Mrs. Donut has screwed me for the last time, I realize as Swiss Miss glides into the conference room and sits down across from me. Ordinarily, I’d be pleased that a hot woman was sitting across from me, but not today—not when she’s about to ruin everything.
It’s the first day of a new assignment, and the last thing I need is the blonde gunner whose slot I thought I stole exacting some bizarre form of temp-sanctioned revenge on me. This is a good gig. The firm lets you use the same bathrooms as the associates, and the paralegals gave up cake for Pilates. At least that’s rumor from a temp who looks like Homer Simpson and Fredo Corleone’s love child.
“The paralegals have asses you just want to pwn,” Fredo Simpson said moments before Swiss Miss had walked into the room.
We all laughed and offered our own (possibly) made-up observations about our good fortune. The room was all men then, and this gig looked to be the Sweet Candy Mountain of temping—three months (or more) at a firm with hot support staff and a room full of guys HR didn’t even know existed. Crude jokes would be the order of the day.
If you’re going mad for $35 an hour after seven years of school and $150,000 of debt, you’d at least like to be able to say that you’re getting laid. After all, that’s the point—my life is miserable but the sex is great—you want to be able to say. But when you’re a temp, that’s not going to happen. So, the next best thing is a room full of marginally decent dudes and an abundance of chicks to talk about. Then it almost doesn’t feel like work. That’s about as good as temping gets.
But with a hot chick in the room, the camaraderie dies. Sure, undressing her with my eyes will make the day go by nicely, but any temp worth his salt would easily trade three minutes of eye candy for three months of awesome banter with co-workers. Eye candy comes and goes, but a cool temp room is the stuff of legend.
With the reappearance of Swiss Miss in my life, I realize that I’ve got the karma of Ernesto Miranda. I stole a job, and now Ms. Donut, TempPimp and BigLaw are collectively shitting on my Sweet Candy Mountain.
Swiss Miss smiles at the room and the talk of what Pilates can do for a woman’s figure vanishes for good. Even Fredo Simpson knows we’re doomed when he hands me a note that says, “She’s got a nice rack, but I give her 30 minutes before she tells the supervisor we’ve offended her.”
I smile at Swiss Miss—she really does have a nice rack—and send a note back to Fredo Simpson.
“Want to get a pool going on who she complains about first? Twenty bucks says it’s me.”
Fredo Simpson begins circulating a note to everyone but Swiss Miss. At least I know that when she complains to a supervisor about my misogyny, I’ll walk away with a little cash.
Temper(a)mental is written by a real legal temp. He has a license and a law degree. We checked. He’ll continue to post his “thoughts” in between doing “your work.”