Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

Here I am, stuck in the middle. Alone. Utterly alone.

No, I'm not being melodramatic. I put Steeler's Wheel and Beetlejuice together in a blender, and that's what came out. It has been an awful day. I'm stuck between my boss and his perception of a deal we made, and the employee with whom we struck the deal. And now both of them are questioning the deal and each other's honor, and I'm left questioning my sanity. And clutching a bag of bagels that I brought for the employee's goodbye breakfast--all for naught, because she was too upset to show up on her last day.

I remember when I wasn't a boss and sat at my desk amid piles of work to do, wondering why the hell bosses get paid so much money while the rest of us actually produce something. What makes them worth so much more than us grunts?

Well, now I know. I'm not one bit more valuable than anyone on my staff, but I am constantly confronted with decisions to make, fires to put out, and people whose emotions get the better of them. I love being the one who makes things happen, but I know it must look like I'm just filing my nails while I count my cash.

Okay, this blog isn't meant to be just about work life. It's not the most important thing to me at all. But Jeff, my Nearly Perfect Husband, can testify to the fact that I've had so many fires to put out at work lately that I can't seem to stop trying to put out phantom fires at home. I get into hyper-problem-solving UberBoss mode at the drop of a hat--if the trash needs taking out, I spring into action, bagging the trash and formulating a plan about how we can develop a better trash-hauling procedure or, better yet, eliminate trash altogether by implementing a five-year plan.

So UberBoss is on her way home now and worrying about how she can be a sex kitten. Okay, sex cat. She hasn't been a kitten in a long time. So on her commute, she will try to formulate a plan for making herself look cute, relaxing, and rocking his world. But I fear the UberBoss would not go quietly if you plied her with a pitcher of margaritas, an angry massage therapist, and a chorus line of Johnny Depp look-alikes singing her praises.