Pink Tinted Glasses

The ominous cloud of layoffs finally burst and a downpour of acid rain washed away the debris to reveal a shinier bottomline. With her colleague, friend and lunch buddy gone, The CoHo gobbled up her insipid lunch alone in her cube, hunched over the computer guillotine waiting for the blade to drop.

The CoHo was summoned for her hearing and she marched in determined to make a McCainously graceul exit. Strangely enough, she was saddled with free-flowing praise with a subtle reminder that since the slave count had been reduced, they expect more from the lucky ones that remained.

It made no sense, those lies. After all, chewing one’s fingernails and twiddling one’s thumbs couldn’t possibly pass off as professional excellence. The numbers were off and any ol’ fool could tell that doom was lurking around the corner. Perhaps she would get to be home with her Nibbles after all.

Bytes Not Bites

The CoHo donned her habitual scowl as she made herself some milkless tea. Why was it that all those e-mails related to organizing food for a group event had to be sent by women? And no, these weren’t the (exclusively) female admins on the floor – these were women on her team. Tech chicks.

So this is probably why those feminists of yesteryear that had to choose career over family are so pissed off (hot flushes can’t help either). Here she was, consciously trying to mute her nurturing instincts and put on her best ass-kickin’ programmer face, and there was Miss Banana Republic, diligently surveying downtown lunch specials while the boys attacked nasty system bugs. And no, she’s really not interested in the “women are much better communicators and managers” argument. What self-respecting programmer would work for someone that can’t dive into a quicksand of code? (Ok, what self-respecting person would work for someone else – but what is a CoHo, if not a Corporate Whore?)

The CoHo had to leave her Nibbles at backup daycare for the second time today and running away to her cube in the midst of his heart-crunching separation anxiety episode better be justified. You know, the guilt trip of how the working mom decision was not just The CoHo’s to make - she was essentially deciding the fate of rest of her doubly Xed chromosomed colleagues? Really, this whole feminist cause can be a pimple on life’s butt (TM an old pal).

So geek sister, until that glorious day when women do not need to be twice as good to prove that they are half as good, you’ve made my battle in this testosteroned space akin to lifelong abstinence from chocolate i.e. hopeless.

Oh Chute

I’d be lying if I said family always comes first. On days like today, I’ve totally ignored all wants and most needs of my boys in an effort to do justice to my work. It was almost like my first day back from my maternity leave, where I got so engrossed in a nasty production issue that I’d forgotten Nibbles was away from me for the first time. Heck, I went on to have a memory glitch that made me forget that Nibbles even existed. By lunchtime, the mommyness rushed back like a sneeze, in an unappetizing mix of nausea, shock and guilt.

I never forgot again. But yes, there are days like today, when I didn’t realize that Big Byte fell asleep hungry and Nibbles exhausted himself to sleep on my boob while I ran meaningless scripts. It’s not like anything I was doing held a fraction of importance compared to making sure they were doing ok after I abandoned them for my weekly escape cubicle sentence. I should’ve jumped straight down that chute when I trashed the remnants of their day – an empty box of Yo Baby yogurt stuffed with bottles of Miller Lite.

*plonk*

As my ex-boss would say, the shit has officially hit the fan.

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.

Mom Track Mind

Priya’s and Mystic M’s posts have forced me to attempt some honesty, so here goes. The only reason I’m not a SAHM right now is because I don’t want to be at home forever.

I’m on the mommy track at work. Gave up the excitement and challenge of interfacing with traders and tackling high-profile projects. Scaled down to part-time, not so much because I can’t put in 40 hours a week, but because I’m not fully committed. Waved the London assignments adieu. Try to scramble into work by market open, but nobody really cares because if there’s a fire to put out, I’m not the man for the job. Leave work by market close, and my co-workers chirp, “See you next week!”, instead of the standard, “Half-day? Where are you interviewing?”. And I’m not complaining.

Sure, I’ve never been in love with my job, but I’ve hit record levels of apathy. It’s common, this apathy, at least in the corporate jailhouses I’ve worked in so far…but not for me. I can see lesser-experienced, newer colleagues elbowing their way up the ranks via exceptional diligence and subtle brown-nosing. And though I’ve lost the crown they dangled before me prior to my maternity leave, I don’t give a corporate rat’s ass. I’ll just do the bare minium required to justify the paychecks. And the spot on Wall Street that thousands desire.

Here I am, one foot in the career door, all mind elsewhere. Truth is, I’d love to give it all up in a second, and devote the same focus I once had for my career to my home, to Nibbles. So why can’t I quit whining and just stay at home? Sounds liberating. Sounds scary. Because I know I won’t be allowed back in the tech boy’s club once I’m done. And I don’t really know when I’ll be “done”. And I can’t swallow the idea of staying at home forever.

NP: “Ok, CoHo, what exactly is so scary about staying at home forever?”
CoHo: “I don’t know if I can deal with a permanent shift in dynamics of our home to traditional gender stereotypes”.
NP: “Cut the bullshit CoHo. ’sides, you’d rather fit into a modern gender stereotype even if it goes against what you really want?”
CoHo: *wrinkles nose* “It’s not that simple really. What makes you think we’ve reached a time where one can do as one pleases? And it’s not like I won the fuckin’ lottery”.
NP: “Take your potty mouth back to the trading floor. So you’re saying, you can’t afford to quit? Perhaps you don’t really need to stay in a condo by the waterfront” *snickers*
CoHo: “I stay in a fuckin’ condo by the waterfront so that we have a quicker commute to work and hence more time with Nibbles”
NP: “Whatever. And ordering take-out is a great way for the family to bond together”.
CoHo: “Whatever”

*muffled obscenities*

CoHo: “Ok, it’s not the money. I’m scared to think of what would happen in a situation where Big Byte would not be around.”
NP: “That’s just rich CoHo. If your star-studded resume can’t land a job, what can?”
CoHo: “Corporations don’t shed tears for a returning SAHM”.
NP: “There’s other jobs out there you know. Like start-ups. You always wanted to join one, right? Maybe you could start your own…it’ll be stimulating, fun, you could be your own boss instead of a lowly CoHo”
CoHo: “That would be a much bigger time committment. What becomes of Nibbles then?”
NP: “Forget it CoHo. Scurry away to your dusty corner and I’ll let you know when that dream job comes begging for you while you live your life in morbid fear.”

Good For Nothing

Apparently if Nibbles puts his running shoes on now, he’ll need to get into a good daycare so that he can get into a good montessori when he’s 2 so that he can get into a good school when he’s 5 so that he can jump across the hurdles – primary, middle, hiiiigh school- off to a good university so that he can land a good job. And then the good wife will follow suite, naturally. And of course, there’s nothing subjective about what’s deemed good.

I had it all, did it all – after all, I was a rather good girl. Fat lot of good that did me. I keep thinking that what I want most for Nibbles is for him to be able to pursue his dreams. That would be a whole load of phony baloney, considering I never had the balls to do so. And nothing accelerates a parent’s fall from the pedestal faster than hypocrisy.

But what does a good girl do when she forgets how to dream? Perhaps learn to forget her identity has a human, and come to terms with what she really is – code monkey, work horse, fat pig, stupid cow, corporate rat. If I must choose, I think I’d want to be a cockroach. Enviable resiliance + free lodging/boarding. Or perhaps I’ll stick to pig – playing in the mud + 30 minute orgasms.

WAHM setup

This one’s for me, Poppins and other WAHM hopefuls. It’s a bunch of tips on working from home, coming from an IT dude. He’s not a mom (duh!), but the points are relevant enough.

He does mention my biggest problems these days:
1) Decent chair+desk: I’m the kind of person that sits either cross-legged or hunched over my knees while coding. (Everyone’s used to my scramble to find my shoes when I’m summoned for a impromptu meeting). But somehow, the chair-desk alignment was far more ergonomic than sitting cross-legged on the bed. It’s not like I’m doing my kegels while coding, and my back n’ bones have aged decades over the past few months.

2) Environment: It’s no coffee house when you’re surrounded by laundry, baby goo stained clothes and useless plastic toys. If anything, it is depressing and not the right work environment. I do have issues having Nibbles leave my line of sight, even if there are other responsible adults watching him. I need to work on creating a bigger baby-safe play area where he can explore without my continuous chorus of Nooos and Aaaacks. The playard we have is so tiny, it feels like a prison (doesn’t help that Nibbles peers through the mesh/cage and wails miserably till he’s free).

Some things that I’d add right off the bat:
3) Go on an internet hiatus while working (excluing access to my work machine). Avoid personal sites (e-mails, blogs, social networks) like the plague the gym.

4) Feed growling tummy something tasty to avoid fishing for lil’ somethings to hit the spot.

5) Block time slots for working and don’t do anything else during that time (besides feeding/helping Nibbles sleep); post dinner time slots work best for night owls like me. This is bound to be far more productive than the office, with numerous breaks attributed to production issues or coffee refills.

I’m all pumped. Will attack code with a vengence now. Yeaaaah! 

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.