately. This will not cure PVDD but it will surpress your symptoms for approximately six months. Never underestimate the power of denial and never underestimate your weakness to use it. Once you find a new job, the symptoms will resurface with a vengeance whereby you start over. Wash, rinse, repeat. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to post my resume.