My Office



Exhibit 1: My old office.

My office has always been like a second home (or a glamorous episode of Hoarders, you pick).  One, because I work a lot, and two, because I like everything to be visually appealing-- often an extension of my unique and charming personality. However, my job isn't the type where you sit in a cubicle working on TPS reports, (Way. Too. Pretty. For. That.) So the contents of my office are often least what most expect. Because my place of biz is not a typical office, the actual structure of our offices are just made from any old space one can fit a desk, and a 1968 government issued IBM. (Mine is named Dolores) Exhibit 1 is my old office, and has been for 5 years. I am not sure what it was before it was an office, but it has a counter top, broken cupboards, and a sink filled with hair. Maybe a cafeteria, maybe an embalming room.

The desk was split down the center, (and was like that from the start,) hoisted up on some old hunks of wood, with the drawers taped close. I always assumed it would collapse on me rendering me paralyzed from the waist  down requiring a powder blue Shetland pony dyed powder blue to match my eyes so I wouldn't feel so bad being a cripple, to pull me around in a mini chariot. This would of course be the alternative to an unsightly wheel chair, because everyone knows wheel chairs smell like band aids and pee. Well this tragedy did not happen exactly like I always dreamed it would, but nonetheless the desk  came crashing down like a major natural disaster! I had to think quick because I knew unless I hauled the way the debris on my back like a work donkey, it wasn't going anywhere, and I had TPS reports...to report. So I did the best any very feminine McGyver type would do--I formed the junk into a new shape, covered it with an old Estee Lauder table cloth, and called it a bistro table. It got me through a couple of weeks, as I was too busy with Black Friday and all, to really work on my TPS reports. But yesterday morning things took a turn. Due to the tragic demise of the desk, the rubble left an unpleasant odor that could only be described as dusty makeup rotten smelly dead animal carcinogens. Because this is not a "real" office, there are not Molly Maids who come late at night and cleaner 'er up. You try to just make due when faced with adversity. That's why I wore gloves to type, and wore a surgical mask if I was going to be back there longer than usual. You know, if I was interviewing someone, or making decoupage. I try to take the trash out nightly, because with my 23 diva misfits, it is not uncommon for them to stash away a meaty onion sandwich in my trash. And the holidays really are quite lovely for the copious quantities of ethnic foods brought in by my diva misfit step children. I love tabbouleh as much as the next, but it can get quite pungent after being out for 6 days straight. Everyone knows I have OCD and like everything clean, neat and orderly, but 23 kids and their constant mess often pushes me to my breaking point. And the kids' mess doesn't even count the eleventy billion signs, posters and boxes that get thrown in there too. Not too long ago, a coffin sized box fell over on me wedging me into a wall for over 16 seconds. I was just like that baby that fell into a well... If the baby in the well wore high heels and had to ruin her mani digging herself out while maintaining some sort of lady-like decorum. Obviously way worse for me.

 

 

Exhibit 2: My new office.

 

So yesterday I decided, unless I was going to start wearing some flat, thick rubber soled sad nurse shoe, I could not live like this. So I grabbed my clipboard of fake documents, and went "real estate shopping" before the store opened. I wanted my new office to be  far enough from my 23 diva misfits that their lazy tails couldn't find me, but not too far that I couldn't find them. My only other true requirement was a 1968 gov't issued IBM, as Dolores had become disconnected during the desk disaster of 2012. Finally after an hour and a half (an hour and 20 I was trying on dresses) I found a new home under the stairs  I am a glamorous treasure troll. The walls aren't painted, I don't think there is heat, but there is a desk, 43 old mini lockers and a computer from my grandparents era! So vintage.  I was over come with joy! I hung up my coat, threw my handbag in the third locker to the left, under the one that smelled like roast beef, and spun around with glee! And you realize when I say "spun around" I mean tip toed in a half circle so as not to lose an eye from an old fixture or slip on the unfinished concrete.

Because it's still really difficult to think about my loss with the old office, I haven't really returned for too many belongings. I moved in with just the important things I would need on a daily basis. As you can see from Exhibit 2, that included a mirror, a straightening iron, and my Detroit souvenir multi tipped pen.
The moral of the story is this, I may not have a secretary, or a view, or a ceiling or a a floor... *looks left, looks right.* That's all.

 

Meat and Pop

You know I try to keep up with current events, not because I care that much, but with the invention of the smart phone it is imperative people search/play with every possible app at every possible second. It's a chic way of saying, "I have a phone, and no attention span." Surprisingly, these constant searches and button pushings, includes *gasp* the news. So Hostess is closing and I.  Could.  Not . Be.  More.  Devastated.  I'm joking.  If I couldn't jest about fat people, my material would be cut substantially. But I can see why the world is so saddened, because people will put anything in their pie holes.  Is a pie hole a mouth, or a vagina? It's a mouth, right?
Just last night I made the horrific decision to stop at a small grocer on my way home, located in an even smaller town than I reside.  (Sick.)  I cannot really figure out why I would choose this backwoods store other than the fact I am lazy, I wanted an avocado, and I didn't want to drive 2 more feet past my typical drive home, because, as I said, I am lazy.
I find the avocado without too much trouble, which is shocking because there were few items that did not contain high fructose corn syrup as ingredient numero uno, or come in a dented label-less can. I quickly made  my way to the register hoping the smell of dirty pennies and food stamps would not stick to my hair. I was pleased to see the express isle (8 items of less) was open. I was not pleased to see a fat man with a cart filled with hamburger and orange pop. I lost count of the two items at 27. At first I was more pulverized by the fact he exceeded the 8 limit by at least 19. Then I switched my anger to the contents of his cart. What in the Sam hell was he going to cook? Obviously a heavily influenced hamburger dish, and obviously for the next 67 days. And who drinks orange pop? Why does it even exist? Yeah, I went through a phase in middle school where I would buy a can of orange Sunkist as my lunch. But this was just my juvenile attempt to look chic and aloof, like I was far too cool to be bothered with packing a lunch, or grabbing more than 1 item in the cafeteria. I guess I have always been chic and lazy. I can only presume that if you are buying 2liters of orange pop, you probably guzzle them straight from the bottle, all though I would seriously recommend a petite juice glass if I was held at gunpoint and told I had to drink orange pop. But then again, on the flip side, I don't judge (yes I do) and I suppose we all have secret foods we eat that maybe we aren't super proud of. What are mine you ask? Well, I can't lie to you all, I never could. I sometimes (like a lot) eat a classic ice cream sandwich for breakie. And while yes, I used to openly make fun of fat dad for buying the day care sized peanut butter, I have been known to eat a few spoonfuls on occasion (like every day, in my bed).  So I guess the moral of the story is this, I am going to start growing my food on my own plantation so I don't have to be grossed out at the back woods little grocers ran by inbreds who eat four times their weight in cow pies. Daily.

Cars!

This post is called, "I don't own a car, because I'm a lady, Ass Face." I thought I should document this tale, as it is looking more likely that my sister is going to move to California and require her luxury Honda back.
So in the beginning....I was raised that being skinny and pretty is essential, followed closely with the idea that the car you drive is a direct link to whether or not you will get into heaven. Or in other words, "the important things."
My first car was a BMW named Olive that I received from fat dad when I was 15. It was sold several years later when I decided I did not drive, I was driven. Don't get your panties in a bundle, the car was an '81, and I was a terrible driver. Several years later I bought myself a Jetta named Gretta. She was quite the looker, especially in these parts. But then I decided to play the Ouiji board at Ghost Trestle, and consequently, Gretta never worked again. Don't bother asking questions on that tale, you are too big of a sissy-la-la to know.
After that, I decided I needed an SUV named Marty Maraschino, ( after the slutty pink lady.) I paid the king's ransom for her over the course of several years, and she was a beaut. At some point during my ownership of Marty, I realized I was too pretty to care so much about my car. Or maybe I became  poorer in my quest to be defined by my killer wardrobe instead. Either, way, we will say I grew up and became wise to the world.  So I paid off Marty, kept her impeccably clean, and drove the shit out of her for over 10 years. Well, like everything else, she got run down and started to break. I shelled out some dough for a plethora of repairs before turning to fat dad for guidance. You must know, that fat dad is schooled particularly well on two things: he is a gas station hamburger connoisseur, and he knows his cars. He has always collected cars like women (for him that's a lot of both). As a kid he would buy carpet for under his cars,  and stanchions to go around them, as if we would dare touch them anyway as our step mother, Satan, did not allow us to make direct eye contact with people. Or cars, we will say. Present day he has a little black car, I would call Brad, one of those hideous toaster shaped cars hipsters drive, and a tiny 80's porche he barely fits in.  I never ask anything of fat dad, except maybe he not eat his cow pies in front of me. Is a cow pie a hamburger? Or poop? I don't know what you meat eaters call them nowadays. You get the point. But I needed his advice.
 Anywhosies, I turn to fat dad and say, "hey Mcfatty, what do you think is wrong with Marty?" F.D. says, "oh Sis, Marty is a boat anchor at this point. Why don't you push her off into your woods, you'd be lucky to get $800 for her."  That is a quote.  And apparently $800 is chump change to my father, P.Diddy. *insert sarcasm*
So I whined to anyone who would listen about my car debacle. And all of a sudden, every gd person I knew was a car expert. Most of the advice was to just simply sell Marty, and buy a Benz.  I too, also have P.Diddy's salary, so this was excellent advice. Those few who didn't recommend simply buying a Benz, offered me their brother, cousin, neighbor, uncle to car shop with me. I don't even like to girl shop at the mall with other people because it's too damn annoying, and that's for dresses or handbags. The idea of shopping for a car with your great  uncle's neighbor who could allegedly get me a good deal, sounded disgusting and gross.
But Marty needed to go before she really did die on the side of the road inevitably leaving me in the country to be raised by some hillbillies who would make my back skin into a prairie skirt. Yes, you should see what I drive through to get to my glamorous mall job. And then one day she stopped moving in my driveway and water came out of her head lights. I shit you not, like freaking tears!!
So I put Marty on Craig's list from the pressure of my smarter friends. The idea still made me nervous and scared of the freaks who would call. But I like money and I wanted to make some. The following is my Craig's list posting:

My beautiful 2002 GMC Envoy SLT, named Marty, died in my driveway. She looks stunning, perfect condition in looks. I have polished her leather interior every week for 10 years. But she does not run at all. I don't know why. Before she stopped completely, she had a leaky gas valve. She has 170,000 miles. I bet you know how to make her run, I do not, so please come get her.

And guess what, freaks began calling in after 2.5 seconds. Most were manly men who used car lingo I had never heard of. I debated on altering my voice to sound like a lez, giving me more credibility--but that's one "accent" I just can't seem to perfect. So I invited Bill to my home to check out Marty, based on the fact he referenced the 80's horror flick, "Christine."
Bill showed up to the Country Manse with his fat ginger brother and was polite as pie, despite the fact he looked like he was raised in a barn and had a gray tooth. I had decided on the price of $2000 based on extensive inter webs research. This was also decided on despite the fact my baby did not run. Ginger McFat pants offered me $1500 cash in crisp $100 bills and I agreed. After all that was still almost double what fat dad claimed Marty was worth. So I snatched up the cash, handed over the title with the complementary Bath and Body Works creamy nutmeg car freshener, and was off to the pool while the hillbillies allegedly made arrangements for a tow.
An hour later my friend and I returned from the pool to see Marty speed out of my drive on two wheels while the ginger McFatties just roared. I shook my head in a way that implied, "awe shucks, I just lost a game of neighborhood dodge ball." Actually that's a weird analogy and I would never play with the neighbors, or dodge ball. But you get the point. It was like no biggie!
But the damage was done, I sold my boat anchor, that drove out of my driveway with the same vigor she drove off the lot years and years ago.
So that was 3 months ago.  Luckily my sister who lives in New York, left behind her hunter green luxury Honda. Both bumpers are dented and her left mirror looks to be a bike mirror. It is tiny and does the opposite of magnify. So if a car is 4 feet away, it looks like it's 4 miles away. Hmmm...safe.  My sister has also spilled coffee on ever square inch, and a blackberry stain on the passenger floor looks like someone died. I just hate when I go blackberry picking and spill a bucket in my car and then step on them mashing them into the floor to be stained for all eternity. But we will blog about lil' Sis another day.
I tried car shopping on several occasions. But unless you have a gruff uncle neighbor cousin who is a man or a bull dyke--good luck. If you are not willing to buy a Benz, you are shown maroon grandma cars that were for sure, once cop cars. Every car I was shown I named. I test drove a Peggy, a Shirley, a Dolores, a Judy and a Marge. Those are all elderly, or fill their trunks with canned foods from Aldi's. After that I test drove a white Tiffany, to which the car man looked pleased by my naming. No. Tiffany wears scrunchies, blares Nicki Minaj and sprays herself with anything coconut flavored she can find. So I stopped with that hobby, and have just been driving the ol' luxury Honda. I find it hard to believe I am the first woman who does not have a vast knowledge or interest in cars who also doesn't have an uncle neighbor cousin lesbian lover, to help me.
But that's where we are today, proving once again, that I shouldn't drive--I should be driven.

Wear yo' makeup!

It's a well known fact I like the least amount of conflict as possible. Some view this as a major weakness, some acknowledge the fact I grew up being stuffed in suit cases and thrown down the stairs--so maybe I just want to take it easy, and not sweat the small stuff.  Nonetheless, my job is to boss people around. And while this is certainly not my favorite part of my job, I also don't want to be known as some asshole who can't do her job. So as with everything in life, I try to put my own spin on it.
As you know, I work with 20 diva misfits. Their job is quite easy, sell, be pleasant, and look pretty doing it. It is my job to make sure they have all the tools necessary to make this happen. Along the way, like every minute of every single day, we have a snafu here and there. And sometimes my darlings forget what they are suppose to do. If they forget to sell, I yell at them. If they forget to be pleasant, I beat them. If they forget to be pretty--well, that often takes a little more elbow grease on my part. 
And here's the tale of, "When My Darlings Forgot Being Pretty is the Most Important Thing."

It's hard to believe I am not drop dead gorgeous at every moment--naturally. But this blog is based on truths I just have to tell, so I will let you know, I have to work at this mug. Some people are naturally gorg, and require little effort, and *gasp* little makeup. But these people are plain with no personalities and wear yoga pants... as pants. Most of us require 16-87 products not including tools. And if you say you don't, you are lying or get Botox. And if it's the latter, good for you! *high five* In my humble opinion, the only thing worse than a homely woman who can't be helped, is a lazy woman, who can be helped. And trust me, we are all a little lazy, but lazy and unattractive does not work for me.
Every so often one of my diva misfits forgets the third prong on their three prong job description. They roll into work with either their hair combed with a garden rake, or a mug devoid of pretty. This is not only failure to meet a job requirement, this hinders them from goal number one--SELL. No one wants to buy pretties from an ugly. So, to make a medium length story into a long one, I had to use myself as a visual for those of my darlings who are as dumb as a box of hair, and not quite getting it.
The following pictures were snapped in a series to prove an age old lesson, ugly people do not make it far in life.

 

Exhibit 1: I didn't do my hair or makeup and look like a sad soccer mom who hates herself.

 

Exhibit 2: Doing yo' hair is an improvement, but how do you forget yo' mug?

Exhibit 3: Makeup gives you a soul, but what lady forgets her lipstick?

Exhibit 4: Confidence is key. Your facial expression with makeup can hide the fact you eat frosting from a can while crying in the bathtub.

Exhibit 5: Wear yo' damn makeup!

 

Politics and shit

It  would seem ignorant not to make some sort of post about the coming Presidential election. As you know, despite the fact I am quite attractive, I do have a mind. A pretty intelligent mind with many opinions that would surprise many who are just shown my darling picture, and have never had the opportunity to know me for a couple of years, (which is the length of time it typically takes me to warm up and acknowledge your presence.)
Anywhosies, yes, I know what's going on in this world--I might not enjoy talking about it every second of the day, because that's boring, nor am I making homemade signs in my basement like a psycho--but I am aware.
I also went to the most conservative college in the universe-- Hillsdale College. Google that shit if you are unfamiliar. I chose it because of the glamorous accommodations, and the fact that the only two adults who gave two licks about my existence, were both mean Republicans. That would be my fat dad, and a distant Aunt that sent me Ann Coulter books as coming of age gifts. And who wouldn't?  As a young adult you assume that your elders are wise and want nothing more than to guide you towards success. I mean, that's not what I thought, after all fat dad owned a pizza joint, toted his small children around in a white corvette and wore a members only jacket. My Auntie lived in DC, wore fake hair to "lessen her attractiveness in an effort to prevent muggings and rape," and locked me in a room with the Wall Street Journal when I came to visit. Obviously I knew these two, all though meaning well, were not the two to emulate. And I knew this at birth. As stated before, I chose my mean republican college because of the maids and lush carpeting.
So to make a long story into a medium length one, I have been schooled on politics, from a young age. And even though I will be paying that bitch Sallie Mae until I am 66 years old, I don't totally regret choosing my incredibly conservative Grecco Roman Judeo Christian education. It has allowed me to make an educated choice when it comes to my opinions and beliefs, specifically on politics (and religion, but that's another blog, another day). And it has gotten me my esteemed job at the mall. And I jest. No matter what you believe, I think it's important to learn all sides, all views. And lucky for me, I not only grew up to realize overalls and Keds do not a cute outfit make, no matter how many Kappa Kappa Gammas are wearing them, I learned that being a mean Baptist Republican is the furthest down on my list of, "yes, that makes sense to me." One notch below, Santy Claus and the Easter bunny really existing.  And I know, I know, you think Obama wants everyone on welfare, poor people are lazy and should be thrown into the sea, you hate abortion, love guns, and hate the gays because Jesus said so. I could go into the details on my political choices, but I will some it up by simply saying I believe in giving when you have more than you need, equality and rights for all, and the idea of the greater good, for the greater number. I also despise a simple solution for a complex problem, and don't want to ever be so far up my own ass, that I don't know how others live. Because my world is pretty privileged... and I am also pretty.
The moral of the story is this: believe whatever you want, but try not to judge people who wear red shoes on a Thursday.

Rent

This is the card that I have sent my rent check in, every month for the past two years You do the math--that's like 24 cards. I first found the Halloween version of this card a couple of years ago, and mailed it to my sister. She found the card to be so disgusting, that she sent it back. I found that gesture to be quite clever, so I began to keep my eyes peeled for funny greeting cards. That's when I realized that they make this card for almost every occasion, just simply changing the background. I cannot even tell you what it says on the inside, because I always am laughing too hard to notice, when I am slipping in my rent check, and popping it in the mail. I cannot think of what is more facetious than receiving this card every single month for two years--but for me, it's not commenting on receiving the card every month for two years! This might just add fuel to my fire, motivating me to continue on as long as this cheeky card exists. Because my landlord prefers not to communicate in any way, (even though she was my old boss and good friend for many years,) I have to imagine her reaction to the monthly card. I like to think she has saved every one, and keeps them in an old photo album, that she gets out during parties to entertain her guests. I imagine her running to the mailbox and jumping for joy when the card finally arrives. And maybe her man lover beats her to the mailbox some months. To which he probably then calls her at work, laughing and throwing his head back like a Pez dispenser, letting her know it arrived. Then she probably tells him that she can't wait to open it, and asks him to drive it to her work. So then he does, but he opens it on the drive because he is too excited to see what holiday version of the card they are making now. When he arrives to her job, her co-workers are all gathered, laughing with anticipation, to see if I have continued with the greeting card charade. After she opens it, there is a raucous laughter that disturbs the business, but my landlord just shares with the customers the hilarious tale, standing on a table and raising the card above her head for all to see. Everyone snaps pictures with their cell phones and sends it to no fewer than 16 friends. Hours later the crowds calm down, and my landlord sneaks out of her work with the card in tow. She smiles all the way home, shaking her head, pleased that she has such a clever tenant.