How to Freak Out Your Boss

This is by no means an official announcement, but two events over the past two days strongly indicate that I have been chosen as Bill 2.0.

My glass of Merlot and I have somewhat mixed feelings about this.

Before we moved offices, Robbie - the best friend you could hope to have, and my only competition in the "Be the Next Bill" contest - whiled away some of the slower moments by decorating the underside of his cubicle cabinet with Post-It notes, on which he had written such sentiments as "This job sucks," "I hate this place," and "Please - Kill me now!"

The underside of the cabinet, he told me, was pretty well completely covered by the time we moved.

After we moved, Robbie realized it might be a good idea to go back and retrieve his cabinet - all the furniture, of course, is modular - from his old cubicle. But it was gone. Someone else had already taken it! Who?! Robbie asked around for it. He asked our friend and fellow three-martini breaker, Bryan, who now sits in the cube next to the one across from Robbie's old one. But Bryan had not seen it.

"Wow," remarked the partly dead old-timer in the cubicle across from Bryan's. "You sure do want that cabinet, don't you?"

Robbie sure does, inasmuch as he thinks he might have signed and dated a few of his creations.

But unfortunately, it's never turned up. He worried about it for a while. But it's been several weeks now, and nothing's come back to bite him in the ass. My personal pet theory is that it's ended up in our boss's office, where she's simply continued to add to it with Post-It notes of her own, without ever missing a beat. Gawdonly knows she feels free to joke around in every single staff meeting about how anxious she is to find another position.

Robbie and I sat today and discussed how best he should handle the news, assuming that's the news there will be, that I have been the first one chosen to go permanent. He says he can cry on demand. I think we should take it up a notch further, and when our supervisor calls me into her office, we'll both show up wearing sashes saying "Miss/Mister TRM Analyst 2007" and I will scream with excitement and my hands will shake in front of my face and my mascara will run and I will turn and hug Robbie and he will give me a fake hug with little pats on the back and and air-kisses.

I better get a tiara.