The Much-Anticipated, Long-Awaited, and Probably Anti-Climactic Blog Update re: meine neuen Job bei der Bank

Let this be a lesson to you:  when the universe sends you sign after sign, until it is effectively bludgeoning you over the head with reasons you should be wary of the road down which you are travelling--take heed, lest you wind up sending tear-stained texts to your best friend on your lunch break (you know what I mean, just go with it) about whether or not your coworkers think you are nuts, and how you may or may not have just inadvertently broken federal regulations regarding the handling of a substantial financial transaction.

This is basically my overly-obnoxious (but oh-so-endearing?  Please?) way of saying my first week at my new job has sucked OUT LOUD.  (And even from thousands of miles away, where I know the Head Spa Bitch is reading this, I can hear her singing the "I Told You So" song.  Fine.  You win.)

I should also point out that this job will be known hereinafter as "der Bank" because the Germans would be beside themselves with joy over how bureaucratic an American financial institution is.  You know what I mean--the Germans are all "eins-zwei, eins-zwei" about everything, and the sheer amount of rules I've had to learn and forms I've had to fill out this week would be enough to send Herr Klecksensnitch into a joy-induced fit of yodeling (provided, of course, his Lederhosen were back from der Dryen-Kleaneren).

The first two days on the job consisted of sitting in a fluorescent-lit office with bad corporate art decorating the walls (these would be the horrible, generic landscape paintings that Ani Difranco calls "the ones they bolt to the wall as though anyone would want to steal them"), listening to the head of HR drone on and on about the "culture" of der Bank.  Firstly, this woman is very sweet, and were I organizing a church potluck fundraiser, she would be the first one that I call, not only because she would make everyone want to donate a casserole, but you know her "Holy Smokes" cake would bring in at least $20 in the dessert raffle.  As the head of HR, however?  HORRIBLE.  It took me the better part of 7 hours with her to figure out why my mind kept wandering and why I had no idea what the hell she was talking about.  Finally I realized that, though she had a thesis statement at the beginning of the conversation, 10 minutes later we had strayed so far into the where's and why's of Chik-Fil-A's business plan that I was daydreaming about shoving bamboo under my fingernails because that would be a better use of time.

Finally I got to delve into FDIC regs and the Patriot Act (PS, for those of you who think that we are rid of "W" and all his antics, you are quite mistaken.  His fingers are sticky and his arms are long.  And obnoxious.  Mostly obnoxious.  "Strategery" and "Compassionitivity," indeed.).  So I left the branch Friday evening thankful for a break from the 9 to 5 grind and looking forward to a weekend with friends (a fireworks baseball game, cooking out on the deck at Best Friend's and Non-Husband's house--with draft beer out of the Man Cave, I should add, and a Sunday devoted to immersing myself in the Hunger Games occult?  Yes, please!).  Thus, Monday morning I walked into the branch, a bit nervous in anticipation, but well-rested and braced with my extra-large, industrial-strength cup of coffee; I was confident I would do well.

And then all hell broke loose.

First of all, I should say that our branch's clients are used to the staff.  Read:  they are particular in their ways, partial to certain tellers, and at times cantankerous about how their money is handled.  Fair.

Secondly, I know that my trainer did not intend to leave me alone for an extended amount of time; things arise while doing everyday business, and he was trying to put out fires as needed.  Furthermore, since I know this trainer/head teller from my Music Life (we did our master's degrees together, just in different fields of music performance), I can only assume (hope?) that he sees me as a confident, capable, educated individual who would have no problem performing "simple" transactions without supervision.

Imagine his surprise, then, (and mine) when he disappears for 20 minutes, only to come back to find the branch manager consoling a nearly-in-tears Eden, 8 cars backed up in the drive through, 1 irate customer yelling over the intercom about how he's been waiting for 15 minutes only to not receive the correct cash back, and a check for $16,000 that was erroneously cleared in the heat of the moment.  In other words?  Bank Armageddon.

The manager had the wherewithal to send me to lunch early so that I could collect myself (and send the aforementioned texts to Non-Local Best Friend, MMG).  And luckily Mr. Trainer Man didn't leave my side for the rest of the afternoon, unless he made sure that I had supervision from another employee (I kind of feel like the resident toddler....do you think this means I get Nap Time???).  But perhaps the best part of this story is that it comes with a happy ending.  And by "happy ending," I mean "double vodka martini, served up and slightly dirty" (what can I say?  I like my martinis like I like my men:  up and slightly dirty.  Parentals?  You're welcome for that.).

You can't tell me that's not sexy.

I can't help but feel, however, that if I had listened to the Universe's urgings this morning, I would have known what I was walking into, and thus not have been so damn surprised at the ensuing shenanigans.  After I spent Sunday night in a fitful sleep with some really strange dreams involving chocolate cake, talking squirrels, and a lying-cheating-backstabbing ex-boyfriend (I promise, I don't have relationship issues--it's my inner psyche that has them...), I woke up, coffeed and showered myself, and then discovered The Beagle working diligently to destroy my birthday gift to myself:

That's right:  I bought myself the hardcover boxed set of The Hunger Games as a late birthday gift to myself.  I know I'm late to the party on this post-Apocalyptic Teen Fiction, and apparently Ellie was unimpressed, as she consumed the book's binding in its entirety (which she later expelled in my living room, thankyouverymuch).  But I mean, really:  LOOK AT THIS CARNAGE!!

So it would seem that the universe has been working hard over the last week to tell me that I have no business dealing with the unwashed masses' money.  I know I truly belong in academia, where the bureaucracy may prevail ("Guten tag, Professor Klecksensnitch, haben Sie gelesen die Hunger Games?  Ja, ich auch nicht, wie mein Hund aß sie.  Was für eine Schlampe..."), but I know I would thrive creatively.  But, a job's a job, and if nothing else, I know you, my Gentle Readers, will take pleasure in my daily antics.  Because you are nothing if not Schadenfreude-tastic.  And for that, I say danke.