The most unproductive office ever

It's story time, people! Gather round as I spin a tale about days of yore.

Once upon a time, I graduated from college and couldn't find a job to save my life, so I decided to spend another two years under the tutelage of some wonderfully pretentious and brilliant professors getting my Master's Degree in Bullcrap Communications.

As that hood was placed carefully around my neck by my favorite professor who once said Detroit should just be nuked because there was nothing worthwhile there and also once called Asian cuisine "oriental food", and who also smoked in the non-smoking building and really didn't give a crap, I was filled with pride. I did it! I am a Master! Fortune is surely on my way! Employers will be banging at my door! I mean, they are probably waiting in the bushes right now to attack me with employment  contracts.


After an amazing back-yard party to celebrate with JP, the hood that was such a source of joy to me became like a noose of reality, strangling me with responsibility. I needed a job, and STAT.


I had an interview at our local newspaper for an advertising sales job. While the job offered barely less as a base salary than I was making at Victoria's Secret, it made up for it in commissions. And I was the health accounts rep so it was like I walked around with dollar signs in my eyes for almost a year. You guys know how much money hospitals spend on advertising? I do.

 For all y'all West Virginians, you're welcome for making your hospital stays as expensive as possible!


Anyway, almost a  year went by and the luster of all that money wore off when I began realizing making sales goals gives me panic attacks. Meanwhile, I was working with an advertising agency rep whose client was in the health care industry. JP had worked for this company in college as a -- secretary, I'd call it? So I sort of knew him through her.


One day I had a brilliant idea. I could come work for them instead of the newspaper! Wouldn't that be great? I could write their copy and design stuff and do account management! And maybe even do some sales! I had a lot of contacts from the paper, maybe I could bring in some new people!


They liked the idea and I came on board. There were only three of us then: the owner, the designer and me. It was a Web design agency trying to put on some big-girl panties and do some real advertising. How did that pan out? I'll let you decide. Here are a few key facts:

• The designer spent almost every working hour on a football message board. Like on the regular.
• I was always pulled into ridiculous projects that were a waste of everyone's time and money: i.e. coming up with ideas for a marketing plan for a NASCAR team.
• They tried to start a NASCAR team.
• There would be days I was the only person around for hours. Sometimes days.
• More attention was paid to the coffee than the design work.
• Beer 30 was a regular occurrence. It didn't necessarily have to happen on a Friday, either.
• We went to Chilis almost every single day of the week and it was on the company's dime. 
• At one point we were working with this vendor/contractor type guy who said BRICK IT UP without a hint of irony. He worked in our office for literally months.
• There may or may not have been a full-on fantasy football draft that happened in the conference room. (There was).
• One time I was given my paycheck and told that I shouldn't cash it until a few days later. You know, until some stuff clears.
• The phrase "hook me up with a favor for this Web site" may or may not have been thrown around.

Then there was the time when Bossman decided he wanted to become a rock star. Rock legend, if you will. He wanted to ROCK. That's in all caps and maybe with a little emphasis. He purchased an electric guitar and brought it into the office with the tiniest speaker ever to enhance music. It was like the kind you get to hook up your iPod. 

Our Web developer was also a musician, but a legitimate one. Like, he really knew how to play the guitar and had a little garage band. He was really good. So of course, how could Bossman resist the opportunity to learn a little something about those golden strings from a real guitarist? I'm not going to pretend there weren't some jam sessions going on in that office.

*phone rings*

Me: Hi, thanks for calling our design place, this is Amanda.

[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh] <- phonetic electric guitar, just go with it

Client: This is Mr. Important Client person calling about a Web site.

[[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh]

Me: Oh, hello Mr. Important Client, how are you today? I just got your --

[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh]

Me: -- content finished and --

[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh]

Me: -- I think you'll really --

[waaahhh whawhwahwahwa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh]

Client: Is that....a guitar?

Sometimes the heavens would part and the stars would align and there would be Beer 30 AND a jam session. There was a special name for those days: 4 o'clock rock. Or 3 o'clock rock. Or 2 o'clock rock. Whatevs.

Sadly, this company and I parted ways and I haven't really heard from them once. But every once and awhile, I'll hear a sad guitar riff from a 1980's power ballad and shed a single tear for my former employers.