Associate Abuse

You Can Never Un-See Partner Porn

by Bitter and Abused on January 5, 2010 in Columns

What the hell is it about men that makes them get such a kick out of making women feel uncomfortable? Seriously.

The IP boutique firm I worked for until recently had two offices. One in Palo Alto, one in San Francisco. I worked in the Palo Alto office, but one day I was called to visit the San Francisco office to meet with a client because the deal partner was unavailable and I was the most up-to-date. Not a problem.

While I knew most of the attorneys in the San Francisco office by name, there were several I had never met in person. So I was excited to introduce myself and say hello. It’s the larger of the two offices where most of the partners are based, so obviously I thought it’d be a great opportunity to get some face time.
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Happy Holidays! I Failed the Bar

by Bitter and Abused on December 10, 2009 in Columns

I’m living inside the warhead of the biggest “bad news bomb” of my life, and I don’t know how best to drop it. The longer I wait, the more nuclear it feels. And it’s starting to look like it’s scheduled to detonate at my parents’ house on Christmas, turning a modest home in Reno into Hiroshima.

In about two weeks, I’ll walk into my childhood home, drop my bags, pet my dog and tell my parents that I failed the California bar exam.

See how dramatic I’ve become? In reality, lots of people are in my shoes right now. About 3,800 people—or 44% of takers—to be exact. (I use those numbers when I want to feel better about myself.) In reality, only 1,850—or 30%—of those who took it for the first time didn’t pass. Yeah, I use those figures when I’m being honest with myself.

I’m far from a haughty Ivy Leaguer with a pitch-perfect pedigree, but I certainly never thought of myself as a bar failure. Finding out the weekend before Thanksgiving was like the bottom falling out of a legal career that was already in a ditch. It was bad enough that I already had a pretty decent job offer rescinded, but failing the bar was a massive blow that I cannot rationalize or blame on economic factors. Regardless of tireless studying and massive preparation, I didn’t pull it off—and that’s a tough lump.

Accordingly, Thanksgiving was ruined. (Why the bar committee decided to post the results before a major holiday seems like a sick joke to me. But I guess I would be singing a different tune if my name had appeared on the pass list.) After four days of clicking through every letter of the alphabet hoping for a slight typographical error, I flew from Los Angeles to Nevada, walked into my childhood home, dropped my bags, pet my dog and didn’t tell my parents I failed the California bar exam. I just ate pie. And felt like an asshole.

In fact, I haven’t told anyone yet. And the fact that I haven’t is why I’m about to implode from the gut-wrenching stress, anger and anxiety that have been poisoning me for weeks. I’m abusing myself—and I deserve it.

Sure, everyone from law school already knows just by looking. But I’ve managed to crudely avoid all of them. And luckily not many have reached out to me. (I guess it takes a real d-bag gunner to call someone who you know didn’t pass to gloat about how you did.) But other than those fools, the people closest to me—my parents, my new girlfriend, my real friends, my bosses—are all still in the dark.

Every time my mom or dad calls, I either pretend to be really busy or lose service just as we start talking about my life. The mad-cool, crazy-hot girl I started dating last month has no idea the bar exam even exists (which is why I asked her out to begin with), but she’s sure to be unimpressed when she hears I’m not technically a lawyer. And while I don’t think the powers that be at the chintzy collections litigation firm I’ve been interning at the last couple months have ever considered my bar status, it hardly bodes well. But they’re the least of my concerns. As long as I keep drafting summons and complaints for chump change, passing the bar would hardly convince them to hire me.

This all probably sounds like a pathetic pity party, but this was definitely something I did not expect—and cannot afford. The thought of looking into my father’s eyes and telling him I fell short haunts me. And the anticipation of my mother making some snide remark about how I should have spent less time on the golf course this summer may cause me to bitch slap her before she even opens her mouth.

Ho, ho, ho—Christmas is going to suck this year.

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Modern Partner, Ancient Tricks

by Bitter and Abused on October 28, 2009 in Columns

Meet the new century, same as the old century.

For years, I was an associate at a very large multinational. At one point, I hated every second of my job. In fact, I hated it so much that I signed up to go back to school to obtain the most worthless of degrees: The LLM. During that time, I started shopping around for new jobs. One such shop, a plaintiff securities fraud boutique, offered me a few interviews . . . and at last, I landed in front of Named Partner X.

Very frankly, he said, “All resumes I’ve looked at in my life can be divided into two piles. One is full of wash outs, and one is full of loyalists. Which one are you? When you figure that out, give me a call.”

Comprehending that “wash out” most often correlates with crazy hours, competitive and untrustworthy colleagues, boring and un-compelling work and other such conditions of general misery, I opted to stick with my old shit job that at least gave me enough time to slum it with the night school kids at Temple Law.

Two months later, I got the axe. Two months after that, my ex-office’s litigation department went defunct.

Six months down the road, one of the headhunters who, just one year ago, used to kiss my ass and take me to lunch, decided to expend five seconds of her precious Macys.com time to call and inform me that Named Partner X’s firm was looking for a staffer.

At first mention, I mentally checked the “opt out” box—wanting to leave the law altogether and do something I actually enjoy. I never meant to get laid off, but I figured I might as well use the opportunity to shoot the moon. But the opportunity sounded too perfect: Learn, research, write, get paid. All things I could obviously handle. Plus, the subject matter was right up my alley (corporate fraud and financial crap). So I signed on.

For the first few months, I was deliriously happy. Yes, I was stuck in a cattle pen with other staff attorneys and treated like dirt. But the work was interesting, and I didn’t feel at all isolated—much like that form of torture so common in BigLaw.

Not to mention, plenty of unsolicited attention from Named Partner X had me feeling like the newest golden child. (Because no matter how much we say we hate it and think it’s a joke, it’s the best feeling to have that little gold star pasted next to your name, isn’t it?) Every other day or so, Named Partner X would stop in my office just to drop a devastatingly un-funny one-liner (“It’s Friday! You know what that means? Only two more days til the work week!” or, “Now that I’m in the room, has the average IQ gone up?”), not wait for much of a response (I’d maybe let out some girlish giggling) and leave. It was painfully obvious that I was on his radar. I just thought it was his professional radar.

One unassuming morning, as I was absorbed in work, Named Partner X sneaked up behind me and said something snarky about what I was typing. Just then, he put his hand on my shoulder. And it felt weird—at least for someone generally unaccustomed to any sort of workplace touching. But whatever, just some obnoxious male power-trip thing common in every American law firm. And since I had never been the recipient of a partner’s power-drunk flirtatious advances before, I was still enjoying the attention. It’s assuaged my poor, devastated laid-off ego. (I’m not ugly, but I’m no “LF10.” I don’t get good-looking men hitting on me at a bar until close to closing, after they gave up and got too drunk to do better.)

But then, last Thursday morning, I was in an empty office across the hall taking a phone call from my brother when Named Partner X snuck up behind me and grabbed me with both hands on my waist. All tickly-like. It scared the crap out of me (which, I assume, was his intent), but all I could do was say into the phone, “I gotta go, the boss is trying to grab me.” I he perceived that has a passive validation of his gesture and chuckled. I was actually being literal. By the time I hung up the phone and turned around to fully react, he was gone.

For the rest of the day, I felt possessed. I couldn’t resist and blabbed about. All giggly and nervous-like. To anyone listening within a 50-foot radius. “X just GRABBED me! Can you believe? No wonder I’m turning into a rabid feminist!” If only I wasn’t too dull-witted to realize this was making me enemies.

The next day he stopped by my door, stuck his finger in my face, wagged it and said, “You. Follow me.”

He pivoted and walked—forcing me to run after him down the hallway. While he is short, I am so much shorter that following his brisk pace required I jog. Awkwardly. In heels.

He gets me in a private office, slams the door and launches into some version of an apology whereby he keeps insisting that people need to have thick skins in his office. Yeah, that kind of apology. And the best part? Me and my response.

“Oh, no problem. I’m fine, and I love it here. I’m used to stuff. I was in the Army.”

But next thing I know, I got moved downstairs. My own space with a window, but still now firmly off his radar.

So now, not only has the partner in charge of my immediate financial future totally forgotten about me and my slim savings account, the staff attorneys all HATE me. For various reasons. Some are pissed because downstairs I now have my own space with a window—something that takes most staffers five years to get. For others, it’s the sad, unspoken jealously of having never been groped by grabby-hands Named Partner X. Topping it off: I don’t even have a fricking lawsuit to cover my ass if I get canned. All he has to do is not give me more work.

The real worst part: I kinda liked him. There was something sexy about his particular blend of being an obnoxious, liberal Jewish dude who takes time to pester his contractor staff attorney underlings—the attorneys that even freaking secretaries think they’re too good for. I had even grown to appreciate his witty banter—in 30-second intervals, at least—as long as didn’t mind the lame Henny Youngman impersonations.

But what I’m starting to realize is that he was just looking to make a younger woman uncomfortable so she would kiss his butt and further entrench the personality cult that is his law firm. And I was just one of plenty of female employees who, in this job climate, will cooperatively run down the hall after him upon whisper and wag of his index finger. It’s not right.

But unfortunately, being right doesn’t always keep you employed. It seems David Letterman is hardly a cautionary tale. And sometimes it feels as though nothing has changed since the days of Mad Men.

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Pro Bono Thief

by Bitter and Abused on October 14, 2009 in Columns

The last two years of my life have been stolen from me.

For almost 24 months, I’ve been handling a pro bono case that nobody else in our mid-sized firm wanted. I thought it would be a good way to stand out. It was a 1983 case on behalf of an inmate locked away in a prison 100 miles from our office.

I made repeated trips to the prison (usually counting 18-wheelers I passed just to stay awake), took depositions, gathered evidence, met with the client (needless to say, rough around the edges and hardly a raconteur), and did every single bit of grunt work myself. And I did it all in my spare time, as I still met my billables during that time.

I handled everything. The further I got into it, the more the case looked like it would actually see a courtroom. And I started to get pretty excited. After all, prepping the case for trial and seeing it through to the end was going to be a priceless skill-building lesson, right? I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I was impressed with myself.

In fact, a few other people in the firm also got excited about the case, realizing that it wouldn’t be a run-of-the-mill prisoner rights case, and that there was the chance to actually make a little case law. But when I got done building up all my grunt work skills, my boss realized that I had actually raised “several interesting legal questions” in the case. (His words, not mine.) “You have an interesting argument,” he quipped.

Like a sap, I thanked my boss for the compliment and said I was looking forward to the trial.

But that’s when the bottom fell out, and I was robbed.

“Actually, I think I’m going to handle this matter,” he uttered. I think, at first, even he was surprised he said it, but he quickly hardened up.

I complained. Then I tried to appeal to his sense of fairness. Then I begged to at least take second chair at trial.

Nope.

My boss gave the second chair to a black, female fifth-year. And everything quickly became all about him attempting to raise his profile and boost his reputation—all while looking hard-charging and diverse. It had nothing to do with seeking justice for the underprivileged. Only seeking glory for himself.

The initial day he told me, he tried to cushion the blow by saying that if he had any questions about my work, he’d let me know.

I’ve never heard from him since.

After two years of hustle and young, naive anticipation, I’ve since been assigned to a doc review assignment on some complex drug liability case that will probably never see trial. And even if it does, I certainly won’t be anywhere near that courtroom because I now work out of an unheated conference room at the client’s records storage facility.

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CC This, Bitch!

by Bitter and Abused on October 5, 2009 in Columns

To: The World

From: Bitter 5th Year

Cc: Nerdy Litigation Partner

Two weeks ago, a nerdy litigation partner asked me to work on a private equity investment for one of his clients. Simple enough, right? I’m a fifth-year associate and regarded as a competent transactional attorney. I’m not the class rock star, but I’ve been told I’m “very much in the hunt for partnership.”

Sounds exciting, but being in the hunt actually makes your life worse because you have to care what partners think of you. In other words, you have to make partners like you. And if they don’t? Well, you have to obsess over the fact they don’t like you and then do everything in your power to change their minds. Even when they’re dicks. Even when they scream at you for “CC-ing” them on an email rather than including them in the “From” line. That’s right, Nerdy Litigation partner yelled at me like I was his prison bitch because I didn’t include his name in the goddamn “From” line.

“This is reckless and thoughtless behavior!” he said, his tiny jaw twitching with petulance.

Here are the facts: Last Wednesday, I sent a draft term sheet to the client and CC-ed Nerdy Litigation Partner. It’s the kind of thing I do twenty times a day. I didn’t even think twice about it. Call me crazy, but that’s how I roll. Ten minutes later, NLP was in my office yelling.

“You don’t CC me. Understand?!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I know, I’m a pussy. But I’m in the hunt. What am I supposed to do, ruin my career? But NLP didn’t give a rat’s ass about my apology.

“Every single piece of correspondence that goes to this client comes from me. Got it?! ”

I just looked at him. My heart was thumping. If we were in high school, I would have already thrown my first punch.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said, with an deferential faux confusion associates in the hunt employ when asshole partners are screaming at them for no reason.

“The client needs to know that I’m integrally involved in this transaction and not just overseeing some junior associate’s work product. Understand now, or was that too abstract for you?! ”

I didn’t respond. I just stared at him, until he walked out.

Here’s the worst part: NLP is actually kind of important and now he hates me. He told an associate friend of mine the next day that I was a “loose cannon.”

A loose fucking cannon?! Really?! Because of a stupid CC! Really?! Just thinking about this makes me insane! I’ve worked my ass off for five years, and this petty son of a bitch is going to compromise—or flat out ruin—my chance at partner over this!?

If I didn’t have a fat student loan tab, I would have kicked his chubby ass right then and there. (Yes, I’m exaggerating. A little. And yes, I’m angry as hell and completely irrational. You would be too, if you were in the hunt and some d-bag called you out for something so petty.)

It’s times like these that I’m really glad I went to a top-five school, made law review and billed 2100 hours a year for the past five years. Now I suppose that the only good news about no longer being in the hunt is that I don’t have to care what assholes like NLP think of me anymore. So in a way, this whole Cc debacle was a victory.

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Can’t Read the Writing on the Wall

by Bitter and Abused on September 30, 2009 in Columns

I’m going blind reading my boss’ chicken scratch writing. He’s old school, so he likes to markup my briefs and motions with a red felt pen. Fine. I’m not afraid of a little red ink. And I’m not afraid of having to get high-powered trifocals after straining to make out his words. But what I am afraid of is asking him for clarification.

The first time I asked him, you would’ve thought that I had burned down his house and run away with his teenage daughter.

He shut the door to his office (thank God) and proceeded to read off all of his notes (all 93 of them) in an increasingly annoyed tone. By the time he got to the end, I thought he was going to burst a capillary or something. But he just looked at me, angered—as if I had somehow challenged him.

“I trust that, as I did not see you taking notes, you’ve committed this to memory?”

With that, he escorted me out of his office, and I spent the entire night at the office trying to re-decipher his chicken scratch. Seriously, the guy’s writing is so bad he should have been a doctor.

After that, I think he tried to make his writing even less intelligible. I mean, it’s really terrible. He has grinded down every felt-tip pen he uses into a magic marker, and it always smudges, which makes it even harder to read.

I tried asking his secretary for help, and she made some crack about how she stopped trying to read his writing years ago. Nobody can read this guy’s writing. His penmanship is a running joke in our office, and I’ve even talked to associates in other cities who have heard about his bad writing and short temper. How the hell did he ever make partner?

Eventually, anytime he wrote a handwritten note to anyone, people came to me to confirm their analysis. And, after months of excruciating practice, I thought I had gotten pretty good making sense of his mess. (G’s, j’s, P’s, q’s and y’s look identical; e’s, h’s, l’s and t’s are all the same; m’s and n’s always have four humps; vowels other than e’s are most definable and used as primary context clues.) But when it was impossible, it was always my job to put my head in the lion’s mouth. And since he’s my boss, when a colleague didn’t understand something he’d written, I’d go ask. And I pretty much got bitch-slapped on a regular basis.

A few weeks ago, I asked him for clarification on something. He was in a rush and barked at me to figure it out. Then he walked away. I did the best I could, but I got it wrong.

The word didn’t change anything significant, but I guess it allowed opposing counsel to throw a little egg on my boss’ face.

That was the day he came back to the office and tore me a new one. It was heard throughout the hall when he threatened that my next mistake would get me fired. For two hours after he left my office, no one on the entire floor uttered a word.

He now oversees everything I do now like a child. He even had his secretary give me a file full of handwritten notes that she said he wanted me to do “because [I] need the practice.”

I suppose the good part is that no one burdens me anymore when they have a problem with his writing, but at the same time, I’ve quickly lost any respect amongst my co-workers. Bottom line: Ever word—nay, every letter—counts, and even the smallest mistakes can get you canned.

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I’m Trying To (Not) Eat Here

by Bitter and Abused on September 22, 2009 in Columns

It’s gotten to the point where I can’t even eat at the office anymore. Which is scary on a lot of levels because lawyers often have to eat in the office—just the way it is. Everyone does it. But for some reason, any time I sit to grab a bite, I have to suffer my co-workers judgmental commentary about my food. It’s to the point that I want come in with a spud gun and rage.

The source of this particular problem dates back to one particular partner who recently left my firm because her size-2 ass wanted to become a fulltime anorexic mommy to her two spoiled-brat children while spending her days demeaning staff at country clubs around the metro area.

For the better part of my first two years here, she interrupted my lunch or dinner pretty much everyday by saying something about how she found my food to be 1. gross, 2. fattening, or 3. both. All the while forcing me to stare at her komodo dragon neck and lose my appetite while she bemoaned. She had a skillful knack for finding me anywhere I may be in the office the very moment I was about to take a bite. She would come in to tell me to do something only to then immediately turn her nose up at my food.

One of my personal favorites: “That turkey sandwich smells rank.”

The sandwich was an inch from my mouth. All I smelt was a savory turkey sandwich. For her to have smelt it in the four seconds she had been in my office from 10 feet away, it would have had to been a pretty rotten sandwich. AND SINCE WHEN HAS A TURKEY SANDWICH EVER SMELT BADLY?? After she left, I threw away a perfectly delicious, fresh, untouched turkey sandwich because my pilates-adicted Skeletor of a boss made me feel like crap for eating it.

And God forbid she ever catch me eating something as decadent as Chinese food.

Allow me to make a disclaimer: I work downtown in an urban city center, yet 90% of people who work here flee to their tract homes in the suburbs after 6:00 PM. With no real nightlife or residential population around the office, there are only two places that deliver at night—a greasy Chinese palace and an even greasier pizza joint. So you’d think she’d forgive me if I couldn’t hit up the Whole Foods salad bar at 11:00 PM and pick up a garden’s worth of vegetables at a bargain rate of $7.99/pound to nibble on while my eyes bleed reading countless documents to serve her.

“That’ll make you fat. You know that, right?”

“Doesn’t that place have a ‘C’ rating?”

“Do you monitor your sodium intake?”

“There’s probably dog and cat meat mixed up in there to save money.”

Seriously, didn’t that myth go out of fashion in the ‘60s?

But even if I eat a salad, I can’t win either because she blathers on about hidden calories in the dressing!

I know this is the first thing your readers will comment on, so please allow me get right out in front of it: I’m not fat. (But I’m not thin either.) Please don’t make me give specifics relative to my looks. Just allow me to honestly say that my figure rests evenly in the middle of a bell curve, equidistant between “tragically thin” (my former boss) and “morbidly obese” (the massive paralegal who sits down the hall, yet no one breaths a fat word to). Do I love my body? No. But who does? Even skinny bitches hate themselves.

Even though I don’t always make the best food choices, I eat reasonable portions. I exercise when I can. I don’t eat my emotions to mask father issues or cut myself in the bathroom stall just to feel. I’m just a regular girl, with a regular body who has an all-consuming, stressful job that rarely affords Weight Watcher-approved options at all points of the day.

Secondly, my food is never smelly or gross or foul or any other adjective she used to ruin my meal. I’m a hygienic person, and I’ve never had food poisoning. I’m smart enough to realize when something is stale or moldy. I also am pretty aware of the basic nutritional value of most things. But I’m not sure of any of it anymore because it’s made me insane.

To be honest, I think the problem is that my boss was a skinny, anorexic bitch who couldn’t be happy (or feel good about herself) unless she ruined my meal by insulting it or making me feel disgusting.

Still, it all comes down to two kickers:

1. I’ve actually gone down one whole dress size in the last months before she left, and it’s all because of her. So I don’t know if I should thank her or kick her.

2. Probably so affected after serving the frigid hag for so many years, my secretary, who the hag and I used to share, made a comment to me yesterday about my Chipotle burrito in the exact tone as her. That was the second one she made that week, which means her legacy will continue to haunt me. (Not to mention the residual turmoil and practical eating disorder she inflicted me with.)

What this all comes down to is that it’s my body, my choice. I never make snide comments to anyone when they’re eating, so I’d appreciate if everyone would mind their own freaking business and not make quips when I’m trying to eat.

But I can’t win anyway. I will never be rid of this woman, and eating has become hell.

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Shut Your Mouth (And Your Legs)

by Bitter and Abused on September 8, 2009 in Columns

For reasons somewhat unclear to me, women in the workplace get a free pass to talk about their sex lives. For reasons even less clear to me, the women who take advantage of this double standard are never the ones you actually want to hear talk about their sex lives.

Exhibit A: My boss. I’ll spare you the details of her appearance because at least a few of the lawyers at our firm read this blog. But let’s just say she looks like Garry Shandling had a love child with Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Take a second and let that image assimilate.

Basically, she’s ugly, and if the dictionary had pictures… Well, you get the idea.

Unfortunately, I spend a lot of late nights alone with this woman. (Working and not undressing her with my eyes—trust me.) She’s a senior litigation associate, and I’ve been a lawyer for two whole years. I’ve been working closely with her for the last eight months, preparing for a rather complex trial. So, especially lately, we’ve been spending a lot of hours together, usually working through dinner in one of the conference rooms.

Without fail, if we’re there past 9:00 p.m., which is a couple times a week, she lets down her hair and starts talking about her social life—more specifically her dating escapades. (Yep, apparently she actually has them. Although I’m not sure who would want to date her.)

On at least two or three occasions, I’ve gotten more details than a Penthouse Forum letter. It’s seriously appalling stuff. She talks about everything regarding men in her life: Their names, their jobs, their dating history, their kids…….their penis sizes, her preferences, her kinks, EVERYTHING. And after I googled the term “NuvaRing,” I quickly realized she had even divulged what kind of protection she uses. (Dry heave.)

Not that I asked for any of this, mind you.

When we first started working together, I was kind enough to humor her by biting on the heavily baited statements she would make during small talk that practically begged, “Ask me more about my new man Terrance!” (After all, she’s a senior associate, so why not let her blabber about whatever the hell she wants?) But after I inquired about where she met Terrance and she replied with “meetup.com,” I banished myself to small-talk solitude.

Since then, without ever trying to draw her out, she’s updated me on Gary, Phillip, John, Hamilton……………..and so on.

I do not encourage this. At this point, I nod politely, and I try and change the subject back to the case. But she just yaps away about her gross sexcapades, reads me the sext messages she receives and analyzes the desperate men who are lonely enough to bang her.

Several times she has asked for my male perspective. I just brush it off with something about how dating is a crazy process. One time I even told her that it made me uncomfortable, and she just laughed it off.

“Oh sure,” she said. “I know how you guys are.”

I’m no prude, but I really don’t want to know what a co-worker likes in the bedroom. As much as I hate the phrase, I still can’t help but say it—TMI!

Now, if I were a woman and she was a man (which she practically is anyway), this would have already resulted in a massive sexual harassment situation. But, acknowledging the double standard, there’s no sense in getting HR involved. I really don’t want to. Mainly because she’s actually a good lawyer, and when she’s not waxing on about her sex life, I’m really learning a lot from her. Plus, since she thinks we’re BFFs, she’s given me more responsibility than anyone else in my start year has even gotten. Granted, that responsibility comes with the price tag of feeling like I need to take scalding showers when I get home. Lather, rinse, repeat.

There was a time when her sex talk creeped into my head at exactly the wrong moment. I almost broke up with my girlfriend last week because some dirty talk she said one night reminded me too much of my putrid boss. I got grossed out and practically shoved her off me. I’m not sure the relationship is even salvageable. But this type of trial experience, I hope, is worth a sexual casualty.

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Air, Unconditioned

by Bitter and Abused on September 2, 2009 in Columns

Well, it’s official: I literally work in a sweatshop. And in the time it takes me to write this, I will have lost seven ounces of waterweight—all sweat.

It’s brutally hot outside, but it’s a damn oven in here because the guy with his name on the front door refuses to pay for us to use the central air conditioning. He claims the unit is too small to effectively cool the entire office, it’s too leaky because the ductwork system was so poorly retrofitted into this old, piece-of-shit building and there’s not enough insulation. We were using it fine for the first month I was here, and now it’s forbidden. “Not efficient,” he says.

All the fixes to the problems I just explained are very, very possible. Granted, it might cost of few dollars upfront, but the fixes are also very, very necessary. Sorry, dude, you run a business. You have got make the space decent enough to work. Fix the damn AC!

But why should he do any of it? He’s got a window unit that keeps his office at a cool 71 degrees, while the rest of us in the office cook!!!

Basically, I think it’s clear to everyone now that he’s a cheap bastard/slumlord, and this is one shitlaw job. I knew things wouldn’t be great when I started here after graduating this June, but nobody told me I’d be working in blistering heat.

To make matters worse, my boss would prefer if we dressed more “office professional” around here, but he’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m ruining my only two wool suits so I can sit around and sweat my day away. I’ve already noticed nasty pit stains in some of my dress shirts. And I’m not exactly flush with cash to go out and buy new clothes every week.

Every time we complain, the guy will say something like, “What are you talking about? It’s just a tad warm in here.” Or, if it’s really brutal that day, he just says, “It makes you tougher.”

Yeah, right!

And before you say, “Cheer up, summer is almost over,” let me tell you were I am. Florida.

Back to thinking cool thoughts.

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The Window Seat to Hell

by Bitter and Abused on August 26, 2009 in Columns

You want to know what annoys me to the point of claiming “Associate Abuse?” It’s the fact that I spend more than six hours flying per week, but I can never sleep on the plane. It’s not because I have a fear of flying or because of those uncomfortable seats. The reason I can’t sleep is because my boss sacks out before the plane can even level off! Plus, as I see it, there’s been one occasion of really crossing the line.

We’ve been making the same three-hour flight together twice a week for the last six months (and will be for some time to come), and I can hardly think of a single time he hasn’t used my shoulder as a pillow, invaded my legroom and blocked my access to the aisle or bathroom. Because, of course, he always “let’s me” have the window seat.

Trust me, trust me, trust me! I’ve thought of every possible way we could possibly book separate seats, but even though it’s a long flight, it’s still a commuter jet with one class of service and only 60 small, crammed seats. I’ve asked his secretary who makes all the reservations several times about getting separate seats, but she acts like she’s under strict orders to put us together.

No matter what, my shoulder feels like it’s been through hell by the time we land. He’s a large man, and I’m a tiny, 5’3” woman. It’s a total mismatch; and I often struggle to keep from being crushed under his weight. But I guess that’s why he likes it so much—he knows he will never get stuck to anyone sizable enough to cramp him.

Oh! And he snores! Um, and I mean that it’s loud enough for me to hear him over the cabin noise. And as long as I’m totally calling him out, there have also been a few occasions of drool. After he practically ruined one designer top, I cling as close as I can to the window when I know he’s in really deep sleep.

So this all leads up to what happened last week. We were on our regular 7:10 flight at the beginning of the week when I reached up to adjust the air. As I did, my boss—asleep as usual—moaned and slid his right arm firmly and directly across my chest.

That’s right. I got felt up. By my boss. While he was sleeping. If I could have jumped out the goddamned window, I would have.

I had a really terrible reaction and said something (I don’t remember what), and it must have been loud enough to wake him. Through his sleepy eyes, he just starred at me, but he didn’t apologize, even though I’m certain he knows he did it because he had that stupid, sheepish look on his face that all men get.

I folded my arms and played defense for the rest of the flight. I just wish the bastard had been awake when he groped me because I’m not sure about the merits of a sexual harassment lawsuit where the defendant is unconscious.

Ever since that day, I’ve been a complete rag to him. I can’t help it. But I don’t think he even cares, so what’s a girl to do?

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