When I worked for a low-income housing tax credit syndicator in the mid-to-late 1990's, one of my coworkers had formerly worked as a personal assistant to the CEO of a major commercial builder. He had money, political connections and all the other trappings of a "power broker." When she left, she stole the "handbook" that all personal assistants were given (a highly secret document; it said so on the inside front cover!) that set out the guidelines (no, demands. "Guidelines" suggest they had some leeway) for the care and handling of this big bad mac daddie.

It was a thick manual. It didn't cover extraneous issues like fire safety, or other company business; it dealt solely with how this man demanded to be treated.

When and where to pick up his dry cleaning, for instance. When his wife's birthday and when his wedding anniversary occurred each year, along with a list of "acceptable" gifts. Also, and most hilariously, what he ate.

While the entire book was hysterical and ridiculous, the "breakfast" section sticks in my mind. He was to be served a lightly-toasted bagel of a particular size and from a particular bakery; it specified the amount of cream cheese and to what "margins" it was to be spread, as well as the jelly (flavor and brand also specified, of course), which was to be spread to a certain margin within the cream cheese. If he did not get this for breakfast, to his exact specifications, there would be hell to pay.

You'd be fired as a personal assistant, and the CEO's day would be ruined. Maybe his week. Maybe his life.

So, whenever I ponder how much control these "men" or "women" have over our economy, our nation or our lives, I think about what absolute helpless babies they are. I picture Mr. CEO left to his own devices, trying to figure out how the bagel gets toasted, and how on earth that square block of cream cheese winds up on top of it. ("Do I rub it on top? What about the jelly? I'm lost, LOST!")