[powerpress]
In this week’s installment of the Bitter Brief, our perennial punching bag, Mr. Law School, gives us networking “advice” with which we, naturally, take issue. We take umbrage at the sexist undertones of Law Firm 10′s latest musings on marriage and parenting and Matthew Richardson’s equating the declining value of mid-level associates with the declining hotness of women. And, on the lighter side, Clarence Thomas is the latest SCOTUS inductee into a very quirky—but exclusive—club.
Picture it: I’m at my office’s crappy holiday party, sitting next to our firm’s office manager, who just so happened to be hotter, younger…and hotter than any law firm office manager should ever be. Forget the fact that the firm is too cheap to actually throw a real holiday party, and they’re serving $4 wine, cheese, and even some grapes here and there.
In walks the big head honcho partner, a textbook narcissist who actually thinks that when he talks (and dear God, he talks a lot!) people should actually listen to him. Forget the fact that the man actually crashed the office computer servers by downloading porn (and God knows what else he’s doing in his office). And forget the fact that he’s received death threats at the office from unknown sources (I’ll probably be the next, so its nice to know that I’m not alone), and forget the fact that he met his current wife in the lobby of the building of his prior wife while still married to her.
So, I see him come down the stairs in his blue-pinstripe suit, red tie and white shirt. He’s a pretty decent-looking guy with silver hair, a prominent Greek face and a deep baritone radio voice…but still the biggest pile of garbage walking.
Anyone up for a real-life Dead Man Walking?
He sits down next to the office manager and starts with small talk.
“Hey, [Cathy]. How are things? Enjoying the party?”
Blah blah blah. And then, about a minute later, he drops a bomb.
“So, [Cathy], how’s your vagina?”
Wait. Huh? Did he actually just ask our office manager about her vagina!? And it gets better. Apparently, feeling that a genital interrogation was not quite enough titillation for the evening (remember, this is the firm’s official in-office porn aficionado), he then began to gently rub her thigh for a good 20 seconds. From her thigh to her knee. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Meanwhile, the office manager is staring at me, horrified, with no idea what to do. We look at each other in total astonishment. The man doesn’t even process the wrongfulness of his actions. And if he hadn’t felt the urge to get up for some grapes, I think he might’ve even gone for the jewels. If I’m not mistaken, this lunatic partner might qualify him for the insanity defense in some states.
At any rate, the next day, I go into my office, and I get called into another partner’s office so he can ask me what I saw. I, of course, have no problem spewing the truth all over his bankruptcy-laden desk while he scribbles down some notes on Mr. Named Partner’s most recent in-office sexual escapade. After the meeting, I go back into my office and send myself a letter, which, to this day, sits unopened in my apartment and describes all of the details, just in case I need to refresh my recollection in court someday.
The next day, she quit. Six months later, I’m fired. I’m no hero, trust me. I almost let a grown woman die in front of me—and I’m a doctor. But in this case, I had to tell the truth. No grown man should ever get a free pass on a line that lame.
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.
