Open Office, Closed Mind

The open office space concept has kicked it with the crossover. The design has transcended its Silicon Valley roots and reached into more traditional institutions. The latest adopter[victim] is Citigroup. In its new Manhattan office, not even the CEO will have a door. The supposed benefits are touted as work related. The sentinel effect: a boss can keep his eyes on the workforce. Productivity and favorable outcomes increase when one is being watched. Busy-ness: a bustling workplace that makes each employee feel like they are a part of something bigger than themselves. Increased collaboration among co-workers. Egalitarianism: a removed hierarchy that flattens out any org chart. We are all in charge. Oh, and money. Saving money to be specific. Loads of it.

Trust me kid, Bluestar is going to love this new floor plan.

Companies are saving coin, some in the millions, with unassigned and open seating arrangements. If everything is equal, fighting for an office is no longer an option. No need to configure space when a grid will do. Same design, limited materials, and a uniform layout for everyone. Companies can adapt to explosive growth without having to pay significant expansion costs related to rent and utility bills. Packing in the masses trumps breathing room. If future quarters look promising, rent out another floor and create another grid. Most employees do not like the open office and the amount of reasons why are astounding. I live with it when I visit the office. Based on experience, open floor plans should be as dead as the Dodo bird.

Love the layout. When can we build the real thing?

The supposed benefits are greatly out-of-sync with the reality. For the sentinel effect, I cannot work when I am being watched. I am an introvert by nature. The big brother setup induces anxiety, not productivity. When I arrive, when I leave, how many Flaming Moe's I drank. All are being monitored. Solution: when the boss might be looking, look busy. There are several techniques I recommend with optimal results. While reading through a random deliverable, bite the end of a pencil and then tap it on the egalitarian table top. Open an excel spreadsheet with numerous macros and formulas that perform calculations in endless loops. Swivel your head from hard copy deliverable to the screen of macros. Bite and tap the pencil at well-timed intervals. Nothing is getting done and something is happening at the same time. The environment creates a setup to look busy rather than to be busy. Productivity appearance up, productivity numbers down.

Drop off the guns, pick up my brother at the hospital,
stir the sauce, don't call from the house, get arrested by the Feds.

Get together! Shoot some ideas around! The workplace is buzzing with activities! None of these are true--at all. When privacy is physically taken away, personal walls can be created through other means. A forced community feel is battled with Beats, Bose, Skull Candy and shooting range earmuffs. There is a staggering reduction in eye contact. Phone conversations are now conducted through hushed toned headsets. All of these are non-verbal cues indicating people will fight for every ounce of their privacy in a public space. The only buzz generated is from the fluorescent lighting. The outcome is counter-intuitive. Human interaction replaced by silence. The noise level of our office rivals that of a sign language convention.

Please, whatever you do, don't talk to me.

I work. My company pays me well. If the open concept saves the company money, I'm down with it. My problem is hiding the motive of savings under the guise of a company's emotional well-being. Please do not spread shit on my sandwich and tell me it is apple butter. I know what you are selling. Tell me the truth. I will respect you even if I disagree.

Corporate Joe in open space land? No thanks--"cubicle land" is better. Both in title and in practice.

No Dough My Dear

Fundraising on the company dime. The majority of working parents are guilty of it. Boosterthon, FunRun, Girl Scout Cookies, the middle school football club, the high school basketball team or the underwater basket weaving society. They all need money. Fundraising is a numbers game and there are a great number of working parents who see money inside a corporate skyscraper. It is filled with people. Working people. Reliable people. Direct deposit people. People with fucking jobs who cannot stiff anyone they see on a daily basis. Fertile grounds for a fundraising predator.

I see a lot of money in this place.

Except I’m the prey who says no...

 

No to your cookies. No to your fun run. No to your kid’s team. No to your cure for cancer. I don’t care if you are the equivalent of Stratton Oakmont in the world of fundraising, the answer is no.
 

 

Shove these Thin Mints and Do-Si-Dos right down Corporate Joe's fucking throat!

The proximity of work personnel along with their financial security makes fundraising uber-convenient in cubicle land. A mom or dad can knock it all out in one location. Most people cave. The pernicious stalking is tolerated since it is tied to a charitable cause. I’m sure the principle is worthy of raising money. Children will benefit, the world will be a better place, and I can sign up in the time it would take to brew a Nescafe coffee packet. For me, none of these items matter. My fierce resistance is for the sole purpose of compartmentalization.
 

 

Honey, I'd just rather not talk about work today.

No personal business at the place of business. I am not writing a check no matter how noble the idea. The reason is I am already in work debt. I owe my co-workers deliverables, a promised meeting, an updated excel spreadsheet or a round of drinks on the corporate AMEX. What I refuse to owe them is money from my personal account. Not a single cent. When it comes to finances, personal life and corporate life are mutually exclusive. Never the twain shall meet.

Arrived home from work today. My son's soccer team has a signup sheet for candy bars. Do you know who likes candy bars? My co-workers. I'll cast a wider social net and go one step beyond all the people I answered with a "No". Many working parents don't live by the same rules I do. I'll post this sheet in the pantry tomorrow.

Just sign up, damn-it. It's for my kid's soccer team.

 

Kiss-Ass Assassin

I have a rule: don’t kiss ass. Self-respecting individuals who are worth a damn in the business world are confident enough to know they don’t need it. And if you find yourself around people who do need their asses kissed, distance yourself. These people are not worth being around no matter how accomplished, wealthy, or recognized. In regards to this rule, the one thing I was not prepared for was someone kissing my own ass.

These fucking compliments are wearing me out.

The reality of my career is I am barely middle-management. No complaints, this is fine. The middle is often underrated. On one end of the spectrum, I do not fulfill work orders designed for production at lower levels. On the other end, I am not belittled by C-level executives while sitting across a sea of mahogany in fantastic lighting. My skill-sets fill the in-between. I convert high-level strategy to work processes, all of it based on orders from a much higher level and pay-grade. If someone is kissing my ass, their priorities are misaligned and their self-esteem is lower than whale shit.

Don't worry, I already took a dump in the ocean.

It started with gentle reminders about the workload. It was redundant but innocuous. That's fine, remind me what you are working on even though I already know what it is. It transitioned to suggestions for improvement on a process I created that was commented to be "superb." It escalated to unnecessary compliments on how well I was able to complete tasks that are, to be frank, mundane. Saccharine soaked compliments that would make Trump blush. Most people would take time to enjoy it. I'm too busy putting myself down to know what to do with a compliment. Self-deprecating humor is a bitch.

Corporate Joe, let me know when you want self-help advice.

My first attempt was to eschew the compliments. A simple ignore on my part in hopes to discourage the behavior. The compliments continued. My second attempt was to let the individual know there is a disconnect between their assessment of me and my actual achievements. Neither worked. Time to step it up a notch.

I am going to make this kiss-ass pay. For each compliment, another work item is assigned to their inbox. If this doesn't shut them up then I am sitting on a lottery ticket. A work masochist who is impervious to laptop late nights and early morning meetings. Together, we can rule the workplace. Cue the evil laugh and wringing of the hands.


Whatever you say boss.

Plight of the Off-Site

Our project team had a meeting at another contractor’s site this week. Attendees and total headcount were requested. The hosting contractor wanted to make sure there was a correct count based on concerns of available office space. This contractor (from here forward referred to as “Minimalist Consulting”) made all the necessary accommodations for the meeting. We were specifically told in advance that food would be provided. For Minimalist Consulting, sustenance is not a necessity for others. When lunch hit, our project team was in for a surprise.

And remember, let's grab some grub out there.

We arrived, signed in, exchanged pleasantries and received guest badges. The group sat for the next three hours and collectively pushed through the agenda items. A moderator from Minimalist Consulting indicated it was time to break for lunch. Sweet! We would reconvene in 20 minutes. The order of communication from the moderator was 1) location of water cooler, 2) location of restrooms and 3) lunch “will be” available in the pantry. Cool, I’ll hit the head, grab some fresh air outside and come back for grub. Many of my co-workers did the same. The Minimalist Consulting employees took a different approach and scurried into the pantry. Curious behavior that became clear when I returned 10 minutes later.

I know I'm lying just hear me out!

The head count was correct for tables, chairs and handout materials. For food, the head count was calculated for a party of one infant and then divided by eight. I walked into the pantry to see six of my co-workers holding empty plates and forks. My eyes moved to the small carnage of pizza boxes--empty. Then scanned over to the salad bowls--empty. Finally, my sight settled to the meeting room where Minimalist Consulting employees were eating like snarf-o-matic hog-a-trons. To add salt to the wound (yum, salt!), the pizza boxes were medium. That is when I pieced together the order of communication and how the two groups split. This was pre-meditated.

All here were summoned to discuss the events at lunch.

The outsiders were directed to the water cooler, then the restrooms, and THEN lunch. The natural reaction is to follow the orders. The directions were in fact a misdirection, a red herring. Those with insider information headed directly to the pantry to pillage the food that was readily available.

There were a total of 15 people at the meeting. Two medium pizzas for 15 people? It might work if we were competing for the grand prize in a Kate Moss body image contest. For this crowd, two medium pizzas don’t even qualify as an appetizer. The have-nots are looking at me for direction. Every single face is the equivalent of a “What the Fuck?” emoji. I’m good at handling adversity but I’m not Jesus. There will be no miracle of the five pizzas and two salads. But I will make a point.

BY THE POWER OF...wait a minute, I don't do pizza.

I grab my plate and fork, head over to the salad bowl and pull out the remaining croutons. Three croutons to be exact. I take them out one by one with a pair of plastic tongs and place them on my paper plate. I pick up the last bag of dressing and squeeze it over the crumbs. The paper plate dwarfs the serving size. A baby mouse would consider it a tapas. I place myself directly across an employee of Minimalist Consulting who is rifling through his third slice of pepperoni. I cut every crouton in half and eat with care. As if each morsel were lobster stuffed with crab meat. The employee doesn’t even flinch at my antics. Impressive poker face. A full stomach can suppress any emotion.

The second half of the meeting starts. The moderator makes no reference to the seven of us who did not eat. We delve right back into the agenda as if nothing happened. The meeting closes with next steps. One of the next steps is to reconvene in two months. I make the suggestion that we should return the favor and host at our office next time. Meeting logistics fall below my pay grade but in this case I would like to help admin determine how we can reciprocate their hospitality. Especially when it comes to the menu.

Please, have a bite. It'll fill you right up.

The Cafeteria Chaos Theory

This week, I forgot my lunch along with an emergency breakfast bar. I would have to visit our "new" cafeteria. At least new to me. It opened four years ago but somehow I have managed to avoid it. Upon confession of my first visit to co-workers I received incredulous reactions. I heard talk at the water cooler over the years. It was an experience. Time to find out for myself.

Before entering, I scanned the layout to find a point of engagement. No luck. The flow of human traffic in the cafeteria resembled a mock riot. No stones were being thrown and no one was crying injustice yet each person had their own unique cadence and destination to reveal a pattern that was no pattern. Behind me, the next wave of hungry consultants pushed me into the fray against my will. I was part of the mob. It was time to grab some grub.

You take the salad bar, I’ll grab the tofu stir-fry.

I search for what I’m craving and the chaos begins to make sense. My scanning eyes and line of sight are out paced by the number of options. I am fully integrated into the chaos by wandering aimlessly to each poorly marked station. Only to turn a corner to find more stations: regular salad, supreme salad, Korean BBQ, pizza, sandwiches, vegetarian, gluten-free, soft-drinks and health drinks. Being accosted by the caterers of each station while trying to reach a decision: “Would you like to try a sample?”, “Interest you in a salad?”, “Make a decision, yo?” This cafeteria was not designed by an architect, the layout was created by Pussy Riot in the hopes of upsetting the status quo.

Say no to the New Food Order!

It’s a smidge of anarchy paired with the blueprint of a traditional food court. A well-assembled plan that was cut into pieces then used for a game of 52 pickup. For all of the process improvement the consulting industry brags about, the cobbler’s kids are without shoes in this instance.

The Korean BBQ looks really good, except I don’t know where to get in line. The station is less than three feet away but there are a dozen people in front of me. I’m not sure if I’m cutting in front of someone or being taken advantage of. It's as if I'm sifting my way through the thick forest of pins in a Pachinko machine. With 25% will and 75% luck, I shake and ping my way to the food station. I load up on meat, veggies and white rice and head to the cashier.

The scale I set my food on has the gravitational pull of Jupiter. Apparently the Korean BBQ has coagulated into a ball of concrete as the scale indicates a price close to $13. I am tempted to ask about a layaway plan. Instead, I grab the last Andrew Jackson from my wallet and hand it over. My expression to the sticker shock registers with the cashier. Her smirk equates to, “Welcome to the cafeteria, sucker.”

Hello! Trying to find the weigh station for my Korean BBQ.

I exit to the seating arrangements of the cafeteria and survey the grounds. Waves of anxiety undulate in the pit of my stomach. Holy shit, I’m in high school again. The pressure to find a place to sit during the busiest part of lunch. There is the young crowd of astonishingly good-looking career climbers who occupy the majority of the space. They appear to have been pulled from a United Colors of Benetton casting call. In stark contrast are the apex predators atop the corporate ladder who sit at smaller tables. Then there are me and my co-workers: in the murky middle with little career growth and ambition. Luckily, we are the table that no one notices. I eat as fast as possible and head out the door.

Look, man. I just want to eat my food and leave.

The cafeteria exit is designed for assimilation back into work mode. A badge is required to depart the lunch experience. Leaving through turnstiles that account for where you were and also where you are going with your next security card swipe. Chaos to order. Somehow heading back to my cubicle doesn’t seem so bad anymore. But maybe that’s the point of the design. Damn you cafeteria. Damn you straight to hell.

Ahhh, home sweet home.

Dressed for Moderate Success

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Based on my available wardrobe, it appears I want a middle-management job from the late 90’s. After reviewing my outdated inventory, I tried to think of the last time I went shopping for work clothes. All that resulted was flashing images of my flip-phone, G-Shock watch and AOL screen name.

Um, Yeah. I heard we had matching outfits today.

I know my business attire is in desperate need of an upgrade. The scariest part is that I am not even in the right decade. Parting with my money for work clothes is the same as buying new tires for my car. The need is there but I’d rather spend my dollars somewhere else.

I don’t mind getting dressed up for weddings and funerals. These are special occasions. Events that occur at such a low frequency should be given a high amount of attention. Clothes are a part of it. Work? That is five days a week: ordinary, common, conventional. I intentionally flip the script, high frequency and low amount of attention. If I have to dress up every day I might as well be as average as the day I am a part of. I am not delusional. The other high-end suits are. But then again, I’m not given the same amount of attention as the high-end suits. Are clothes the key ingredient to success? Or are they a part of the ensemble cast of looks, height, eye contact and the ability to control flatulence during negotiations. The only one who takes business appearance lightly in my office is me.

C’mon, you know my tagline. No? Google it.

There is no such thing as casual in our office. Gone are casual Friday’s, casual dating and casual drinking at your desk. People mean business and their dress corresponds to that attitude. My clothes are as outdated as my philosophy. Not only are my wool pants see-through, but people now see through me and my lack of ambition. My appearance inspires curiosity instead of confidence. Time to make a change. Time to find out if clothes really do make the man. Time to break out the MasterCard. Time to see the price tag on a 21^st century dress shirt.

Whoa! What? Are these dress shirts threaded with gold? Is this tie made from the mane of a unicorn? Why are these oxford shoes equal to a car payment? Inflation has hit this store in some parallel universe run by Jimmy Carter. It has been a long time. Too long.

This cannot be the right price. What year is it?

I exit the Brooks Brothers store empty-handed and downhearted. Maybe I don’t need to inspire others with confidence. Maybe all I need to do is show up with new clothes that actually fit me. My lack of ambition doesn’t have to go away, just my old threads. The right balance of being paid attention to without being essential personnel. The answer: Burlington Coat Factory. It’s not sophisticated...but neither am I.

No Relief In Sight

Men can do peculiar things in the corporate restroom. I’m not sure if the exhibited behavior is an extension of who we are or if it’s a place to act like an idiot without any retribution. Either way, there is a wide spectrum of head scratchers. Some men bring in their coffee, set it on the counter, do their business, and then drink their java. These men are called, “disgusting”. There are also women who accidentally enter the men’s room only to realize there are urinals. These women are called, “whores”. Then there are some things, like I witnessed today, that are difficult to categorize.

"Can't wait to enjoy my coffee!"

There are several types of postures men can have while relieving themselves at a urinal. No, I’m not trying to stare at anyone’s junk. It’s my uncanny ability to deduce what is occurring by noticing the absence of items in my peripheral vision. What I cannot see from the chest up allows me to understand what’s happening south of the equator. Yes, a gift, I know. And with this gift I have categorized my subjects into three general categories:

• Two Hand Sam – this gentleman uses the traditional approach of keeping both hands on the unit. He is there for business. If this person knows you from roaming the same halls every day, they are likely to stare straight down at the Crane Plumbing symbol, make a statement that qualifies as conversation, “Redskins are going to suck this year”, then move out.

• One Hand Willy – a non-traditional approach where one hand deals with the work downtown and the other is occupied with important papers or a cell phone. He is there for business. Except this type of business should be held in his cubicle, not a urinal. I’m all for multi-tasking but I don’t need to brush my teeth while shaving. Some “to do’s” are meant to be completed separately. Might as well bring in your laptop, grab a seat in the stall and work using the D-Net wireless connection. Willy, please, both hands on the hose.

• Penis Knievel – this is the disturbing behavior I witnessed today. A gentleman with both hands on the wall. A single hand on a bathroom wall is reckless hygienic behavior. Placing both hands on the bathroom wall? They might as well juggle rusted hypodermic needles. And who’s minding the store? It’s guaranteed that a pair of pleat-front gabardines will not walk away scot-free of splash shrapnel.

A call to arms for the Two Hand Sam’s. Next time you see someone exhibit Penis Knieval behavior, tell them to have some pride. Ten and two on the wheel, buddy. And if they can’t abide by normal behavior, tell them to use a stall. People pee all over the place in there anyways.

Office Booty

One day my cubicle looks like it was designed for an Office Depot commercial, the next day it’s a post-riot TV store. Another victim of a supply-jack; stapler, tape dispenser, pencils, pen, gone. It was not always like this. There used to be peace among the villagers.

Once my company lived in a world where employees could nonchalantly arrive at the fifth floor, speak with Facilities, and walk away with supplies for various day-to-day needs. But something happened on the way to heaven. Employees took something beautiful and made it ugly. The booty of office supplies were pillaged. Facilities had nothing left to give except a judgmental look to anyone who requested the smallest item. Rumblings regarding the misappropriation of supplies reached the penthouse. Gone were the salad days. Hello, Corporate Policy.

There’s a new sheriff in town enforcing draconian measures. Corporate Policy wants to ensure that the office supply requested is 1) put to use and 2) applicable to client work. Unfortunately, the application process is so difficult that no one wants to go through it. The laborious request form rivals a passport application. Name, employee id, department number, project code, holy shit I just want a f*cking pen. Facilities now hoards the supplies knowing that few want to deal with the paperwork. This action dramatically increases the demand of limited supplies remaining in the rest of the building. You can’t borrow a pen from anyone. You can’t even ask to borrow a pen.

Co-workers who originally exchanged pleasantries now turn on each other like survivors in a nuclear holocaust battling for the last piece of bread. Except the bread is a green Sharpie Accent highlighter equipped with a chisel tip and patented smear guard. Damn-it, I would kill to have that back!

You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you.

No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.

We’ve turned on each other and there is no end in sight. We steal each other’s supplies with one hand while pointing at corrupt CEOs with the other. There is only one source to refresh the weathered office supplies frequently changing hands. New hires.

Instead of filling out all those cumbersome forms the employees wait for the new hires to do it. “Oh, you need post-its? Just go to the fifth floor. You might want to stack up on everything”. We give the new hire a nice smile to hide the venom in our hearts. The plebe doesn’t know any better.

The new hire is light on their feet with a whistle on their lips. Here’s your form and here’s my supplies! Until they see their violated desk the next day. Welcome to the snake pit.

Booty Call!

Next thing you know another new hire is shouting over the cubicle. They need some help on how to set up their answering machine. Sure, we’ll be glad to help. “You should order some supplies to get you started. Just go to the fifth floor. You might want to stack up on everything.”

Watch Your Tone

In the busy world of consulting, a landline is not enough. Most consultants have to be strapped with a cellphone at a minimum, while others of a higher pay grade carry a Blackberry. Either way, it's another line on your business card and email signature indicating that there's no way in hell your dodging the client.

I understand the necessary evil of mobile phones in the world of consulting. It is a mobile industry; cubicles, metro, cars, airports, strip clubs. Consultants can be anywhere at any time when the client needs to reach them. But these devices should serve as a backup to the landline. Several co-workers in my immediate vicinity don't understand this. And the futile ritual begins with a simple yet annoying ringtone. Here are some of the samples I've heard firsthand in the past few days:

• Snoop Dogg's "Drop it like it's hot" - Princess, the only thing you know how to drop is your daddy's Amex Gold Card at The Banana Republic. Quit trying to be so urban and go back to your one bedroom rented townhouse behind Quizno's.
  
• Classic Telephone - Wait, I hear a ringer from an old telephone. Oh, it's just the ringer on your cellphone you say? What a crazy shenanigan! You got some attention doing that. HAHAHAHAHAHA! Kill yourself.
  
• (Operator's Voice) "YOU have an incoming call" - I'd rather listen to Tiny Tim sing "Loving You" by Minnie Ripperton than that smug operator and her condescending voice. Although I'm sure Tiny Tim has some righteous ringtones of his own.
  
• The default ring - The fact that someone is either too stupid or too lazy to figure out the variety of ringtones on their cell is more annoying than the default ring itself.

Yes, Miffy, I am dropping it like it's hot.

The rings are just the beginning since my building is a deadzone of cell coverage. Over the course of a day, my battery drains faster than a strip club's ATM since it constantly struggles to find a signal. Some co-workers still try to pick up a call within the building despite the years of dropped calls haunting the ether of our workspace. Insanity is repeating the same behavior but expecting different results. And trust me, they look insane.

The volume in their voice immediately increases exponentially peppered with the words "Hello" and "Can you hear me now?" as they frantically pace for a pocket of coverage. It's almost as if they are in a shuttle run with no fixed points. Someone witnessing this with no prior knowledge of human behavior might mistake it for a cryptic mating ritual.

Your powers are useless in my building, four eyes.

The rare but enjoyable scene is when two employees in close proximity answer separate cellphone calls at the same time. If you close your eyes you can pretend that two half-deaf retards are trying to talk to each other.

HALF-DEAF RETARD 1
Hello?

HALF-DEAF RETARD 2
What? Pardon? I CAN'T HEAR YOU?

HALF-DEAF RETARD 1
Can you hear me now?

HALF-DEAF RETARD 2
HELLO?

The two half-deaf retards hang up their phones and get their retarded lunches.

Oh sorry, my eyes were still closed.

Here are two ideas 1) put the cellphone on vibrate so you won't wake everyone up from being bitch-slapped with excessive calls from the client and 2) look at the phone number and call it back on a landline. What a psychologically exhausting solution. But it's hard to think above the din of a thousand rings.

The Hunch on My Lunch

Approximately once a quarter I decide to give myself a break from the overpriced deli meat and pack my own lunch. Usually leftovers from the night before or a PB&J when I'm in a hurry. Packing my lunch makes me feel like I'm back in high school when my life was all ahead of me. Except unlike high school, I don't have to worry about some jock who lettered in three sports taking my lunch.

The building I work in doesn't employ the high-school jocks I once feared. It is filled with people who fit the suggested criteria of an ideal roomate; single, non-smoking, well-paid professionals with a weekend drinking problem. There is an inherent level of trust with these existing standards. Unfortunately, my belief system was destroyed this week when some jackbag stole my lunch out of the community refrigerator.

There are two refrigerators on each floor of our corporate office. Both are well-equipped with enough cubic space to handle the capacity of food imported daily by the employees. The late arrivals usually have to jam their bags into the vegetable drawer but there's always space if you make it. My lunch bag is marked not because I don't trust anyone but because it's easier to spot when I open the refrigerator to peruse a stunning assortment of dimly lit lunches waiting for their respective owners to pick them up.

This day was no different than others. My arrival was at a decent time in the morning so I got a nice piece of real estate in the refrigerator. I prefer the bottom shelf of the refrigerator door. This is strategically chosen because most people are 1) too lazy to bend over and 2) my lunch cannot be pushed deeper into the tundra of a regular shelf by late arrivals. Despite the tardiness of others, my food is only a knee-bend away. I know, genius.

This lunch was good too; a Walton's sized portion of chicken, green beans, and rice. The meal was accessorized with a 20-ounce Coca-Cola, grapes, and a bag of Cheeto's. By 11:00AM I was already salivating. No waiting in line at the deli, no visit to the ATM, just stroll down to the pantry, open the refrigerator door, and where the f*ck is my lunch.

Umm, what the f*ck?

Gone, conspicuously absent from its habitual nesting place. My disbelief was quickly replaced by rage. The normal default for my narrow-minded self would be that either cleaning services or maintenance was chowing down on my grub. But this was office hours, too risky an operation in broad daylight. No, this crime was willingly committed by a single, non-smoking, well-paid professional with a weekend drinking problem. Someone qualified enough to be my roommate.

Then my rage exited as an epiphany entered. I began maniacally rubbing my hands together and let out a shriek of laughter that would have made Dr. Shrinker proud. As the veins popped in my flushed face the pantry filled with another shriek that rivaled mine. This was from an intern who was staring at me in complete fear. She dropped her Lean Cuisine and headed straight back to college (note to self, internalize diabolical plans).

I realized my stolen lunch didn't deter me at all. In fact, I vow to pack my lunch every day with no intention of ever eating it. My next PB&J will be filled with an intolerable amount of Dave's Insanity Sauce containing capsaicin extract which makes habanero-pepper sauce taste like iced milk. I'll be able to find the at-large criminal by following the piercing screaming and the trail of scar tissue left from their tongue. Like they say, if you mess with the bull, you're going to get those two pointy things or something or other.

Excuse me, I think you have my lunch.

We'll shall soon meet, jock roomie. And this time, things will be different than in high school. Moooo-oooooh-ahhhhh-ahhhhh!

Preoccupied with Reservations

My company's process for conference room scheduling is an organized riot. I recently called the "Hoteling Department" to book a conference room. This department is manned with an elite force of operators specifically trained to keep track of reservations. I gave my name, employee id, first born, and reservation time. Once the laughter subsided on the other end of the line, the operator ensured me that my reservation would never see the light of day.

You want a conference room? You're hilarious!

Through deductive reasoning, I concluded that the operater did one of two things with my reservation 1) nothing or 2) double booked a room for the ga-gillionth time, whatever they were inspired by at the moment.

Inevitably, it's time for the meeting and I hold my breath while approaching the conference room. Shocker, other people have squatted on the reserved property. Shocker again, the squatters are smug gentleman from a higher pay grade. I have to pop my head in the room and probably resemble a puppet to those inside. I politely tell the gentleman that the space is reserved.

If you're not inside, you're outside.
Corporate Joe, get outside of my conference room.

One of the silver-haired gentleman responds in a polite but firm tone that I must be mistaken. According to their records, they have successfully booked the room. Oh, I see, prison rules, that's cool by me. The only way to solve this is to call Hoteling and see what they have in their records. Unfortunately for me, no one picks up. Hoteling notices the conference room extension (which is never good news) so they don't answer the phone.

It's a conference room number! Quick, everyone under their desks!

As we collectively listen to the ring through the speakerphone I feel the weight of their stares getting exponentially heavier with each passing second. I finally hang up. Either the Hoteling Department double-booked the room or the edgy corporate clones never booked a room, squatted, and are lying to me with impressive poker faces.

We officially have a Mexican standoff.

My options are rapidly diminishing. All I have left is my quick wit which I deftly use in the response, "There must have been a mistake, sorry for the disturbance". I briskly walk out the room. Yeah, take that sucka's. I don't hold back when it's prison rules.

Defeated but not demoralized, I scan the adjacent conference rooms to see which ones are empty. Jackpot! This isn't the adequate size but it will do. So me and my fellow employees huddle inside. Once everyone is settled, we look like a Seattle ticketbooth for a circa '92 Pearl Jam concert.

Who has the agenda?

The meeting begins and I respectfully address my peers in corporate speak that would put most humans to sleep while standing up. In the middle of one of my oh-so ordinary sentences the meeting is interrupted by an intern. Her head pokes in the side of the door like a puppet.

Apparently this intern booked the room in advance. That's strange? I respond in a polite but firm tone that she must be mistaken. According to my records, I have successfully booked the room. She is more than welcome to call Hoteling if she likes. I even pick the phone up and dial. The weight of her venomous stare is like a feather in a helium balloon compared to my previous experience.

She shuts the door. I begin to speak again and realize that I have become one of "them" and a smile reluctantly curls up on the side of my face.

Basura Blanco

A message from Dominga in Janitorial Services.

Corporate Joe was kind enough to let me borrow his audience. So all three of you pay attention. I'm patronized every day by you suits while trying to get through my job to pay the bills. Here are some pointers next time we bump into each other:

• I'm fluent in English. Quit practicing your eighth grade Spanish on me. The extent of your language is "Dos cervesas porfavor" which you learned from your $600 honeymoon package in Cancun. Cheapass.
• Quit huffing and puffing when I need to get to your trash. Maybe we can switch next time. I'll surf the internet for soft porn while you empty every trashcan in all 500 cubicles of the building.
• Through my extensive janitorial training I can successfully identify trash. You don't have to explicity label "Basura" for every item. Since I'm from Mexico does not mean I'm retarded you retard.
• My co-worker speaks Portugese. So unless you're imitating Gwyneth Paltrow, stop trying to impress her with your Tarzan Spanish.
• Don't start conversations with me (regardless of Spanish or English) about the pictures of your wife/wives and kid(s). If you loved them so much you'd be home by now.
• Yes, I saw "Spanglish". Yes, I liked it. Although I thought some of the plot points suffered due to the intense focus on the character arc of the white mother. Duh.

"Tea Leoni ain't got shit on me."

So next time you see me, step aside bitch. Have the decency to let me vacuum in peace because this job is putting me through business school.

The Rules of Engorgement

It is important to maximize a lunch hour by saving precious minutes out of the day. However, I draw the line at having my lunch cross the plane of the bathroom door.

Believe it or not, I understand this logic. It is done in the spirit of efficiency for the world of male consultants. Grab your lunch in the pantry, go to the bathroom, take a squirt, then head to your cubicle and cozy up to the latest edition of Highlights.

I know what the women are thinking. Why not go to the bathroom first then head to the pantry? Legitimate question, let me explain. There is an innate synapse in men that dates back to cavemen. The only time we realize we have to drain it is at meal time. So Zog eating a saber-tooth tiger had the same problems as Zack eating a PB&J. The trigger of needing relief is not realized until we're ready to take a bite.

"Why Zog have pee-pee come out of wee-wee when eaty?"

Most men recognize this need and do one of two things:

• Head to their desk, drop off their lunch, then go take a zee, or
• Head to the bathroom with their lunch, cross the plane of the bathroom door, place their lunch on the counter of the bathroom sink, take a squirt, wash their hands (optional for some), then take their lunch back to their desk.

Based on my years of observation, a large majority fall into the former of these two scenarios. However, for those disturbing amount of individuals who can be categorized in the latter, listen up, I've got something to say.

If you break the plane of the bathroom door with food you plan on putting in your mouth then you might as well eat it on the toilet. Crossing through that invisible border just landed your brownbag in a different zipcode of etiquette. It's like bringing your two-month old son to Studio 54 in a BabyBjorn. Flatulence and bowel movements have no place for the nourishment you thoughfully packed the night before.

"Ahhhh, now I can eat my lunch in peace."

So please, enjoy your lunch break and also give your lunch a break at the same time. Zog would be proud of you. Or maybe he would bludgeon you to death. Cavemen are unpredictable.

My House, My Car, My God Please Shutup

The superiors in my office enjoy discussing their latest financial adventures amongst themselves but within earshot of subordinates. Gentleman, your salaries and stock options are listed in the annual report. Don't rub salt in the wound, especially during cutbacks on styrofoam cups and plastic forks in order to "Go Green!".

A jury of your lower-income peers would conclude Justifiable Homicide if our overweight secretary (who has not received a raise in three years) stabbed all of you with her scissors. Actually, there have also been cutbacks on office supplies. She'd probably have to stab all of you with a fork she brought from home. As long as it's not during her lunch hour, that girl can flat-out chow.

"We're going to knock it down and build our dream home."

The discussion among the high-level execs always begins with harmless mention of either 1) their home, 2) addition to their home or 3) addition to the addition of their home. The conversation slowly begins to ante up and a verbal poker game ensues to ensure that everyone is keeping up the Jones's.

Exec 1

I'm thinking about buying a new car.

Exec 2

You're thinking about buying a new car? I just bought a Rolls Royce.

Exec 3

You just bought a Rolls Royce? I just bought a Bugatti Veyron.

Exec 4

You just bought a Veyron? I just bought the world. Rock beats scissors, paper covers rock, and owning the world beats a Bugatti Veyron.

Exec 1

SSSSSSS, you just got burned!

The executives disperse and go to a meeting they scheduled at The Palms but can't remember why.

"Enough about my car. What do you think of my car?"

So to all the C-level executives reading my blog (what's zero times zero?) Please keep in mind that conversation about your excesses cuts to the bone of underpaid and overperforming employees. And if you find a fat woman clenching her own fork while running towards you yelling "Mutha' F*cka!", you've shot your mouth off a little too much.

Crimes of Fashion

Top 10 fashion crimes in the office and their punishment:

10. Men in Pink Shirts
Yes, you're completely comfortable in your own sexuality. You're also still waiting to pick up your dry cleaning. It's fine if you're a cabana boy in South Beach or a banker in Bermuda.

-Punishment-
Wear a pink tu-tu sprinkled with strawberry hearts and parade around new employee orientation waving a wand. You are required to greet each new employee with an eskimo kiss. But hey, you're comfortable, right?
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9. Men in Diagonal Striped Shirts
Let me guess, you're from Jersey City, are on your second cycle of HGH, and were nominated as fitness member of the month at Gold's Gym. Treat yourself to a sideways striped shirt.

-Punishment-
You will continue to live in Jersey City.
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8. Too much cologne
You're still from Jersey City.

-Punishment-
You will still continue to live in Jersey City.
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7. Glitter (eyes and/or hair)
Glitter is great, if you're a whore.

-Punishment-
You like glitter? Good, now you can bunk with Gary Glitter while watching Mariah Carey in the movie Glitter.

Hey, roomie!

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6. Glasses from the 80's
That's really cool how your prescription glasses cover 90% of your face. Last time I saw a pair of glasses that big I was doing a bunny-hop on my Mongoose.

-Punishment-
Have to watch a 24 hour John Hughes film festival with special focus on plot points in Uncle Buck. In Chinese with English subtext.

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5. Winter, Spring, Summer, or the other one
It's February, it's 40 degrees outside, and you're dressed for a bonfire on the beach. Get your seasons straight.

-Punishment-
Tropical climate, we've got the ticket. A one way ticket to Sudan where highs will be in the 90's with a 50% chance of death from stray bullets. But hey, warm weather.
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4. Men in Tight Pants
"Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man, no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm,
I've been kicked around
since I was born. "

-Punishment-
Severe fist blows to the crotch. But that's probably a fetish for you, Mr. Pervert in Tight Pants.

Who's making fun? Scoundrels!

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3. Women with Big Hair
I love the way your hair looks like a blonde batch of cotton candy. You're living proof that AquaNet comes in 2-liter bottles. And you're a cosmetologist? You don't say.

-Punishment-
Culprits will have to part their hair on the opposite side and will be stripped of all hair products for one month.
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2. Goth Interns
You're such a rebel. Sticking it to the man while working for the man. The all-black attire and body piercings are dead-on. Of course you dress like that because you don't care. Now continue to listen to your i-Pod clogged with Siouxsie and the Banshees.

-Punishment-
New i-Pod playlist with Bread in endless rotation while dressed in white and strapped to a chair. Not much different than how you'd be in 10 years anyways. Except I don't think they lend out i-Pods to people in psych units.
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1. Flip-flops
You're "pushing summer", I love that term, it's straight out of the fridge. Now shutup and listen. The painful onomatopoeia of "flip-flop" is equivalent to rolling around in broken glass.

-Punishment-
Nothing too severe. Feet will be removed with a hacksaw.

Print and the Revolution

There are unwritten laws of printer courtesy adhered to by the majority of my co-workers. However, there are a few fascists who play 52 card pickup with other people's print jobs without any remorse while yelling "O'Doyle rules!". For those of us who are tired of having sand kicked in our face, the reckoning is here.

Most of us understand that the printer is an informal waiting area. The print job occupying the HP LaserJet dictates who should be in pole position. Standard operating procedure is to approach the printer, take a glance at the current print job, and act appropriately. Figure 1 accurately captures this protocol.

Figure 1. Obtaining your print job (click to enlarge)

Unfortunately, there are employees who hijack the printer with a document that would choke a fully-staffed Kinko's store. They goose step to the printer and elbow onlookers in the sternum to momentarily stun them. This quick blow allows them to cut in front of the line. The coup de grace is how they caress their work with meticulous care and turn other papers into a ticker tape parade.

My print job is next, do you have a problem with that?

These printer bullies are often the work horses ascending the corporate ladder. Be sure to earmark them for future aggravation. From personal experience, confusion is the best method. Approach the printer at the same time as them and fire rhetorical Gatling gun questions in their presence while fumbling through papers, "Did I really print 110 pages?", "I loaded pink paper again?", "How many trees am I killing?".

Another method of confusion involves four steps 1) steal their print job, 2) scan it as a pdf, 3) print the pdf file off of your computer, 4) then complain about how someone is hogging the printer everytime you see the original offender. They'll recognize the document as their own but will be dumbfounded as to how it keeps printing out.

The examples above are effective techniques but one piece of advice; don't fly solo in your efforts. Printer bullies can only be eliminated in a unified front. During recess, alert other members on the same printer network that a revolution is coming. Together, you can take back what is rightfully yours and also have the pleasure of tasting the sweet nectar of vigilante justice. Repeatedly oppress the bullies with the confusion techniques listed above and they will reluctantly migrate to another network printer.

Someone just goose stepped by me at a blistering pace. I think they're heading for the printer. Time to print out all 40 spreadsheets of my Fantasy Football picks.

The revolution is now.

Strangers In the Cube, Exchanging Glances

I spend approximately 40 to 50 hours a week in my cubicle. This time is filled with meetings, emails, conference calls, and massaging my bare feet. All these hours in the same confines with fellow cubers would logically tell someone that we know each other very well. Wrong.

There are numerous employees who work in close proximity to me that I know nothing about. We have been randomly assigned to the same arena of 8x8 cubicles but we might as well be in different galaxies. No icebreakers or how-do-you-do's. Just the hum of flourescent lights, ringing of the phones, and Steve's* uncontrollable flatulence. The only acknowledgement of each other's presence is a nod of the head.

This is partly my fault. Some psychologists might diagnose my anti-social attitude as a repression of anger. And to them I say, "I'll land severe blows to your crotch with my steel-toed boots you lousy..." Where was I? I blacked out. Oh yes, my anti-social attitude. Despite the proximity and duration of being in each other's presence, I don't know anything about my cellmates. And the sad fact is that my time at the office almost exceeds my life at home.

My introverted approach and belief is that we openly curse the idle chit-chat at the watercooler but clandestinely know it's a more attractive alternative than having someone spill their guts. We have the option of not letting anyone know our secrets. Plus our reticent behavior allows us to stay out of the office gossip. Jessica is having an affair, glad I don't know. Harold's** a crossdresser, ignorance is bliss. The hot new secretary thinks I'm cute! Crap, so it works most of the time.

Steve's letting them rip this morning.

So if we don't interact with individuals, then we can only observe. Is it fair to size people up by their behavior? That's so narrow-minded. And the answer is "yes", of course we can. I have drawn many conclusions about employees juxtaposed in the same tight area of office space as me. Selective observation is a powerful tool. A few noteworthy items:

Krissy enjoys talking about her husband as if he were the second coming of Christ.
Translation: she is trying to convince herself that she didn't marry a loser.

Jay speed dials numerous women every Friday at 4 to unsuccessfully make weekend plans.
Translation: he is trying to convince himself that he is not a loser.

Travis accuses me of stealing his lunch.
Translation: I did steal his lunch but he doesn't have to get all accusatory about it.

We are so tightly crammed together and yet worlds apart. I believe Jars of Clay sang something about that. Or maybe it was Korn. Either way, the only words that are exchanged are hello's in the morning and goodbye's in the evening. Sometimes Sarah will say to me with her timid voice, "let go of my arm, you're hurting me". She's so funny.

The reality is that I'm afraid to open up. Afraid that people won't like or accept me. Afraid that in the end I'll just get hurt. And the loss is mine, I'm probably missing out on some great friendships. But once I start telling people that I was sent from the future to help the rise of the machines, they're never going to look at me the same way again. Especially Sarah.

* All names are fictitious to protect the guilty.
** Except for Harold, that dude is a cross-dressing fool.

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.