When The Street Has No Name

Responding to Priya’s post regarding resentment towards Wall Street bankers; let me start off by saying that I do not applaud the demise of entire firms on the Street. I have friends at Lehman with mortgages and kids, and know too well that it could’ve been me.

Like any production issue in the corporate IT world, we need a goat. Who’s to blame? Accountability is a toughie. It’s not like all the toxic paper built up overnight. Being part of the Street ecosystem, albeit on the fungal ranks, I do feel the need to swallow my share of the blame. Yeah, yeah, enough with the hysterical laughing already – a lowly CoHo, an IT CoHo, thinks she can take credit (cheap pun intended) for any for this.

After all, when I pocketed a fat bonus for what could only be considered mediocre code at a software firm, I tried to justify it by saying that my project helped improve performance so that the traders could get more trades in faster and hence rake in more $$$ faster. I wasn’t aware of the nature of those trades, but perhaps I should’ve been (blissful ignorance and all).

It doesn’t mean that I’m going to step forward and say, “Sorry, you can take back X portion of my bonus because we screwed up”. Besides the fact that I’m not that magnanimous, I have no clue how to calculate X. And I’m not sure exactly whom to return the money to. Uncle Sam? Uncle Hank?

Ironically enough, for all the people that rejoice in the fact the laid-off Streeters will know what it feels like to be one of them, they too will know how it feels to be part of a high risk game, thanks to the bailout. Again, not a juvenilie stick-my-tongue-right-back-at-you moment.

Honestly, I don’t really know what’s going on and my crystal ball’s looking mighty foggy of late. No points for stating the obvious, eh? Instead of being responsible, educating myself and doing something about it, I’m just going to sit back and toss the problem at the country’s taxpayers because something’s gotta be done before everybody gets fucked. Oh, what’s that? Everybody’s already fucked, you say? Ah, then, time to stock up on cheap vodka and nutella. It’s a long, cold winter ahead.
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This spring, we were trying to recruit women from top universities into Dream Company and a common response was, “No thanks; you guys are evil”. This was before the crisis. It was also my response fresh out of school, at my anti-capitalist best. Of course, it’s a toss between evil corporations and doing research funded by the military so…So for the first time in a long time, this makes sense to me:

A long long time ago
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they’d be happy for a while
But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn’t take one more step
I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died

So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die

Melting Clocks

‘Twas the first day of daycare,
And all through the Byte house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a Nibbling mouse.

The CoHo squeezed into a pregnant PATH train with Nibbles snuggled in a sling that was designed by ergonomically sadistic morons. Miraculously, she spotted an empty seat amongst the Suits and she plopped her bulging 5 foot structure down, feeling 22 months pregnant herself. “Dream Company”, the unsightly workout bag screamed, and The CoHo hid her face in embarassment. She felt the need to justify such in-your-face advertisement of The Evil Street, “It’s the only bag that would fit all the snacks, clothes, diapers and other random stuff that my baby needs”. But she didn’t, of course, being the spineless CoHo that she was.

Zigzagging through the post rush hour toursity crowds, she proudly showed Nibbles the daily circus of her City. The caregivers at the Dream Company backup daycare seemed nice enough (don’t they all?) and stuck a huge name tag on the back of Nibbles’ t-shirt. The CoHo began rattling off his likes and dislikes, comfort techniques, pet peeves…

Miss W: Perhaps you should sneak out when he’s not looking so there’s less separation anxiety.
CoHo: You mean I can’t stay here with him?
Miss W: *rolls eyes as the CoHo tiptoes out when Nibbles seemed engrossed in a talking piggy bank*
Nibbles: *turns around and flashes mischievous smile* Byeeeee!
So much for separation anxiety.

Overall, The CoHo coped pretty nicely for the first day of daycare. She spent only 3 out of the total 6 hours at the center, carefully scanning all edges and toys whilst subtly shoving bits of food into Nibbles’ mouth when the caregiver wasn’t looking. She tried not to laugh too loudly when they suggested that Nibbles lie down in the crib during naptime and nursed him to sleep as always. For once, she was grateful that none of her co-workers had kids and were hence unlikely to be scandalized by a public boob display.

When The CoHo headed back to her desk, she kept verifying the signal strength on her phone. They said they’d call her if Nibbles was upset. She absent-mindedly downed her milkless tea, “It’s been 45 mins since he fell asleep so he ought to have woken up at least once to make sure I’m around…”. Bang on cue, the call arrived and she couldn’t help smiling as she rushed over to her baby. Her baby who couldn’t bear to be a second without her, her baby who wouldn’t eat a morsel unless she coaxed him, her baby who…who was happily climbing up the wooden slides and greeted her with a brief nod when she arrived.

CoHo: “Nibbles, mamma’s here sweetie”
Miss W: “He’s doing fine, just a bit cranky that’s all. But look what he made for you…”
*hands CoHo a colorful piece of artwork on sticky paper*
CoHo: *eyes welling up* It’s beautiful.
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Nibbles dozed off in the sling, tightly strapped against The CoHo while she raced to avoid the rush hour crowds. Safe in their nest, The CoHo emptied out the uneaten boxes of his favorite food, all labelled with fluorescent green sticky tape. She cleared up the old magnets on the refridgerator and made space for the abstract masterpiece by Nibbles. It was just as she’d always pictured it…but not this early. As the first winter winds gushed through the windows, she scrambled to salvage the broken twigs and leaves.

While The Street Burned

The CoHo ambled along, under the ominous dark cloud that hovered above Wall Street. Like everyone else on The Street, she thought, “A gazillion, well-qualified people laid off in a heartbeat. There go my days of surfin’ the net and rakin’ a hefty bonus.” She also thought, “Perhaps some spots in corporate daycare would open up” *gulp* That’s just like a good CoHo – looking out for the bottomline while the rest of the world is screwed.

But seriously though, who registers a foetus at daycare? Granted, it’s much easier thinking about going back to work before you’ve had a chance to know your baby. She had no idea her lil’ rat had entered the race the second he was conceived. “That’s it!” decided The CoHo, “I’m heading home and sharing a tub of chocolate ice-cream with Nibbles while we watch some brain-numbing television”.

As she clutched her fourth cup of tea, she could almost smell the nutella-swirled muffins she’d baked for her first PTA meeting.

Underwater Notes

The CoHo watched cautiously from her mellow submarine. Will tonight be the night? She glanced self-consciously into her blog mirror, like a virgin desperate to get plucked, uprooted and transported to unknown worlds. No, she’s not ready, not just yet. Inertia, like bottled baby carrots, have a stubborn way of seeping through. And a bagful of tired analogies aren’t helping much either. It’s much easier to watch from the sidelines she decided, as she scraped the chocolate ice-cream that was well past her postpartum grace period and tried to get that damn Disney song out of her heavy head:
Un-dah da sea,
Un-dah da sea…
Darlin’ it’s better,
Down where it’s wetter,
Take it from me!

Working Things Out

“Today I’m certainly getting sacked. Fired. Pink-slipped, cardboard boxes et al.”, mused The CoHo, as she stared into the mirror, secretly admiring the darkening circles around her decaf eyes. After all, how long could she put on this charade? She felt like a fool in her uniform of black slacks, oversized shirt and colorful sneakers, psyching herself silly, “You better kick some corporate butt CoHo. Don’t give up the cause!”

Damn the cause. Whose cause was it anyway? She never agreed to exchange family time for a paycheck (ok, so she never expected family time to mean this much to her either). She didn’t want these spoils of half-won battles. She wanted everything…or nothing at all. Why screw over the previous generations only? Might as well destroy the environment with non-disposable diapers while she’s at it. “YeaaaH”, she screeched, “Talkin’ ’bout my ge-eeeeeeh-neration…”

The CoHo’s head-banging session was soon interrupted by hungry wails and she assumed a superwomanmom pose of breastfeeding babe in one hand and work laptop on the other. In between frustrated shrieks from a squirming baby struggling to get a decent mouthful, she attacked the e-mails multiplying in her box like a nasty virus.

A satisfied burp and series of yawns later, the babe was tightly swaddled and (seemingly) sound asleep. The CoHo then knew she had no excuse to avoid real work, which until the next week or so happened to be making the trading system faster. How progressive of Dream Company to dole out a mission-critical, high visibility, huge impact project to the new work-at-home mom!

The CoHo perused through enddless lines of dodgy code under her control, and felt a sudden sense of power…followed by nerve-wracking fear. A fear that was unlike the usual rush of a new, impossible deadline. More like the fear a drugged out CoHo felt when she found herself alone in a hospital room with a 5 hour old baby for an entire night.

She rushed into the bedroom, convinced that the babe had stirred – nope. He was in that blissful REM stage, flashing a quick grin every few seconds. Dammit. Ah! Laundry. Why not get that out of the way now instead of ruining the weekend? Oh, she’d already had this brainwave yesterday. Fine, then prep for dinner. Now that she’s at home, The CoHo had no excuse depriving her family of a heart-friendly, home-cooked meal. Uh, the refridgerator was still totally cramped with the major cooking spree she’d launched 2 days ago. Perhaps a nice cup of tea would help refresh her a bit.

One chai, one coffee and three dark chocolates later, The CoHo took another stab at the monstrous code. 010110110101010101010 *coredump*

The CoHo sunk into a schizophrenic blur as the voices taunted, “See what they said about a Mommy Brain?”, “You need to switch to a line of work that will fit your new lifestyle better – like testing”,  “This is why part-time workers shouldn’t get key deliverables”, “Girls can’t code anyway, and we’ll find another token female to keep the HR diversity committee happy”.

WaaaaAAH! *pop* The shrill cry was like music to The CoHo’s ears. She rushed to the bedroom, squeezed the tiny babe tight and showered him with generous, slobbery kisses. “Mommy’s here, she’s not going anywhere. Mommy’ll take care of you”.

And the e-mails did flood, the code did break, the phones did keep ringing as The CoHo and her babe spent a lovely spring afternoon finding new pieces of furniture to chew on.

In a New York Minute

The Corporate Whore, alias The CoHo, was thrilled to be back on the streets – her Wall Street. Even the squishy-squashiness of the PATH commute did not crush the passion she had for the city – her City. Stuck between expensive, friday-crumpled suits on the Century 21 intersection, a twenty-something elbowed her. “She’s waaay too chunky to be wearing those boots in New York. Atlanta? Perhaps. But New York? Pah!”, The Coho sneered, as she adjusted her maternity work pants.

The deafening din of Ground Zero construction was interrupted by a fire engine siren. The CoHo turned to catch a glimpse of New York’s Bravest and scanned the descending, greasy heroes for the oft-mentioned sexiness they exude. “Nice pants”, she decided and trudged along.

The Coho darted in front of a downtowner bus, landed smack in the middle of an NYPD checkpoint – and  sported her sheepiest, blondest  (fuck PCness), hello-officer grin. She caught a whiff from the shwarma cart that stood proudly in front of Trinity Church on Wall Street, with its spicy aroma enveloping the suits and tourists, the irony of it all, the…SHAWARMA cart??? Ack! Was it past 9 already?

Zigzagging through the crowds, The Coho lugged those last 10 pregnancy pounds around as fast as she could. Would she make it on time? Aaah yes. There it was. The last buttered roll wedged between the shelves of the coffee dude’s cart. “Small coffe, milk n’ sugar + a buttered roll please”, she panted. Coffee dude discreetly tossed in several spoonfuls of sugar into The Coho’s coffee and quipped, “How’s the baby miss?”. The Coho was stunned silly. How did coffee dude remember? It had been ages since she’d stopped by. Why, it had been almost..uh…”Baby’s almost 6 months, yeah?”…almost 6 months. Wow! The Coho was immensely impressed, proud, flabbergasted and freaked out as she sipped her morning drug of choice muttering, “Umm…thanks. Keep the change”. 

As the caffeine breathed life into her veins, The Coho programmatically zoned out and drifted into The Office. She flashed her badge, admitted her bar-coded person into the premises and surrendered herself to the will of her cubicle.