Back from the wild world of work

Have I told you yet how much I love my job? I could get horribly repetitive and tell you this six more times, but I'm not sure that would fully describe how much I love my job.

I've been with the American Benefits Council for nearly nine years. It's a small trade association that lobbies the federal government on employee benefits policy issues on behalf of large companies and service providers. We write talking points, testify on the Hill, make numerous Congressional and regulatory agency visits and attempt to explain this all to the media. Love of the Internal Revenue Code and all things ERISA is required.

But the best part of my job is the people. This is a small office (just 11 of us at present and two vacancies) so if you don't get along well, you're in trouble. In our case, it's one very fortunate extended family. Four of us have worked here for more than 15 years. There are another four (including me) who are circling the 10-year mark (or just past it). The other three "newbies" each have a year or more under their belts.

Why do we stay? Is it pension reform glory or the thrill of promoting HSAs?

Nope. It's the food.

Yesterday was Jason's (my counterpart in the public relations departments) birthday. This means several rituals must occur: birthday card selected by the office manager (who has dead-on taste in silly cards) was signed by all; "surprise" meeting is called for the time when everyone can be there; and of course -- food. Jason's not a cake guy so we went for gelato since he is off to Italy for the next 10 days. (Must practice eating Italian cuisine!)

Five flavors of the stuff later, our only regret is that our traditional cake server couldn't be used to scoop the wondrous frost. The cake server is a gift from my father -- flat, triangular blade you'd expect attached to an odd handle with buttons. Mash one of four choices and you get a screaming loud song relevant to the occasion (Happy Birthday, For He's a Jolly Good Fellow, Marriage Theme, and Auld Lang Sine). Years after we have run through the songs at each sitting, it still elicits giggles every time the first button gets pushed.

All this dessert did lead to discussion of our upcoming activities: the Holiday lunch and annual Cookie contest. Each December we close the office for half a day to have a holiday lunch at a nice restaurant (with secret Santa gifts, of course) -- this year it's the new Brazilian steak place that opened up the street and is affectionately referred to as "meat on a stick". We keep seeing the cute male waiters walking to work down 12th street in their plume-y pants and big black boots -- now it's time to find out more...

The Cookie contest means one morning near Christmas, the office is closed for a couple of hours and everyone totes in plates of their favorite homemade or store-bought delights. Help from children in the baking/decorating process is encouraged and everyone gets a prize once we've all sampled. Last year the judges were a member of the Board of Directors, who happened to be coming to a meeting later that day, and Helen, who was out on vacation by then. The winner was a new one for us -- the boss' potato ladkes beat all hands down (outdoing another co-worker's fruit cake bars and several batches of chocolate chip cookies) and we're still finding the occasional dribble of sour cream and apple sauce. Hope Jim brings those again this year!


The Cookie contest is also part of our office's policy of "mandatory group fun". Every now and then, when Congress is gone, we close the office for a couple of hours and do something fun together: shopping, going to a museum exhibition, attending a movie together, there's talk of bowling in our future.... Last spring it was a picnic and walk around the Tidal Basin to view the Cherry Blossoms. Here the Council president buys us all ice cream.

Like I said, I love my job!

Sunday dawns -- and the buick is here...

Well, it's too late. Abandon the dust clothes, tuck away the vacuum. The parental units have arrived. Instead of over the river and through the woods, they came up the highway -- with the promised booze, some early Christmas presents (yeah!), and the aforementioned:

Helen will be horrified when she sees this -- but my dad and mom thought it excellent fun.

So far we have managed to eat -- A LOT -- hit the grocery store for more food and play dominoes. Tonight will inaugrate the latest round of bridge -- my mother and Helen will probably again beat the pants off my father and me. It's not so embarrassing now that Helen's my height and 11. She learned to play bridge at 8 -- and could bid "no trump" but needed a box to hold up her cards because her hands were too small.

Saturday morning...nursing a blogover

Swigging instant coffee (it was faster...) and eating the last of the apple pie from the other night straight from the pan in my lap, it is too dang early for any sensible person to be conscious. I am beat.

I swear all we had to drink last night was juice boxes (Juicy Juice Apple for the record) but the giggles -- the noise -- the Moose! (mooseses? meese? I'm so tired that the plural of moose escapes me...) It was all too much. If blogovers haven't previously been recorded on the Internet, I vouch for having the first one.

Last night was also prime display of the strange dichotomy that is my child. I know other kids who do this -- but 11 years later it still catches me off guard with my own. I know her well, but every time my daughter walks into the room I don't know if it's the child or adult-wanna be entering.

Maybe this is a more prominent problem in "onlys" -- Helen would be the third generation only child following her mother and grandmother. Onlys spend their family time primarily interacting with other adults, not siblings. From the start the learned behaviors and conversations seem (at least in the Johnson household) to take on a more wizened tone. I didn't say sage, we can be as loopy as the next guy.

Don't get me wrong -- it was silly fest central here: stuffed animals parading and wild comments like "Ew, why did you put that guy on your web site? He's so old." "He's four years younger that ME, Helen!" "Warren Brown (Food Network chef) is much cuter."

Helen sat with judicial seriousness through the blog set up process. She typed in her own stuff using touch typing (they teach that in elementary school now -- not surprising as you go to computer class every week and you won't keep up if you can't touch type and turn out rockin' PowerPoint presentations by grade 2) and carefully coordinated her color scheme, posed and snapped her plush buds, and selected illustrations. Anna Wintour would have been left in the professional dust.

Then (around 11:00 p.m.) "Helen, we gotta go to bed. It's late."

"Aw, Mom! Just five more minutes!" The 11-year-old was back.

This has been going on since the little scupper could speak. Readying for day care one morning she looked past her selection of Disney princesses summer dresses and matching rumba pants (diaper covers) to give me the head-to-toe, eagle-eye once over: "Are you sure you should wear that to work? Mommy, I think I'd put on something else. That's not appropriate for the office."

The one emergency call from kindergarten had me in a total panic: your daughter split her head open on a metal horse (one of those old-fashioned monsters on a giant steel spring we all loved to bounce back and forth on until some inevitable injury from the sharp corners occurred). Whirling into school like a dervish I confronted the school principal, applying a small band-aid and some ice to Helen's forehead. She had the weirdest look on her face that I've ever seen on an education professional. And then I heard it:

"But really Mrs. Martinez, you have GOT to rethink the playground equipment. That horse is just too dangerous for small children."