My Tess McGill and Sherman McCoy

As I stood outside the building of my new job this morning I saw white men, one after another, in their black suits step out of their cabs and town cars. All with blue or yellow ties and silver wedding rings, most likely courtesy of Kim Cattrall-like trophy wives. I walked into the office where all the girls were in cubicles and all the men in their offices with unfathably beautiful views of Central Park. The girl showing me the ropes was a dark fluffy haired Brooklyn girl who told me she'd be there six years. "It pays the bills," she says. I didn't dare ask her what she "wants to be." The Joan Cusack to my Melanie Griffith. I am currently in a world where "Bonfire of the Vanities" has met "Working Girl."

My boss is apparently some really important investment banking boss. A Dermot Mulrooney look alike who doesn't seem to do anything but take breakfast, lunch, dinner and drink meetings. Then a car picks him up at his Fifth Avenue apartment to bring him to a trainers session, where the car will wait to take him home. (Why can't he take a cab? He's not a celebrity, he's not going to be harassed while hailing one.) Not one of his meetings are ever more than an hour long which makes me feel like "How could anything really be going on?"

Is this what corporate America is? It's so weird and cliche. So, I choose instead, to believe that my boss has secretly run over a young, underpriviledged black man in the South Bronx and that later on I'm going to take over the office and steal some accounts. Whatever these "accounts" are.