Are any of you watching Hell’s Kitchen? It’s a reality show on Fox that includes a bunch of chefs who compete against each other for the grand prize of running their own restaurant. The guy who essentially hosts the show and judges the motley group of chefs is an acerbic Scot who curses and throws things at the chefs when he thinks their cooking acumen is subpar.

Last night he was as hot as a tamale, yelling like mad at one of the more annoying female chefs. He kept calling her a bitch over and over, and referred to the team of female chefs as “bitches from hell.”

At one point the head bitch said she’s not the type of person who cries. She somehow, at least it seemed, didn’t let his constant yelling in her face get to her.

Often times, it is women in the workplace that break down, get teary eyed, allow the waterworks to flow. I know, there are men who cry at work but folks they are few and far between. I’ve never seen one do it in my career.

I have, however, seen women, lots of women, with red, puffy eyes, upset that a boss spoke cross to them. Gals, we have to get over this. Emotional displays at work don’t help your career, the mood of the office, or anything.

I was proud of the bitchy chef - even though I wanted to strangle her for her bitchiness - because she held it together and looked at the Scot host in the eye unwaivering when he was spitting in her face as he let his rage burst out upon her.

In the end, everyone watching thought the Brit was going to kick her off the show but he did not. He transferred her to the men’s team. Interesting move. They probably were just looking to boost ratings; or maybe he realized she was displaying what we deem in society to be male traits.

I have no problem with women bringing their own unique perspectives to the workplace and even changing the way the business world operates. Bring your creativity, your compassion, your energy to the office or plant. But please, please, please, leave your tears in a big pity-party jar at the door.

Crybabies don’t get to run their own restaurant.

So there I was sitting on my comfy couch at 10 p.m. Sunday night not watching TV. Not having a nice end-of-weekend conversation with my hubby, not eating chips and contemplating the upcoming Fourth of July holiday. I WAS CHECKING MY WORK EMAIL.

Why you ask? Because I can damn it.

Maybe I sensed the impending work doom. That’s why we weren’t standing on a long line Friday night waiting to get our hands on the new iPhone, or Jesus phone, or whatever the heck you want to call it. I now call it the What-the-f***-was-I-thinking phone (WTFWIT phone). I was subconsciously putting off what I knew deep down would happen.

I’m connected every second now. I can check my email, my blog, my column, virtually from anywhere at any time. It’s not a laptop you have to open up and let it get hot on your lap while you’re hanging in the family room. This is a freakin slim little phone that sits quietly in my pocket until it vibrates, rings, or I get the inkling to check my email. I get this inkling often but before the WTFWIT phone I had to get my butt up and into my office.

But nooooooo. I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I had to have the WTFWIT phone.

You know something. All these gadgets are nice, exciting and fun to play with. But the gadgetization of all of us is doing little for our so-called work-life balance grand plans.

I’m beginning to think it has nothing to do with balance. Work-life has become one word people — worklife. That’s it. Simple as that. No work. No life. Just some warped synthesis of both.

I hate you Steve Jobs.