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December 18, 2012
Every time I am left unattended at my desk:

Credit: M/IB/Paris

December 13, 2012
Getting an offer to jump to REPE that was completely unexpected:

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How I felt when they threw me to wolves on my first day and I remembered I had no RE experience:

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My reaction when I was given no changes to make on my model

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December 12, 2012
The markets reaction to FOMC

December 12, 2012
Are You Following Us On Instagram?

You should be. Shame on you.

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Submit your photos to be posted on our Instagram, like the holiday party gem above, or tag your Instagram photos with #WheninFinance.

December 11, 2012
Going to Market: When I have to call the bottom tier buyers:

Credit: M/IB/Chicago

December 10, 2012
A #WIF Christmas Jingle: Bonus Claus Is Coming To Town

We got this #wheninfinance Christmas jingle in our inbox over the weekend with a note that read: “Now as you read this, just imagine the most senior MDs singing loud and clear whilst glaring towards the analysts around the room. Don’t know how that makes me feel.”

 

“BONUS CLAUS” IS COMING TO TOWN

 

You better not sleep

You better not try

Just bust your ass

We’re telling you why

Bonus Claus is coming to town

—-

He’s making a list

He’s checking it close

Gonna find out who’s hot and who’s toast

Bonus Claus is coming to town

—-

He sees you when you’re resting

He knows when you’re awake

He knows if you’re at your desk

So show up, for appearance sake!

—-

Oh’ pound on Excel

Make spreadsheets fly

Better go fast

We’re telling you why

Or Bonus Grinch is coming to town

Share your holiday party stories (short or long), gif reactions, and photos to us at wheninfinance@gmail.com and tag with #wheninfinance on Instagram

December 10, 2012
When the creepy associate tried to drunkenly put the moves on me at the holiday party:

Credit: Skirt 

December 6, 2012
When I’m on hold for 20 minutes waiting for the pricing call to start:

When I reply all to the entire working group asking if the call is going to start:

When I realize the pricing call already started without me:

Credit: M / LevFin / Ohio

December 3, 2012
Holiday Party Tales: The Wives in Finance

Wives in finance are, quite possibly, the most interesting breed of human being in existence. Every time I’ve met a senior partner’s or director’s wife, she is an unknown strain of bizarre, worthless, or mean. It’s become the standard.

Once upon a time, I’d met my managing partner’s wife and, of course, she rolled in on the Wives In Finance Bizarro Train with glitter in her hair and spikey leather pants. She was some sort of faux-rock-and-roll like Avril Lavigne. She had a general disdain for the hoity toity, the schmoozey charity events, and was miserable about basically everything else that came along with being a wealthy fund manager’s wife.

And somehow, she thought we were friends. Maybe this is because I was usually the only other female even close to her age at events. Or maybe she could sense my bitchy undertones. I went with it.

She clung to me at our Christmas party. We drank and made fun of people, talked shit, took pictures, etc… At one point in the evening she said  to me “let’s get away from everyone and go to the bathroom real quick”.

I thought we were just going to powder our noses and get away for a second. So when we both walked into the single-person bathroom, I didn’t think anything of it. I started rummaging through my clutch for a lipstick and when I looked over, I saw that she had kicked off her shoes that cost more than my rent, and was squatting barefoot atop the toilet, her underwear pulled to her knees, and she was casually taking a shit in front of me. Just shitting away.

And it wasn’t a little shit; it was a full-sized shit. If this shit was a car, I’d say it was a four door sedan. It was a 7-series shit.

My world started spinning backwards as I realized I was watching my boss’ wife take a shit. All the while, she was still talking away about something, as if it was no big deal. I wondered how many before me had witnessed this Wife In Finance take shits. There must be hundreds. Or at least five or six.

I wondered how to nicely tell her that “no matter what happens, we will never be real friends; your husband signs my paychecks; you cannot shit in front of me like this ever again”? I realized this had gone too far. And I never made eye contact with her again.

-SKIRT.


Do you have a legendary holiday party story to share with us? Send us your goodies; we’ll protect your anonymity.