Well finally! This morning I am writing to you from my brand-new (to me) iMac. And I should feel slightly guilty about the pleasure it’s bringing me because, due to sudden budget crises, everyone on my team will NOT be getting new iMacs. Mine is the only order to make it through the cancellations. Hold on while I try really hard to feel bad for the catty bitches whining away on their old G3s… mmm…

It almost seems too pretty to be functional. It feels like an expensive, elegant toy or a piece of art. It’s like I’ve visited the fitting room of a really upscale department store in which I clearly don’t belong with a pair of designer jeans, and I’m looking in the mirror wondering, “Am I cool enough for these jeans? Can I really live up to this image?”

I want to BE this iMac, all sleek and powerful with clean lines and uncomplicated features.

I’ve named it Sexy Boy, after the song by Air.

I wonder. There's a horrible, toxic-seeming smell hanging around the corridor by my office. It smells as if six million black permanent markers have been simultaneously uncapped in a non-well-ventilated space. If there were a toxic, poisonous substance unleashed in my workplace, do you think they would tell us?

I think they'd just wait for people like me to complain. If I don't complain, I'll be endangering the lives of my friends and co-workers (note the distinction). It's my duty as a concerned American to stumble woozily into my boss' office, pass a hand over my eyes and mumble with dramatic flair that my central nervous system is under attack, I've lost all feeling in my tongue, and I need to take the rest of the afternoon off.

But if I hold out, I might be able to work the more serious disability angle. This could be good for an entire sick day tomorrow.

The good news: turkey pot pie for dinner tonight!

I have such a small reserve of tolerance for stupidity, and some of the girls I work with are dumber than asphalt.

But it's nice to see that things are starting to deteriorate in this pseudo-sorority den of bimbos. They're starting to get territorial, showing their teeth and marking boundaries. I've walked past closed-door meetings and overheard shouting matches with flailing arm gestures.

And so, rather than sitting all of us down and insisting that we get all the issues and conflicts out on the table, my boss (in another stellar display of non-leadership) sent around an anonymous survey asking us to rate the team climate.

1. Do you feel challenged?
2. Do you feel that you have an appropriate amount of authority and responsibility?
3. Do you feel that your accomplishments are recognized and appreciated?
4. Is there an appropriate level of trust on our team?
5. Do you have a sense of our team goals?
6. Do you feel accepted by other members of the team? Do you feel like you really belong?
7. Are you encouraged to be creative and innovative?
8. Are you encouraged to take risks?

I have no idea what the hell any of that is supposed to mean, but you can tell that we're a group of 10 women. If we were men, those questions would have all begun with "do you think," not "do you feel…"

The question that really bothered me was number 6: Do you feel like you belong. I'm sorry, but I was under the impression that this was a workplace and not a cheerleading squad. What difference does it make if I feel like I fit in with these people? Who cares if they feel like I accept them? As long as everyone's professional and respectful, why should we even waste our time worrying about team climate?

I think I need a goddamn cigarette. Or should that be I feel...