Saturday, August 28, 2010

Big Wig Business Man Gives Me Hope For My Career

Being a public relations manager, I love writing and new challenges. The day-to-day duties can be somewhat monotonous, so I was beyond excited to join a special project team with a new company for a few months. I showed up on my first day, computer ready, ideas flowing and eager to be a valuable member of the team.

“Alright everyone,” said Jim, aka Big Wig (BW) from Australia brought in to head this new project. “We need a press release for tomorrow’s sale.”

“I’ll do it,” I said eagerly. “I’ve already started it and—“

“Ken—can you do it?,” BW interrupted.

“No problem mate,” said Ken, the 28-year old online manager.

“We need some coffee,” said BW, looking at me. “Would you mind?”

“Oh, okay,” I said awkwardly. Maybe it’s a cultural difference.



“For tomorrow’s online promotion,” started BW, “we need some copy written for our online banner ads.”

“I have it done,” I said cheerfully, opening my computer. “Last night I just wrote the copy and thought of---.”

“Ken,” interjected BW, “Can you have Robby draft it?”

“But Robby is on holiday until Friday,” stated Ken. “And we need it tomorrow.”

“No need to bother Robby on holiday,” I said reassuringly. “I have the copy done, I did it last night! It’s very creative and it speaks to the consumer on a—”

“Call Robby,” said BW directly to Ken. “I’ll get the deadline extended.”


“Have a seat everyone,” said BW starting the meeting. “It’s more crowded than usual, we invited our agency to join us.”

As I sat down, I introduced myself to the person next to me.

“Nice to meet you,” I started. “I’m—”

“Excuse me?,” interrupted BW, staring at me. “Would you mind getting Ken a chair?”

“Oh, sure,” I sighed. I left the room and rolled in Ken’s chair, but to find him already sitting in mine.

“Welcome folks! For the past two months the small team here has been working very hard,” said BW. “It’s great to have you all here to discuss tomorrow’s big launch.”

“Now, first things first,” continued BW looking at Ken. “How’s the press release coming?”

“I have it right here!” I said, flaring up my arms waving the release.

“I did it yesterday,” I said excitedly. “I did it because I’m on this team to write the press releases. So here it is, it’s all done. Right here..” I rushed over and handed him the paper.

BW glares at me. He takes the paper and reads it.

“Umm,” he said.

“Is it alright?” I asked.

“Did you write this or Ken?” he questioned suspiciously.

“I did,” I said.

“Wow,” said a very miffed BW.

“Is it OK?” I asked.

BW looks up at me and says,

“You just might have a career in PR afterall….”

I’ve been in PR for 5 years.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Hunky Husband vs Craigslist Furniture Seller: “What Kind of Douche Bag Puts His Espresso Cup on a White Desk?”

Now that I’ve been married for one month (yes…a lot has happened since my text break-up days) I’m ready to shop at grown-up stores like Pottery Barn. I’ve been jonesing for the White Bedford Corner Desk in white antique finish—it is my dream desk. But I don’t want to pay the top dollar PB wants… so naturally I’ve been stalking Craigslist to find a White one.

Ring, ring.

“Hey honey,” answered Hunky Husband.

“Guess what?!” I squealed. “I found the dream desk on Craigslist!”

“Oh yeah?” said HH. “What’s the story?”

“Corner desk with matching chair,” I started.

“So far so good….,” said HH.

“Two-drawer -file cabinets and desk protector,” I read. “For $600..”

“Awesome…” said HH.

“The only downside is that its espresso stained,” I added. “But I can get over that, it comes with the chair and protector – which is usually $1,200.”

“Hmm,” said HH suddenly distracted. “Oh shit! I’m late for a meeting. Talk to you tonight—love you.”

**5 hours later **

“So, I emailed the Craigslist guy,” I said. “And he dropped the price to $550,” I said.

“Yeah,” huffed HH. “I’m sure he did”.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Is that guy high or something?!” said HH.

“He didn’t mention it,” I said. “Why?”

“I mean the guy thinks he can sell a desk with freakin’ coffee stains all over it,” said HH. “I mean –“

“Hey hun-“ I interjected.

“..What kind of douche bag puts his espresso cup on a white desk everyday and just lets it stain?” said HH. “And then tries to sell it for $600?!”

“Well—“ I said.

“What an idiot! Why didn’t he put a coaster down?” he ranted. “Geez..didn’t he notice little coffee rings all over the place?”

“Babe—“ I said.

“There’s no way in hell we’re buying it,” HH said shaking his head. “Yeah?”

“The desk isn’t white,” I explained. “Espresso stain is the color of the wood.”

“Oh,” said HH.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

I’m in the doghouse with my dog sitter: "Would you like walking around with 3-days of poop caked to your butt?”

My 43-year old dog sitter is a bit of a hoarder and a hermit. She has racks and racks of clothes in the middle of her living room and has yard sales every week, but never lets anyone buy anything. She's also obsessed with her dog Blossom and all other dogs. Whether she's telling me the latest on puppy news or telling me the latest neighborhood 'doggie gossip,' I always leave her place with a lesson. Always.

Knock. Knock.

“Hi Maureen” I said. “I’m here to pick up Paige.”

“Just a minute,” said Maureen with a lisp. “How was Palm Springs?”

“It was great, very hot,” I said outside her door. “Thanks so much for watching Paige, was she good?”

“Ummmmm….well,” said Maureen unlocking her six deadbolts. Her thick red frizzy hair was greasier than usual. She wore her usual stained gray t-shirt and matching gray stretch pants.

“She played really well with Blossom and shared toys…”she said.

“That’s great” I replied.

“So, when you dropped her off there was poop all over her butt,” she said bluntly.

“Excuse me?” I asked very surprised.

“Poop was caked all over her butt,” stated Maureen. “It was all sticky in her hair—it was like super glue.”

“Oh, geez,” I said.

“I had to cut it out with my sewing scissors,” said Maureen.

“Wow, sewing scissors?” I said trying to recall 3 days earlier. “I don’t remember there being a ‘situation’ when I dropped her off. I wonder how that happened.”

Maureen stared me down for about 20 seconds.

“It happened because you didn’t wipe her butt,” she said very annoyed.

“Oh, Maureen, I’m sorry” I said awkwardly. “But…she is a dog and goes to the bathroom outside..."

“Baby-wipe her butt,” she said simply.

Maureen roller her eyes and said, “I mean, would you like walking around with 3-days of poop caked to your butt?”

“No,” I replied. "I wouldn't."

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

My 60-year old Romanian Landlord Commissions The Church to Pray for My Sexuality

My landlord Laura lives directly across the hall from me.  Every time I open my door, I hear Laura scrambling to open her door.  Laura has this strange ability to “appear” in random places throughout our building at random times: trash room, garage, mail room, the stairs, etc. I’ve developed several strategies to avoid her lengthy lectures—I do my laundry at 2am, open and shut my door really fast to throw her off my scent, sprint down the hall, etc.

Last Sunday, Laura was waiting for me in the laundry room. She informed me that her Romanian family and Church have been praying for my future. 

“Hey Laura,” I said.

 “Hello,” said Laura in a heavy Romanian accent.

“There’s been no men to your apartment,” stated Laura .

“Well that’s because I’m not dating anyone,” I said putting quarters into the machine. 

“Don’t be with the women,” interjected Laura.

“What do you mean ‘the women’?” I asked. “Do you mean a lesbian?”

“Yes,” said Laura.

“Why, what’s wrong if I were a lesbian?” I asked.

“It’s not mechanical,” Laura said simply.  “It’s a sin.”

“Oh—I don’t believe in that,” I said.

“You don’t read the bible?” she asked folding her husband’s laundry.

“No, not at all,” I said.

“I see. You are a Jew,” said Laura. “My husband is right.”

“No, I’m not Jewish—I’m just not religious,” I explained.

Laura puts the laundry down and props herself on the washer machine.

“You look like you are with women,” she said. “We have been praying for you.”

“Excuse me? Who is ‘we’?,” I asked in shock. “Praying for what?”

“You don’t attract men. I see no men to your apartment,” said Laura. “My whole family prays for you.”

“Wow…Laura,” I started. “Thank you for the prayers, but I’m single—that’s why you haven’t seen a man at my place.”

Laura shrugs her shoulders and starts to switch more laundry.

“My husband tells his nephew and cousin and sister-in-law to have their church pray for you too,” said Laura  “Every week.”

“Pray for me—? What Church?” I asked very confused.  “Wait—Laura, are you serious?”

“Because you have sex with the women. It’s a very big sin,” explained Laura.  “Every week the church congregations pray for you.”

“The congregations?!” I asked. “There’s two churches praying for me?!”

“Yes,” replied Laura. “And family in my country.”

“Laura—I’m not a lesbian,” I said very slowly. “I’m attracted to men.”

“You are not attracted to the women anymore?” asked Laura.  “This is good, the prayers are answered.”

“No—Laura, I was never a lesbian,” I corrected.

“I will tell the Church and my family from my country that God answered the prayers,” said Laura satisfied. “This is good.”

“Yeah, okay…,” I said defeated.

 “Just out of curiosity—“ I started. “How long has the church congregations and your family been praying for me?”

“Since you moved in,” responded Laura as she picked up her laundry basket and walks away.

I’ve lived there for one year.








Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Banana Republic Sales Rep Gives Honest Opinion: “Girl…You Got Junk-In-Your-Trunk.”

After treating myself to a Pinkberry pomegranate and chocolate chip yogurt, I went into Banana Republic to look for pants. Like most women, I dread shopping for pants. However, the sales rep revealed some important information…about my butt.

“Welcome to Banana Republic,” said the sales rep. “My name is Deon—I’ll start you a fitting room.”

“Thanks,” I said handing over the pants I just picked up.

“You grabbed the wrong size,” he said firmly.

“You see,” Deon said displaying the tag. “These are a size 4 and you’re a size 2.”

“Oh Deon,” I said blushing. “That’s really nice of you to say—but I’m really a size 4…..”

“Nope,” Deon said shaking his head. “You see, these pants here have stretch in them. I’ll get you the size 2—.”

Deon seemed like a man who knew women’s pants—who was I to argue?

“OK, thanks!” I said heading into the dressing room. I sat down waiting for him, enjoying my Pinkberry.

Knock, knock.

“Sarah-- It’s Deon. Here’s the size 2,” he said flinging the pants over the door.

“Thanks,” I said.

The pants only made it halfway up my thighs when I just knew that they were ridiculous. As I was taking them off, Deon knocked again.

“Sarah-- It’s Deon,” he said. “How do they look?”

“Sorry Deon, they don’t fit at all,” I said.

“Let me see,” said Deon.

“No, that’s okay,” I said. “Can you please grab me the size 4?”

“Get out here and show me,” Deon ordered.

I reluctantly pulled up the pants and poked my head out. “Deon, these don’t fit. I look ridiculous.”

Deon opened the door and coaxed me out.

“Turn around,” he said.

“No.” I replied.

“Girl—this is a dressing room,” said Deon.

“Okay, but I REALLY don’t like them,” I complained. “I have a hard time finding pants that fit and---"

“Turn around,” he interrupted.

“Alright…” I said turning around.

“DAMMMNNNN,” said Deon.

“What?” I asked, startled. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing from where I’m standing,” said Deon. “What’s going on back there?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You’re packin’ it,” Deon said simply.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“I said, ‘YOU-ARE-PACKIN’-IT back there,’” he repeated as if I had hearing problems.

“Are you serious?" I asked. "What does that even mean?"

“You know,” Deon said confidently. “You got ‘junk-in-your-trunk’.”

“Deon--that’s not nice,” I said.

“Of course it is…. its nice for me,” he said smiling. “I like me a big butt.”

“Wow. Okay, that’s just great--thanks alot.” I said. “So my butt is big?”

“Yep,” he replied.

“Deon, that’s not a good thing,” I replied. “Why would I want that?”

“Girl, you askin’ the wrong Brother,” said Deon staring at my butt. “I like them big.”

Deon is white.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

My Mom’s Advice to Being Dumped via Text: “You-Should-Freeze-Your-Eggs”

Yesterday my 47-year old mother called to check on how I was doing post-break up text and facebook de-friendment (Yes, the Facebook de-friendment immediately followed the break-up text) I’m pretty sure that movie producers are behind this whole situation: text dumping, Laura’s Cooker-Whore-Lady mantra and now my mother’s advice. …

“How are you doing after your ordeal?” mom asked sympathetically.

“I’m okay, thanks. It just wasn’t working out," I said. "There’s other fish in the sea, right? Anyway, how are you?”

“Well speaking of fish,” my mom started. “I’m going through menopause.”

“But Mom, you’re only 47—“ I said, quickly trying to remember what the normal menopausal age was—55? 65? 77?

“My doctor says that 47 is really young for menopause,” she explained. “It’s a good thing I already had my children.”

“Yeah, 18 is a great age to start bearing children,” I teased. My mom was 18 and 22 when she had us. Later on, my parents adopted two little girls from Russia.

“Sarah, this is genetic,” said mom serisouly. “You should start thinking about freezing your eggs.”

“Very funny mom…” I laughed.

“I’m not joking,” said mom. “You really should be looking into your options.”

“Options? What options?,” I said starting to get upset,”I’m 25-years old. Why would I need to freeze my eggs?”

“Well Sarah, you’re a ‘career woman,’” said mom overly emphasizing ‘career woman,’ as if they were bad words.

“At the rate you’re going, it’s going to be awhile before you have children,” added mom sounding like she was chewing on something.

“Are you eating,?” I asked annoyed.

“Uh huh,” mom answered between bites. “Ice cream cone. Cookie dough.”

“How appropriate—“ I said. “You always told me to have a career and never to settle until I was ready.”

“I know, but things have change,” said mom through ice cream bites, “but I don’t know what to think about your ‘situation.’”

“What situation? Freezing my eggs?,” I asked.

“Sweetie, men are dumping you on text messages and the internet,” said mom as she now was chewing the ice cream cone. “I guess you’ll have to take your chances.”

“A man, not MEN. One MAN broke up with me on text messaging,” I corrected.

“That’s right dear,” my mom said light heartedly. “A 38-year old man broke up with you on your phone. I know it's only one, but didn't that Australian boyfriend break up with you in a McDonald's parking lot? "

"Oh my gosh, why are you bringing THAT up?" I said. "First of all, we were on the phone because he lived in Australia--I had to pull over and it just so happened to be a parking lot. That has absolutely NOTHING to do with this."

"Uh huh," said mom in a condescending 'whatever you say' tone. "You haven't had the best experience with men."

"Thanks for the pep talk," I said sarcastically. "I'll just freeze my eggs and became like that crazy octuplet lady."

"You are wonderful and I love you," mom said. "You just have to be sensible. It wouldn’t hurt to just read about it so you can make an educated decision.”

“Whatever,” I said giving up arguing, "I'm going to get going. Goodnight."

“Wonderful!,” said mom cheerfully. “I’ll get Tashie to email you the information.”

Tashie is my 10-year-old sister.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

In response to being dumped via text, my 60-year old Romanian landlord reveals “Top-Secret Ways-To-Keep-My Man” advice

Knock. Knock. 

"Hi Laura," I said. 

"Why you upset?" Laura asked in a heavy Romanian accent.

"Oh, I just had a rough day, my boyfriend broke up with me by sending a text message," I said. "Can you believe that?!" I asked.

"Yes," said Laura firmly.

"What do you mean?," I asked. "You can believe that he dumped me, or that it was through a text message?"

"Both," said Laura firmly.

"Oh, okay. Thanks for you honesty," I said.

"He see you as little girl. A weak little girl with no power. You need to be strong woman," says Laura using little girl facial expressions to describe me.

"Well I'm actually working on that Laura, but thanks for noticing. Good night..." I said starting to close the door. 

"You need to learn to keep your man," advised Laura. "On my wedding night, my great-grandmother told me the secret to keeping your man happy. I will tell you because you are my friend. You don't tell anyone."

"Please enlighten me. At this stage, anything can help," I said. 

"You must be a 'Cooker in the Kitchen, a Whore in the Bedroom and a Lady on the Street,' that's it," says Laura, again using hand demonstrations to describe Cooker, Whore and Lady.

"Laura, I think there's a rap song about this," I said. 

"THIS IS SERIOUS," Laura said sternly. "You must be a man's mom, sister and whore all in one. That's the secret. No more whining." 

"Wow--Laura. Ok, I believe," I said completely trying to recover from the thought of Laura being a whore to her husband. "The relationship wasn't working out anyway, its fine. I'm just perplexed with the whole text message. Thank you for your advice."

"You are welcome. You are my friend and I share this advice from my country," said Laura proudly. "Remember: Cooker, Whore, and Lady. No more little whiney girl. Powerful woman. That's all you must know."

"Got it, I'll work on it," I promised. "Goodnight Laura."

"One more thing," interjects Laura. "Stop crying over him. I can tell when you cry because you look awful. Puffy eyes and red face."

"Laura...I wasn't crying," I said very confused. "I was watching American Idol. This is just how I look."

"Oh no," gasps Laura covering her mouth and suddenly turns to walk away.