At Café Gypsy, I used to serve sandwiches to customers, eating their leftovers after clearing the table if I deemed the food untouched—or at least sanitarily touched.
Now, making headway in my life and career, I’m a secretary at Badvertiser… where I serve sandwiches to clients at important meetings. And I eat their leftovers too.
There are usually leftovers at these meetings because people are trying to be polite, never taking seconds of their delicious sandwiches that I ordered: smoked turkey BLTs, grilled chicken and avocado melts, roast beef on rye... I’m on both set-up and clean-up duty, so I get the first go at the spoils after the big boys have picked everything over and had their fill.
Early on in the meeting today, there is half a sandwich on the supply counter, with no apparent owner. It seems a bit strange to me, as the meeting is still going and people are still eating; usually, the nice clients don’t offer to help me clear the conference table until the end. So, I sit on my hands, my Pavlovian drool response in high-gear. I resist, waiting out the circumstance of this unattended sandwich.
Ten minutes elapse, and still, there is an unattended sandwich. Well, I conclude, it must be someone trying to clean up early. The supply counter is next to my desk, so the client probably thought he was being helpful by bringing it closer to me.
I claim the sandwich as my own, and begin eating it.
With my mouth full of delicious white-collar sandwich, I am suddenly accosted by Lenny. “Hey McQ, have you seen my sandwich?”
I then realize I’m eating a sandwich that Lenny had set aside for himself. Quickly and slyly, I slide an office memo print-out over the incriminating sandwich. I scoot it alongside the wall of my cubicle.
I’m spitting out seeds of multi-grain as I answer him. “No. What sandwich?”
“It was right… I don’t know, I put it here on the supply counter.”
“I don’t know, if you left it there, maybe someone thought it was trash from a client? There’s still plenty left in the conference room, though.” I'm trying not to chew the strip of bacon in my mouth, packing it to the side of my cheek like a hamster.
Lenny stops asking me questions, not suspecting me in the least. He leaves my desk in a huff and goes to retrieve another sandwich.
There’s a moral to this story: when around McQ, never leave a sandwich unattended.
Take my word for it, because you don’t want to have to learn it the hard way. Lenny had to learn it the hard way.
28 October 2010
21 October 2010
Bums and Crackheads and their Poop
Working at a restaurant in downtown Manhattan, you’re bound to become acquainted with a few vagrants.
Café Gypsy’s outdoor seating made it a popular venue for hipsters and beggars alike. One guy liked to sing and tell jokes to procure money from customers. Another guy liked to flash his wang. One guy in particular was everybody’s favorite: Crazy Eddie. He likes to lie down on the sidewalk and moan about how his rectum burns when he takes shits after drinking too much alcohol.
Funfetti Café has its own brand of unwelcome guests: crackheads. They aren’t nearly as entertaining as the bums of Café Gypsy. They’re gaunt and unsmiling, probably wielding knives. They slink into the restroom, conspicuous among an early morning crowd of American tourists.
While I’m working brunch, one of the tourists flashes me an inquisitive glance, but at this point, I have not been advised about the crackheads. I must look just as alarmed.
After 1130am, the crackheads dissipate. I ask the other server if this is usually the case, and if there is anything that we should be doing to deter their bathroom dealings.
“No, they’re all fine. Don’t bother them. They mind their own business if we mind ours. Except for this one guy named Keith; we don’t let him in anymore. He shits on the floor of the bathroom. We’re not a big fan of that.”
Good thing Funfetti Café has passed the point of having to ask anyone to make poop signs.
Café Gypsy’s outdoor seating made it a popular venue for hipsters and beggars alike. One guy liked to sing and tell jokes to procure money from customers. Another guy liked to flash his wang. One guy in particular was everybody’s favorite: Crazy Eddie. He likes to lie down on the sidewalk and moan about how his rectum burns when he takes shits after drinking too much alcohol.
Funfetti Café has its own brand of unwelcome guests: crackheads. They aren’t nearly as entertaining as the bums of Café Gypsy. They’re gaunt and unsmiling, probably wielding knives. They slink into the restroom, conspicuous among an early morning crowd of American tourists.
While I’m working brunch, one of the tourists flashes me an inquisitive glance, but at this point, I have not been advised about the crackheads. I must look just as alarmed.
After 1130am, the crackheads dissipate. I ask the other server if this is usually the case, and if there is anything that we should be doing to deter their bathroom dealings.
“No, they’re all fine. Don’t bother them. They mind their own business if we mind ours. Except for this one guy named Keith; we don’t let him in anymore. He shits on the floor of the bathroom. We’re not a big fan of that.”
Good thing Funfetti Café has passed the point of having to ask anyone to make poop signs.
13 October 2010
V as in...
I'm on the phone with an airline, trying to book a flight to Geneva for Neo. The trip is for an undisclosed presentation he is hoping, but is not required, to attend. To entertain myself, I baselessly assume it's for an intensive Swiss S&M conference.
The unintelligible agent on the line asks me to spell out Neo's reservation code.
"G-E-X-W-X-V."
Agent repeats, "G-E-X-W-X-B."
"No, no. G as in..." The first word I think of is Gandalf, but I'm not sure if Lord of the Rings is big in India.
"G as in good, E as in egg, X as in Xylophone, W as in What, X as in Xylophone again, and V as in... uh..."
My mind is blank, except for one V word that I dare not use. I make eye contact with the boy-next-cubicle Blandon, and he has a smirk on his face. He knows, by the way I am stammering, that I can only think of one blaring word:
Vagina.
Vagina? Really? This is the only word I can think of right now? I'm sure there's a Freudian explanation for this.
I'm still stammering. I look around my cubicle for anything that might start with a V. Phone, book, thumbtack... crap! Nothing.
I hear Lenny Bambino snickering in the corner, and although this is admittedly hilarious, as far as I'm concerned he's not allowed to laugh at me.
And that's when, through my hatred of Lenny, I'm saved.
"V as in Vexation."
Thank you, Lenny, for being an endless source of literary inspiration.
The unintelligible agent on the line asks me to spell out Neo's reservation code.
"G-E-X-W-X-V."
Agent repeats, "G-E-X-W-X-B."
"No, no. G as in..." The first word I think of is Gandalf, but I'm not sure if Lord of the Rings is big in India.
"G as in good, E as in egg, X as in Xylophone, W as in What, X as in Xylophone again, and V as in... uh..."
My mind is blank, except for one V word that I dare not use. I make eye contact with the boy-next-cubicle Blandon, and he has a smirk on his face. He knows, by the way I am stammering, that I can only think of one blaring word:
Vagina.
Vagina? Really? This is the only word I can think of right now? I'm sure there's a Freudian explanation for this.
I'm still stammering. I look around my cubicle for anything that might start with a V. Phone, book, thumbtack... crap! Nothing.
I hear Lenny Bambino snickering in the corner, and although this is admittedly hilarious, as far as I'm concerned he's not allowed to laugh at me.
And that's when, through my hatred of Lenny, I'm saved.
"V as in Vexation."
Thank you, Lenny, for being an endless source of literary inspiration.
12 October 2010
The Best and the Worst of Columbus Day Weekend
I had the best Columbus Day Weekend ever.
Friday night, I had a friend anniversary date with Mikki at Radio City Music Hall—a showing of The Two Towers, with a live orchestral and choral performance of the score. We ogled Aragorn, Faramir, and the beautiful concert harp.
Saturday, I bought a 22-string harp from a guy named Tim Taylor. He bought me a glass of whiskey and asked me if I could teach his son to play piano. Sorry Tim Taylor, I don’t think I can improvise piano-teaching skills the way I’ve been improvising everything else in my life as of late: teaching English, being an nude art model, working for an advertising company, fitting clients for expensive and non-refundable clothing... and now, playing the harp. I don’t know how to play the harp.
Sunday night was my second shift at Funfetti Café. Instead of ladling a serving of creamy tomato soup into a bowl for some of my customers, I had mistakenly ladled them a serving of chunky marinara sauce. We all laughed and I made lots of money. Which is good because I just spent $500 on a harp I don’t know how to play.
Monday, my weekend still wasn’t over. I played hooky from Badvertiser, and instead went to an apple orchard upstate with Mikki and friends, where we drank champagne and wine, ate cheese, smoked various legal and illegal things, took self-timer photos, rode on the backs of random golf carts—basically ended up doing everything one can imagine doing at an apple orchard, except for picking apples.
In the meantime, in the real world, Badvertiser was suffering my absence. Really, they needed me. Someone on Friday night had locked the office out of the well-ventilated/poop-friendly bathroom, and they needed me to give them the spare key (little do they know, I leave my jangly janitorial keychain in my desk drawer at work). That bathroom was out of commission for the rest of Friday, throughout the weekend, and for all of Monday.
Someone might have been able to acquire a spare key from Kozi, the girl next door who hates Badvertiser more than I do, but her office was closed for the holiday.
Monday was not a holiday for Badvertiser. Badvertiser had the worst Columbus Day Weekend ever.
Friday night, I had a friend anniversary date with Mikki at Radio City Music Hall—a showing of The Two Towers, with a live orchestral and choral performance of the score. We ogled Aragorn, Faramir, and the beautiful concert harp.
Saturday, I bought a 22-string harp from a guy named Tim Taylor. He bought me a glass of whiskey and asked me if I could teach his son to play piano. Sorry Tim Taylor, I don’t think I can improvise piano-teaching skills the way I’ve been improvising everything else in my life as of late: teaching English, being an nude art model, working for an advertising company, fitting clients for expensive and non-refundable clothing... and now, playing the harp. I don’t know how to play the harp.
Sunday night was my second shift at Funfetti Café. Instead of ladling a serving of creamy tomato soup into a bowl for some of my customers, I had mistakenly ladled them a serving of chunky marinara sauce. We all laughed and I made lots of money. Which is good because I just spent $500 on a harp I don’t know how to play.
Monday, my weekend still wasn’t over. I played hooky from Badvertiser, and instead went to an apple orchard upstate with Mikki and friends, where we drank champagne and wine, ate cheese, smoked various legal and illegal things, took self-timer photos, rode on the backs of random golf carts—basically ended up doing everything one can imagine doing at an apple orchard, except for picking apples.
In the meantime, in the real world, Badvertiser was suffering my absence. Really, they needed me. Someone on Friday night had locked the office out of the well-ventilated/poop-friendly bathroom, and they needed me to give them the spare key (little do they know, I leave my jangly janitorial keychain in my desk drawer at work). That bathroom was out of commission for the rest of Friday, throughout the weekend, and for all of Monday.
Someone might have been able to acquire a spare key from Kozi, the girl next door who hates Badvertiser more than I do, but her office was closed for the holiday.
Monday was not a holiday for Badvertiser. Badvertiser had the worst Columbus Day Weekend ever.
07 October 2010
No, you!
Owing to our equally busy schedules, Galactica and I rarely have time to rendezvous. But the other night, between babysitting and a party, between Badvertiser and cleaning up a trifecta of my dog’s piss, shit, and barf, we were able to meet up at Café Gypsy for a dinner date.
To bystanders, we must seem absurdly conceited, for our dates together usually goes something like this:
“Your blog is awesome.”
“No, your blog is awesome.”
“No, yours!”
After we make ourselves feel better about our living-in-a-cardboard-box future as writers, we usually try to console each other about our perpetual boyfriendlessness by complimenting the shit out of each other’s outfits.
“Well, at least your outfit’s silky.”
“No, your outfit‘s silky.”
“But yours is silkier!”
And then we more often than not get too drunk off too much alcohol way too early. We head our separate ways, while some residual light from the sun still glows on the horizon, and I can only imagine us in our separate subway stations, one heading to Brooklyn and one heading to Queens, simultaneously and furiously swiping our MetroCards through the MetroCard reader, only to be prompted many a time to “PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I yell at the turnstile.
“No, go fuck yourself,” it replies, in green, digital font.
“No, you go fuck yourself…”
To bystanders, we must seem absurdly conceited, for our dates together usually goes something like this:
“Your blog is awesome.”
“No, your blog is awesome.”
“No, yours!”
After we make ourselves feel better about our living-in-a-cardboard-box future as writers, we usually try to console each other about our perpetual boyfriendlessness by complimenting the shit out of each other’s outfits.
“Well, at least your outfit’s silky.”
“No, your outfit‘s silky.”
“But yours is silkier!”
And then we more often than not get too drunk off too much alcohol way too early. We head our separate ways, while some residual light from the sun still glows on the horizon, and I can only imagine us in our separate subway stations, one heading to Brooklyn and one heading to Queens, simultaneously and furiously swiping our MetroCards through the MetroCard reader, only to be prompted many a time to “PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I yell at the turnstile.
“No, go fuck yourself,” it replies, in green, digital font.
“No, you go fuck yourself…”
06 October 2010
Conceits of Mass Destruction
I’ve acquired yet another job. The fifth one, if I’m not mistaken.
My fifth job is a Sunday night waitressing stint at this old New York, Soho mainstay called Funfetti Café. Did I submit a resume there? Of course not. Was I properly trained before working my first shift on Sunday night? Hardly. It was great.
I’m not sure why it is that I can’t stay moderately employed. Upon hearing about this fifth job, many of my friends' jaws fell open; to some, my employment or lack thereof is a disaster waiting to happen. I’m either dropping jobs like nuclear bombs or stocking up on them like cans of baked beans in the fallout shelter of my life.
But screw all you haters. I actually like all of my jobs.
Well, four out of five, anyway. I'll segue this into the latest on my Badvertiser poopscapades, which, admittedly haven’t been quite as entertaining as usual; just general memos about out of order bathrooms, nothing poop-specific.
Which leads me to announce that poop is so last month; moldy food in the office fridge is all the rage.
Today I discover a pair of moldy mangoes and a moldy half-burrito, as well as a stale cupcake with a single bite mark. I’m not sure which Einstein in this office decided not only that he or she didn’t want more than a bite of cupcake, but that it was also a good idea to refrigerate said leftover cupcake over the weekend, just in case he or she might want it at a later date.
As debasing a task as it is to clean out the refrigerator, there is one good thing I pull from the experience. I find an unopened bottle of champagne—a remnant from that first fateful cupcake and champagne party.
Henceforth, I am establishing the new refrigerator order, though I will not send it out in an office memo: she who cleans the fridge shall lay claim to its spoils. And by this I mean the champagne bottle is going into my bag right now. Taking it to my fallout shelter in case of emergency.
My fifth job is a Sunday night waitressing stint at this old New York, Soho mainstay called Funfetti Café. Did I submit a resume there? Of course not. Was I properly trained before working my first shift on Sunday night? Hardly. It was great.
I’m not sure why it is that I can’t stay moderately employed. Upon hearing about this fifth job, many of my friends' jaws fell open; to some, my employment or lack thereof is a disaster waiting to happen. I’m either dropping jobs like nuclear bombs or stocking up on them like cans of baked beans in the fallout shelter of my life.
But screw all you haters. I actually like all of my jobs.
Well, four out of five, anyway. I'll segue this into the latest on my Badvertiser poopscapades, which, admittedly haven’t been quite as entertaining as usual; just general memos about out of order bathrooms, nothing poop-specific.
Which leads me to announce that poop is so last month; moldy food in the office fridge is all the rage.
Today I discover a pair of moldy mangoes and a moldy half-burrito, as well as a stale cupcake with a single bite mark. I’m not sure which Einstein in this office decided not only that he or she didn’t want more than a bite of cupcake, but that it was also a good idea to refrigerate said leftover cupcake over the weekend, just in case he or she might want it at a later date.
As debasing a task as it is to clean out the refrigerator, there is one good thing I pull from the experience. I find an unopened bottle of champagne—a remnant from that first fateful cupcake and champagne party.
Henceforth, I am establishing the new refrigerator order, though I will not send it out in an office memo: she who cleans the fridge shall lay claim to its spoils. And by this I mean the champagne bottle is going into my bag right now. Taking it to my fallout shelter in case of emergency.
29 September 2010
Cupcake Party Sequel
1021 ET
Sayonara, asshole.
---
1203 ET
An hour has elapsed since I unleashed the cupcakes. In an office of 30 people, only six cupcakes have been consumed thus far.
That’s a rate of .2 cupcakes per hour per person. This inhuman cupcake rate does not endear the Badvertiser office to me. This was Badvertiser’s chance to redeem itself, but I guess some things just never change.
---
1241 ET
Blandon, the guy who sits in the adjacent cubicle, walks up to the counter on which I’ve displayed the cupcakes. “Where are these from? They look amazing,” he comments, in his signature bland, monotonous tone of admiration.
Before I can answer, he walks into the kitchen. He returns with a sandwich. Cold-cut turkey on white bread. He eats it ravenously, nevermind the delicious, tempting cupcakes only four feet away from him.
---
1346 ET
I am eyeing Hellissa from the corner of my eye. She is approaching the cupcakes. I see her reach for something on the counter. I look away for a moment, with a self-satisfied grin; no one can resist these cupcakes!
---
1347 ET
Shit! I’m mistaken. Utterly mistaken. I see her walking away with pens in her hand. Pens from the pen cup that’s on the counter, behind the cupcakes.
She’s still Hellissa; no new alias for her until she eats a fucking cupcake.
---
1525 ET
Hellissa is back. She is actually acknowledging my presence. “Hey McQ, can I…”
“Yes, please, have as many as you want,” I blurt out. Finally, Hellissa! You have crossed over from the “I hate you” column of my life into the “I don’t really like you” column. This is unprecedented.
But then she finishes her sentence.
“…take these for some clients? I have a meeting in a little bit, and I thought I’d bring them some cupcakes to show them I care.”
Total psyche. Stop crushing what little hope I have for you, Hellissa, for it is running out.
---
At least the cupcakes are gone now. Last time, I ate the leftovers alone in the conference room with tears streaming down my face.
There is a going-away party at Badvertiser today. I expect “party,” of course, to be a gross overstatement for what will happen. I’m on my way to the cupcake shop right now.
---
1114 ET
Vadim, the guy for whom we’re throwing the going-away “party,” takes the first cupcake. He takes what I assume is for him an obligatory single bite of the cupcake before placing it on the counter, the treat otherwise untouched. I get to clean it up, too.1114 ET
Sayonara, asshole.
---
1203 ET
An hour has elapsed since I unleashed the cupcakes. In an office of 30 people, only six cupcakes have been consumed thus far.
That’s a rate of .2 cupcakes per hour per person. This inhuman cupcake rate does not endear the Badvertiser office to me. This was Badvertiser’s chance to redeem itself, but I guess some things just never change.
---
1241 ET
Blandon, the guy who sits in the adjacent cubicle, walks up to the counter on which I’ve displayed the cupcakes. “Where are these from? They look amazing,” he comments, in his signature bland, monotonous tone of admiration.
Before I can answer, he walks into the kitchen. He returns with a sandwich. Cold-cut turkey on white bread. He eats it ravenously, nevermind the delicious, tempting cupcakes only four feet away from him.
---
1346 ET
I am eyeing Hellissa from the corner of my eye. She is approaching the cupcakes. I see her reach for something on the counter. I look away for a moment, with a self-satisfied grin; no one can resist these cupcakes!
---
1347 ET
Shit! I’m mistaken. Utterly mistaken. I see her walking away with pens in her hand. Pens from the pen cup that’s on the counter, behind the cupcakes.
She’s still Hellissa; no new alias for her until she eats a fucking cupcake.
---
1525 ET
Hellissa is back. She is actually acknowledging my presence. “Hey McQ, can I…”
“Yes, please, have as many as you want,” I blurt out. Finally, Hellissa! You have crossed over from the “I hate you” column of my life into the “I don’t really like you” column. This is unprecedented.
But then she finishes her sentence.
“…take these for some clients? I have a meeting in a little bit, and I thought I’d bring them some cupcakes to show them I care.”
Total psyche. Stop crushing what little hope I have for you, Hellissa, for it is running out.
---
At least the cupcakes are gone now. Last time, I ate the leftovers alone in the conference room with tears streaming down my face.
28 September 2010
My Fake-Job CV
I've about half an hour left of fake-work at Badvertiser, but I won't be done for the day. I'll be going to job #4 tonight, another one of my many fake-jobs.
I think this is a good opportunity for me to recap my fake-job titles, followed by a brief summary of my qualifications.
I think this is a good opportunity for me to recap my fake-job titles, followed by a brief summary of my qualifications.
- Badvertiser. This blog is a thorough account as to why I should be getting fired immediately. Totally Unqualified: 'nuff said.
- Alpana Bawa. Alpana is a clothing designer who I used to serve at Cafe Gypsy. I tend to her shop on Saturdays. I take this job the most seriously, but must admit that after 6pm on Saturday, I have a tendency to invite girlfriends over with promises of a stoop bacchanalia--never to the detriment to the shop, though. Fairly Unqualified: I don't know how to take people's measurements, nor use a credit card machine, nor anything about fabrics.
- English Tutoring. My student, Jason, takes me out to dinner, buys me drinks, buys me tickets to shows, and pays me $20 an hour. Totally Unqualified: I've never worked for an escort service, nor do I have any pedagogical background.
- Muse. I sit around while an old Irish dude takes topless pictures of me. Other duties include moving extremely heavy tables while topless, having a hot cup of Irish breakfast tea and biscuits while topless, etc. Somewhat Unqualified: I prefer not to lift objects weighing over 50 lbs.
24 September 2010
Inappropriate Gifting
At last Neo has returned from Paris. But, to my extreme dismay, he has returned empty-handed. He was unable to find the book I had requested, and he did not bring me back any consolatory souvenir in its stead.
My hopes for a borderline inappropriate boss-secretary gift exchange have been dashed to pieces, but being a good sport, I step into Neo's office to thank him anyway.
He glosses over his travels to Paris, Cannes, St. Tropez, then asks me how things have been.
“Oh, okay. You know, same old stuff.” I thank him for having had me write a complaint letter to Werizon Wireless, admitting that, second only to taking care of the office plants, it was the most exciting task I completed last week. I somehow segue this into saying that I’m a terrible secretary, to which he protests that I shouldn’t sell myself short; of course, we all know who’s got the correct assessment of my skills in this situation.
Neo somehow segues my self-deprecation into me ghostwriting a book for him. Non-fiction, maybe 100 pages or so. This is the third time this week that someone is commissioning me to write something, a freakish clusterfuck of opportunity, but I tenatively accept, taking on more than I can chew, as usual.
Neo says we can talk about it more later, if it sounds like something I might be interested in. I ask him what the subject matter is. “Well,” he muses in his heavy Russian accent, with what seems like a hint of hesitation, “a few years ago, I wanted to start a club… no, not a club, that’s not what I’d say it is; a sort of community.”
“What do you mean?” His hesitation has piqued my curiosity, and I have a subconscious hunch I know what he’s talking about.
“It’s a… a rather self-conscious subject… but we can talk about it in more depth another time.”
The door to Neo's office is wide open; over the weekend we installed a gigantic mahogany desk that just barely blocks the swing of his door for the time being, preventing him from closing himself off from the rest of the office. His book is nothing he wants to discuss within earshot of the entire staff, and I sense he is growing timid despite his initial bravado in asking me to ghostwrite his book.
It is then that my subconscious hunch propels itself to the surface of my mind in a startling realization:
Could it be? Are my most unreasonable wishes for the most ridiculous of situations being granted, here in this executive black leather swivel chair? Will Neo be asking me to ghostwrite a book for him… about S&M??????
Oh boy; this book is more inappropriate a gift than I could ever have ever asked for.
My hopes for a borderline inappropriate boss-secretary gift exchange have been dashed to pieces, but being a good sport, I step into Neo's office to thank him anyway.
He glosses over his travels to Paris, Cannes, St. Tropez, then asks me how things have been.
“Oh, okay. You know, same old stuff.” I thank him for having had me write a complaint letter to Werizon Wireless, admitting that, second only to taking care of the office plants, it was the most exciting task I completed last week. I somehow segue this into saying that I’m a terrible secretary, to which he protests that I shouldn’t sell myself short; of course, we all know who’s got the correct assessment of my skills in this situation.
Neo somehow segues my self-deprecation into me ghostwriting a book for him. Non-fiction, maybe 100 pages or so. This is the third time this week that someone is commissioning me to write something, a freakish clusterfuck of opportunity, but I tenatively accept, taking on more than I can chew, as usual.
Neo says we can talk about it more later, if it sounds like something I might be interested in. I ask him what the subject matter is. “Well,” he muses in his heavy Russian accent, with what seems like a hint of hesitation, “a few years ago, I wanted to start a club… no, not a club, that’s not what I’d say it is; a sort of community.”
“What do you mean?” His hesitation has piqued my curiosity, and I have a subconscious hunch I know what he’s talking about.
“It’s a… a rather self-conscious subject… but we can talk about it in more depth another time.”
The door to Neo's office is wide open; over the weekend we installed a gigantic mahogany desk that just barely blocks the swing of his door for the time being, preventing him from closing himself off from the rest of the office. His book is nothing he wants to discuss within earshot of the entire staff, and I sense he is growing timid despite his initial bravado in asking me to ghostwrite his book.
It is then that my subconscious hunch propels itself to the surface of my mind in a startling realization:
Could it be? Are my most unreasonable wishes for the most ridiculous of situations being granted, here in this executive black leather swivel chair? Will Neo be asking me to ghostwrite a book for him… about S&M??????
Oh boy; this book is more inappropriate a gift than I could ever have ever asked for.
21 September 2010
Dumb and Lucky
I am walking back from a lunch date with my friend Rashad, recounting my half-facetious expectations for unnecessarily luxurious gifts from my boss Neo.
Rashad shakes his head. He scoffs at my audacity, and he recounts the mere week of paid vacation he may or may not receive after a year of indentured servitude at Café Gypsy. He thinks I need a reality check.
He’s right, in his own right. But as I see it, he is currently carrying two bottles of $100 scotch for me, something I am purchasing as an errand for my boss Istanbul. Istanbul is planning to give it to two of our office tech guys for helping out on a big project. Congrats, expensive booze.
Reality, in my case, seems to be skewed in favor of extravagance and absurdity.
“I think you like to put yourself in these ridiculous situations,” Rashad postulates, “because it gives you stuff to write about.”
“Clearly,” I respond, without hesitation. “And so what?”
Rashad shrugs, “Good point.”
He walks me to my office entrance, as he’s off to Café Gypsy for a 10-hour shift. I’m heading back to work, coming off an hour-and-a-half lunch break from my seven-hour shift.
“Have fun pulling shots of espresso,” I bid him.
“Have fun throwing back shots of scotch in your cubicle,” he bids me. We hug goodbye; until next lunch date.
I must say, some of what happens to me is self-inflicted; I don’t mind tying my own body to the tracks, if the moment calls for it. Honestly, though, much of my daily hilarity is pure dumb luck.
Which has to be how some of the people at Badvertiser see me: dumb and lucky.
Rashad shakes his head. He scoffs at my audacity, and he recounts the mere week of paid vacation he may or may not receive after a year of indentured servitude at Café Gypsy. He thinks I need a reality check.
He’s right, in his own right. But as I see it, he is currently carrying two bottles of $100 scotch for me, something I am purchasing as an errand for my boss Istanbul. Istanbul is planning to give it to two of our office tech guys for helping out on a big project. Congrats, expensive booze.
Reality, in my case, seems to be skewed in favor of extravagance and absurdity.
“I think you like to put yourself in these ridiculous situations,” Rashad postulates, “because it gives you stuff to write about.”
“Clearly,” I respond, without hesitation. “And so what?”
Rashad shrugs, “Good point.”
He walks me to my office entrance, as he’s off to Café Gypsy for a 10-hour shift. I’m heading back to work, coming off an hour-and-a-half lunch break from my seven-hour shift.
“Have fun pulling shots of espresso,” I bid him.
“Have fun throwing back shots of scotch in your cubicle,” he bids me. We hug goodbye; until next lunch date.
I must say, some of what happens to me is self-inflicted; I don’t mind tying my own body to the tracks, if the moment calls for it. Honestly, though, much of my daily hilarity is pure dumb luck.
Which has to be how some of the people at Badvertiser see me: dumb and lucky.
20 September 2010
Role-playing
One of the few creatively fulfilling tasks I perform at Badvertiser is writing complaint letters for my boss Neo. For some reason, he has a multitude of things to complain about, and moreover, he likes to complain about them in a legally documented matter, signed in black ink. Fortunately, I love complaining—in which case, my complaint letters are veritable masterpieces, second only to the limited-edition series of poop signs I was honorably commissioned to draft in my first month or so at Badvertiser.
Neo’s away on a business trip in France, but he emailed me last week, asking me to write a letter about a poor Werizon Wireless customer service experience he encountered before leaving the country. The details of the debacle weren’t nearly as intriguing as the post script:
“Do you want anything from Paris?”
Maybe we’re just becoming good friends; I water the plant in his office, and he asks me questions about how my other jobs are going. We talk about screenwriting a lot, as we have since my days at Café Gypsy, serving Neo as a customer.
Or maybe we aren’t good friends; maybe he’s just the prototypical executive who has no handle on the minutiae of everyday life; one time, as a special errand, I went to return a defective digital recorder he purchased for a pronunciation class, only to find that it functioned perfectly well when I inserted batteries. maybe he needs me, his prototypical secretary, to play the paid role of assistant/wife.
But even so, can’t a boss buy a secretary expensive foreign things?
Being the moderately honorable person that I am, I resisted asking Neo to bring me back anything I couldn’t afford to buy myself, a tenet to which I stubbornly adhere when it comes to anyone buying me anything, especially men. So, disappointingly, I merely requested that he bring me back a French copy of a book I’ve been trying to track down for a friend of mine.
A lackluster request, I know. I’m just not one to drool over Italian leather purses.
Food, on the other hand... let’s just say I won’t turn down a jar of French black truffles, if Neo so chooses to define what seems to be our budding prototypical executive-secretary relationship.
Neo’s away on a business trip in France, but he emailed me last week, asking me to write a letter about a poor Werizon Wireless customer service experience he encountered before leaving the country. The details of the debacle weren’t nearly as intriguing as the post script:
“Do you want anything from Paris?”
Maybe we’re just becoming good friends; I water the plant in his office, and he asks me questions about how my other jobs are going. We talk about screenwriting a lot, as we have since my days at Café Gypsy, serving Neo as a customer.
Or maybe we aren’t good friends; maybe he’s just the prototypical executive who has no handle on the minutiae of everyday life; one time, as a special errand, I went to return a defective digital recorder he purchased for a pronunciation class, only to find that it functioned perfectly well when I inserted batteries. maybe he needs me, his prototypical secretary, to play the paid role of assistant/wife.
But even so, can’t a boss buy a secretary expensive foreign things?
Being the moderately honorable person that I am, I resisted asking Neo to bring me back anything I couldn’t afford to buy myself, a tenet to which I stubbornly adhere when it comes to anyone buying me anything, especially men. So, disappointingly, I merely requested that he bring me back a French copy of a book I’ve been trying to track down for a friend of mine.
A lackluster request, I know. I’m just not one to drool over Italian leather purses.
Food, on the other hand... let’s just say I won’t turn down a jar of French black truffles, if Neo so chooses to define what seems to be our budding prototypical executive-secretary relationship.
17 September 2010
Retroactive Icon of the Week: Galactica
Last night, I met up with a girl I could describe as my retroactive icon of the week. I won’t go into too much incriminating detail, but let's just say our night was filled with devious laughter and self-aware insistences that we were going to hell in a hand basket.
My retroactive icon’s name is Galactica.
We first met over a year ago at my neighborhood bar, tended by a rotating cast of dreamy barkeeps, almost all of whom on which I’ve had ephemeral unreasonable crushes. I believe at the time I met Galactica, the apple of my eye was Dreamy Dane, whose sparkly blues and rugged-yet-beautiful facial structure more than made up for the fact that he had and still has a beautiful and successful long-term live-in girlfriend with whom I am little to no competition. In any case, Dreamy Dane invited me to stop by during happy hour for a drink. I tried my best to casually accept, despite the fact that I may have begun to sob quietly to myself out of desire and disbelief.
I arrived at the bar after my waitressing shift at Café Gypsy, my bag full of cash tips that I wouldn’t need to count out—drinks and their accompanying gratuities were on Dreamy Dane, as always—and I was unsure as to how I would compose myself, alone at the bar with him as my only companion. My crush on Dreamy Dane entirely baseless, I had no idea what I would talk about. God forbid I sit and sip my tumbler of whiskey in utter silence, pathetic and drunk and alone. Fortunately, without having been there long enough to embarrass myself, this is when I met Galactica.
She and her companion, a Polish-Texan silver fox named Shark Mobczak, were trying to figure out how to pay for their drinks; all they had was a $100 bill, which Dreamy Dane couldn’t break. Being a walking bank, I butted in and changed out their Benjamin Franklin with some smaller bills. We got to talking, and Galactica and I discovered we both drank whiskey, loved sci-fi and fantasy, and were writers. She was at the bar on this particular evening, having quit her job recently.
“How recently,” I asked.
“An hour ago,” she said. “Shark’s my boss. Well, was.”
“Oh. Why’d you quit,” I asked.
“I hated it,” she said. Shark shrugged, and we all clinked glasses.
It's been over a year now, but I need to give Galactica her due. I didn't know it at the time, but she is the original gainful unemployee.
So here's to you, Galactica. For distracting me from my feverish crush on Dreamy Dane. For only carrying around hundred dollar bills at four-thirty in the afternoon. For liking hobbits and blaster guns. For drinking liquor fit for an Irish male alcoholic. For hanging out with silver fox ex-bosses. For quitting your job because your job fucking sucked, Galactica, you are my retroactive icon of the week.
My retroactive icon’s name is Galactica.
We first met over a year ago at my neighborhood bar, tended by a rotating cast of dreamy barkeeps, almost all of whom on which I’ve had ephemeral unreasonable crushes. I believe at the time I met Galactica, the apple of my eye was Dreamy Dane, whose sparkly blues and rugged-yet-beautiful facial structure more than made up for the fact that he had and still has a beautiful and successful long-term live-in girlfriend with whom I am little to no competition. In any case, Dreamy Dane invited me to stop by during happy hour for a drink. I tried my best to casually accept, despite the fact that I may have begun to sob quietly to myself out of desire and disbelief.
I arrived at the bar after my waitressing shift at Café Gypsy, my bag full of cash tips that I wouldn’t need to count out—drinks and their accompanying gratuities were on Dreamy Dane, as always—and I was unsure as to how I would compose myself, alone at the bar with him as my only companion. My crush on Dreamy Dane entirely baseless, I had no idea what I would talk about. God forbid I sit and sip my tumbler of whiskey in utter silence, pathetic and drunk and alone. Fortunately, without having been there long enough to embarrass myself, this is when I met Galactica.
She and her companion, a Polish-Texan silver fox named Shark Mobczak, were trying to figure out how to pay for their drinks; all they had was a $100 bill, which Dreamy Dane couldn’t break. Being a walking bank, I butted in and changed out their Benjamin Franklin with some smaller bills. We got to talking, and Galactica and I discovered we both drank whiskey, loved sci-fi and fantasy, and were writers. She was at the bar on this particular evening, having quit her job recently.
“How recently,” I asked.
“An hour ago,” she said. “Shark’s my boss. Well, was.”
“Oh. Why’d you quit,” I asked.
“I hated it,” she said. Shark shrugged, and we all clinked glasses.
It's been over a year now, but I need to give Galactica her due. I didn't know it at the time, but she is the original gainful unemployee.
So here's to you, Galactica. For distracting me from my feverish crush on Dreamy Dane. For only carrying around hundred dollar bills at four-thirty in the afternoon. For liking hobbits and blaster guns. For drinking liquor fit for an Irish male alcoholic. For hanging out with silver fox ex-bosses. For quitting your job because your job fucking sucked, Galactica, you are my retroactive icon of the week.
09 September 2010
Poop Memos
“Why don’t you quit?” Kozi, the girl from the office next door asked me. The two of us have only really spoken a handful of times—running into each other in the lobby or elevator, and once, of all places, while I was champagne-drunk at Café Gypsy—but she already knows enough about my plight here at Badvertiser to make such a brazen suggestion as quitting my new job.
And it’s no wonder. I was in our shared lobby, per our super’s request, picking through a mass grave of severed desk limbs, gaping cardboard boxes with Styrofoam teeth jutting out all over the place, and the guts of defective computers. The super, when I ran into him on the way to work, said that it’s not his job to break down the boxes, though he offered to do it for $100. If only I could charge a fee per poop-sign they make me post.
In any case, the super was right. It’s not his job. It’s not really my job either, especially because I don’t even know where all of this junk came from. But I knew that I was the only one at Badvertiser who would deal with it. I gave Kozi an unsatisfactory answer to her question; she left, baffled as to why I am torturing myself. Why am I doing this?
I started breaking the boxes down, stacking like-sized objects with each other. The task was a no-brainer, as are most of my tasks here.
Moments later, the super came up to our lobby. I explained that I was taking care of the garbage, and that he needn’t worry; it’s not his job, he was right. But the super, being the nice guy that he is, grumbled that it isn’t my job either, and started helping me—free of charge. Even he, in his position as building bitch, sympathized with my getting dicked around at work.
Before you know it, we’re done. Everything’s cleared. I can move on with my day, and hopefully do something productive.
So, here I am, productively eating my breakfast and shopping online for boots, when I get an email from Kozi. She’s apologetic, but reports that her office is frustrated with the fact that we’re always messing up the shared bathroom, keeping it occupied and what-not. She doesn’t go into detail, but I presume someone has pulled a clog-and-run again, because the super is ringing the doorbell and telling me to tell everybody how to flush properly.
The only thing I can really do short of acting as the keymaster for the bathroom is to send out a mass email to the staff here. A memo. About poop.
I craft it with tact, disguising my ridicule as professionalism. I can only hope that this won’t spark a series of spite-poop-clogs in the shared bathroom. I send out the memo, my words irrevocable, putting the matter out of my hands. Now, it is up to the humanity of the people in the Badvertiser office to keep our toilets clog-free.
And it’s no wonder. I was in our shared lobby, per our super’s request, picking through a mass grave of severed desk limbs, gaping cardboard boxes with Styrofoam teeth jutting out all over the place, and the guts of defective computers. The super, when I ran into him on the way to work, said that it’s not his job to break down the boxes, though he offered to do it for $100. If only I could charge a fee per poop-sign they make me post.
In any case, the super was right. It’s not his job. It’s not really my job either, especially because I don’t even know where all of this junk came from. But I knew that I was the only one at Badvertiser who would deal with it. I gave Kozi an unsatisfactory answer to her question; she left, baffled as to why I am torturing myself. Why am I doing this?
I started breaking the boxes down, stacking like-sized objects with each other. The task was a no-brainer, as are most of my tasks here.
Moments later, the super came up to our lobby. I explained that I was taking care of the garbage, and that he needn’t worry; it’s not his job, he was right. But the super, being the nice guy that he is, grumbled that it isn’t my job either, and started helping me—free of charge. Even he, in his position as building bitch, sympathized with my getting dicked around at work.
Before you know it, we’re done. Everything’s cleared. I can move on with my day, and hopefully do something productive.
So, here I am, productively eating my breakfast and shopping online for boots, when I get an email from Kozi. She’s apologetic, but reports that her office is frustrated with the fact that we’re always messing up the shared bathroom, keeping it occupied and what-not. She doesn’t go into detail, but I presume someone has pulled a clog-and-run again, because the super is ringing the doorbell and telling me to tell everybody how to flush properly.
The only thing I can really do short of acting as the keymaster for the bathroom is to send out a mass email to the staff here. A memo. About poop.
I craft it with tact, disguising my ridicule as professionalism. I can only hope that this won’t spark a series of spite-poop-clogs in the shared bathroom. I send out the memo, my words irrevocable, putting the matter out of my hands. Now, it is up to the humanity of the people in the Badvertiser office to keep our toilets clog-free.
08 September 2010
Hellissa and the Palm Tree
I am the official plant waterer of Badvertiser. I feel it is a grave responsibility; perhaps the gravest bestowed upon me at Badvertiser. If a plant dies, its helpless, innocent chlorophyll is on my hands.
To ensure a full and happy life for my flora friends, I usually water them and spray them with this spray bottle:
This morning, I am spraying the palm tree that over the weekend had been moved to Hellissa’s corner of the office.
For the record, I had nothing to do with the move, especially in light of my suspicion that she hates palm trees; the last thing I need is another conference room trick question session from Lenny and Hellissa about palm tree placement in the office.
Head buried in her cubicle, I hear Hellissa say, “Okay, this is not going to work for me.”
She hasn’t turned away from her computer, so I assume she is muttering to herself about something project-related. But, proving me wrong, she continues: “Isn’t there anywhere else in the office you can put this stupid plant?”
I could understand her perturbation if predatorial noises accompanied each fine mist of water from my alligator spray bottle—but I am astonished that the quiet spray action has prompted her to unleash her hatred on me.
Thus, my initial suspicion was a keen one; Hellissa does indeed hate palm trees.
So, to avoid future confrontations with Hellissa, I have begun compiling a list of thing that she hates:
Palm trees
Cupcakes
Champagne
Me
To ensure a full and happy life for my flora friends, I usually water them and spray them with this spray bottle:
This morning, I am spraying the palm tree that over the weekend had been moved to Hellissa’s corner of the office.
For the record, I had nothing to do with the move, especially in light of my suspicion that she hates palm trees; the last thing I need is another conference room trick question session from Lenny and Hellissa about palm tree placement in the office.
Head buried in her cubicle, I hear Hellissa say, “Okay, this is not going to work for me.”
She hasn’t turned away from her computer, so I assume she is muttering to herself about something project-related. But, proving me wrong, she continues: “Isn’t there anywhere else in the office you can put this stupid plant?”
I could understand her perturbation if predatorial noises accompanied each fine mist of water from my alligator spray bottle—but I am astonished that the quiet spray action has prompted her to unleash her hatred on me.
Thus, my initial suspicion was a keen one; Hellissa does indeed hate palm trees.
So, to avoid future confrontations with Hellissa, I have begun compiling a list of thing that she hates:
Palm trees
Cupcakes
Champagne
Me
31 August 2010
Nemeses
I think for the sake of balance in the universe, we are all assigned a few nemeses over the course of our lives. At Café Gypsy, it was this guy we called RB, whom I delivered some salad dressing and the middle finger one night after he gave the delivery guy a hard time and refused to pay for his salad. Somehow, I didn’t get fired for that.
Now, though, I have a nemesis in a work environment where I can’t exactly go around flipping people the bird. Enter Lenny Bambino.
Lenny’s transgressions against me aren’t ever really anything concrete—just covert attempts at making me feel like a chump for, ostensibly, his own entertainment. And today, he recruited another member to his club, this harpy named Hellissa.
I hear Lenny’s shrunken-testicle voice call me into the conference room. “Hey Kat, I got a question to ask you.”
Lenny always seems to have questions to ask me. Trick questions. Last time it was something about a new travel arrangement policy that annoyed him; he was pumping me, the new travel arranger, for information, trying to humiliate me because he thought I had been the one who had implemented it. Unfortunately for him, I had nothing to tell. I was just a middle man.
Today though, he knew I had a hand in something that annoyed him: the new office paint job.
Hellissa and Lenny hate the new paint. “How much did we pay for this?” “Ugh, we paid $6K for these ugly doors?” “What were the painters thinking?”
Unfortunately for me, I am stupefied by the barrage of questions. I can’t help but give my nemesis and his little assistant a momentary benefit of the doubt, thinking to myself that they can’t possibly know that I was in charge of the design—which, by the way, was a collaborative effort between me, Khrushchev the designer, and Neo the President of the company. For the sake of not embarrassing Lenny and Hellissa, I side-step the questions that would have incriminated any of us as the designers.
But it dawns on me that they must know what they are doing, otherwise, I wouldn’t have been called in here for my weekly trick question session; if they didn't know I was in charge, why the hell would they ask me about it? In any case, they've seen me walk around with contractors for weeks. I leave the conference room with a dumbfounded shrug and polite grin while Lenny and Hellissa thank me for my time and snicker to themselves.
Moments like these are like sunburns. You know that something bad is happening to you, baking under the ridicule, but the rage doesn’t develop until some time has passed.
It takes me a whole ten minutes to get fucking pissed. I call my friend Fanelli, who’s worked in her share of shitty corporate environments, and she suggests I combat these incidents with passive-aggression, because I can’t cause a scene in a corporate environment, especially when I’m new.
So, I take her advice. I book Lenny a seat next to the lavatory for his next non-non-stop flight out of New York City.
The war has begun.
Now, though, I have a nemesis in a work environment where I can’t exactly go around flipping people the bird. Enter Lenny Bambino.
Lenny’s transgressions against me aren’t ever really anything concrete—just covert attempts at making me feel like a chump for, ostensibly, his own entertainment. And today, he recruited another member to his club, this harpy named Hellissa.
I hear Lenny’s shrunken-testicle voice call me into the conference room. “Hey Kat, I got a question to ask you.”
Lenny always seems to have questions to ask me. Trick questions. Last time it was something about a new travel arrangement policy that annoyed him; he was pumping me, the new travel arranger, for information, trying to humiliate me because he thought I had been the one who had implemented it. Unfortunately for him, I had nothing to tell. I was just a middle man.
Today though, he knew I had a hand in something that annoyed him: the new office paint job.
Hellissa and Lenny hate the new paint. “How much did we pay for this?” “Ugh, we paid $6K for these ugly doors?” “What were the painters thinking?”
Unfortunately for me, I am stupefied by the barrage of questions. I can’t help but give my nemesis and his little assistant a momentary benefit of the doubt, thinking to myself that they can’t possibly know that I was in charge of the design—which, by the way, was a collaborative effort between me, Khrushchev the designer, and Neo the President of the company. For the sake of not embarrassing Lenny and Hellissa, I side-step the questions that would have incriminated any of us as the designers.
But it dawns on me that they must know what they are doing, otherwise, I wouldn’t have been called in here for my weekly trick question session; if they didn't know I was in charge, why the hell would they ask me about it? In any case, they've seen me walk around with contractors for weeks. I leave the conference room with a dumbfounded shrug and polite grin while Lenny and Hellissa thank me for my time and snicker to themselves.
Moments like these are like sunburns. You know that something bad is happening to you, baking under the ridicule, but the rage doesn’t develop until some time has passed.
It takes me a whole ten minutes to get fucking pissed. I call my friend Fanelli, who’s worked in her share of shitty corporate environments, and she suggests I combat these incidents with passive-aggression, because I can’t cause a scene in a corporate environment, especially when I’m new.
So, I take her advice. I book Lenny a seat next to the lavatory for his next non-non-stop flight out of New York City.
The war has begun.
30 August 2010
Poop Signs
I finally have an American on my side at Badvertiser. It seems to surprise him as much as it surprises me.
Wino calls me into his office, and I’m thinking that he is going to request that I make up another “Don’t poop in this bathroom” sign. I wouldn’t be all that surprised, really.
There are two bathrooms here, and one doesn’t have a window. Wino gets pissed about poop in the unventilated bathroom, and he regularly asks me if I can make a “tasteful sign” to deter the poop culprits. The first sign read: “Please use other bathroom for ‘heavy duty’ activities. (Mind the double entendre.)”
Oh the homophone, oh the English word adopted from the French language—it was the most elegant sign I’d ever written.
But Wino approached me, two weeks later. “McQ, can you please make another sign… I think that this one you put up may be unclear to the Eastern Europeans here in the office.” Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they didn’t understand the double-meaning that I had chosen so carefully to make the initial no-dookie demand.
The next sign was, I thought, more to the point: “#1 only. This bathroom doesn’t have sufficient ventilation for #2. If you don’t know what #2 means, please ask.”
During my lunch break that day, one of the Russians here, a sweet girl named Nastasya, asked me about the signage on the bathroom door. “Who keeps putting those up, and then changing them? It’s like a week-to-week calendar, something different every Monday.” I confessed that I had been commissioned to create these poop signs. “I actually think the first one was clearer. I am only recently familiar with the terms #1 and #2.”
An anonymous addendum written in permanent marker appeared the next week, proving Nastasya’s point:
Cheeky Eastern Europeans. It reminds me of a joke I heard on Everybody Loves Raymond. "If you're an American in the living room, what are you in the bathroom? You're-a-peein'!"
All of this poop sign baggage, two months into my employment at Badvertiser, explains my great surprise standing here in Wino’s office, receiving acclaim for some Badvertiser blog revisions I had submitted on my own accord. “Thanks for taking the initiative on this, McQ.” Me? Initiative? More like there were so many errors in the Badvertiser blog entry that I was more self-conscious to be working for this company, which I didn't think was possible.
Then Wino asks, “Did you graduate with a literature degree? It seems you have strong written skills.”
Oh, I’m sorry, weren’t my strong written skills apparent in the poop signs you’ve had me post on the bathroom door?
Wino calls me into his office, and I’m thinking that he is going to request that I make up another “Don’t poop in this bathroom” sign. I wouldn’t be all that surprised, really.
There are two bathrooms here, and one doesn’t have a window. Wino gets pissed about poop in the unventilated bathroom, and he regularly asks me if I can make a “tasteful sign” to deter the poop culprits. The first sign read: “Please use other bathroom for ‘heavy duty’ activities. (Mind the double entendre.)”
Oh the homophone, oh the English word adopted from the French language—it was the most elegant sign I’d ever written.
But Wino approached me, two weeks later. “McQ, can you please make another sign… I think that this one you put up may be unclear to the Eastern Europeans here in the office.” Perhaps he was right. Perhaps they didn’t understand the double-meaning that I had chosen so carefully to make the initial no-dookie demand.
The next sign was, I thought, more to the point: “#1 only. This bathroom doesn’t have sufficient ventilation for #2. If you don’t know what #2 means, please ask.”
During my lunch break that day, one of the Russians here, a sweet girl named Nastasya, asked me about the signage on the bathroom door. “Who keeps putting those up, and then changing them? It’s like a week-to-week calendar, something different every Monday.” I confessed that I had been commissioned to create these poop signs. “I actually think the first one was clearer. I am only recently familiar with the terms #1 and #2.”
An anonymous addendum written in permanent marker appeared the next week, proving Nastasya’s point:
Cheeky Eastern Europeans. It reminds me of a joke I heard on Everybody Loves Raymond. "If you're an American in the living room, what are you in the bathroom? You're-a-peein'!"
All of this poop sign baggage, two months into my employment at Badvertiser, explains my great surprise standing here in Wino’s office, receiving acclaim for some Badvertiser blog revisions I had submitted on my own accord. “Thanks for taking the initiative on this, McQ.” Me? Initiative? More like there were so many errors in the Badvertiser blog entry that I was more self-conscious to be working for this company, which I didn't think was possible.
Then Wino asks, “Did you graduate with a literature degree? It seems you have strong written skills.”
Oh, I’m sorry, weren’t my strong written skills apparent in the poop signs you’ve had me post on the bathroom door?
23 August 2010
S&M
Saturday night, I met up for a quick drink with new artist friend Khrushchev, a good friend of my boss Neo’s.
I became acquainted with Khrushchev recently, as he’d come in to help me develop a design for the Badvertiser office space. Maybe he liked my design ideas, or maybe despite my office attire he sensed I was the nude model type, but he insisted we meet up after business hours.
Over a pair of frozen margaritas on Spring Street, the conversation strayed to him snorting “K” in the bathroom of some hotel bar and proceeding to accost some notable Rushdie-type celebrity, an encounter during which he’d made a total fool out of himself—I know “K” is some sort of cat-tranquilizer-turned-recreational drug, only because Mikki is studying to be a vet and is schooled in these things. Not a snorter of drugs myself, I laughed warmly, but quickly changed the topic to something we might both relate to.
I showed Khrushchev the bruises on the inside of my wrists that I’d sustained moving an unimaginably heavy table for Alen MacWeeney, the photographer who has been photographing me of late. Alen is old and has a bad back, and his wife just recently broke her ankle, so I, the nude model, have to toplessly move around heavy shit for him.
“I feel like people see these bruises and get the wrong idea…” I joked, exposing my inner forearms to Khrushchev. He agreed that the bruises did look suspect, asking if I wasn’t sure I had just been doing photos for some new S&M campaign. Which reminded him of the time that he and both of my bosses, Istanbul and Neo, took him to and S&M party.
I was agog and beside myself, and for a moment, Khrushchev hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this…”
No, Khrushchev, you definitely should continue. I asked him what Neo had been wearing. Black jeans, a leather vest—nothing gimpy, but I was rapt with attention nonetheless. Something about using someone’s belt to strike someone’s bare asscheeks…
A few days later, I am at Café Gypsy, on a mission to acquire a couple of paper cups; I aim to illegally drink some wine I’d just purchased on a stoop nearby. As I am pouring out the contents of the bottle, I see that Neo also happens to be at Café Gypsy at this exact moment, watching me from the curb. I say hello, and raise my full cup at him in salutation.
Any other day, I would be mortified to have my boss see me guzzling wine from the bottle, then from paper cups, on a stoop, wearing the same outfit I plan to wear at work the next day because I'm not planning on sleeping in my own bed tonight.
But today, I know his little secret.
I became acquainted with Khrushchev recently, as he’d come in to help me develop a design for the Badvertiser office space. Maybe he liked my design ideas, or maybe despite my office attire he sensed I was the nude model type, but he insisted we meet up after business hours.
Over a pair of frozen margaritas on Spring Street, the conversation strayed to him snorting “K” in the bathroom of some hotel bar and proceeding to accost some notable Rushdie-type celebrity, an encounter during which he’d made a total fool out of himself—I know “K” is some sort of cat-tranquilizer-turned-recreational drug, only because Mikki is studying to be a vet and is schooled in these things. Not a snorter of drugs myself, I laughed warmly, but quickly changed the topic to something we might both relate to.
I showed Khrushchev the bruises on the inside of my wrists that I’d sustained moving an unimaginably heavy table for Alen MacWeeney, the photographer who has been photographing me of late. Alen is old and has a bad back, and his wife just recently broke her ankle, so I, the nude model, have to toplessly move around heavy shit for him.
“I feel like people see these bruises and get the wrong idea…” I joked, exposing my inner forearms to Khrushchev. He agreed that the bruises did look suspect, asking if I wasn’t sure I had just been doing photos for some new S&M campaign. Which reminded him of the time that he and both of my bosses, Istanbul and Neo, took him to and S&M party.
I was agog and beside myself, and for a moment, Khrushchev hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this…”
No, Khrushchev, you definitely should continue. I asked him what Neo had been wearing. Black jeans, a leather vest—nothing gimpy, but I was rapt with attention nonetheless. Something about using someone’s belt to strike someone’s bare asscheeks…
A few days later, I am at Café Gypsy, on a mission to acquire a couple of paper cups; I aim to illegally drink some wine I’d just purchased on a stoop nearby. As I am pouring out the contents of the bottle, I see that Neo also happens to be at Café Gypsy at this exact moment, watching me from the curb. I say hello, and raise my full cup at him in salutation.
Any other day, I would be mortified to have my boss see me guzzling wine from the bottle, then from paper cups, on a stoop, wearing the same outfit I plan to wear at work the next day because I'm not planning on sleeping in my own bed tonight.
But today, I know his little secret.
18 August 2010
A Free Credit Report
A memo circulated around the office yesterday, announcing that today, we would have to adhere to a business casual dress code. The Ukrainian tech guys here at Badvertiser were especially perturbed as this meant they had to wear something other than strangely dyed jeans and strappy leather sandals.
I thought this was a permanent new rule, but it turns out it was just to give the illusion that the staff is always impeccably dressed; we are putting on a show today for some big-name, fat-wallet investors who are coming in for a lunch meeting.
I, the veritable housewife of the Badvertiser office, am ordered to order lunch for the investors. Wraps and beverages from an unfamiliar eatery for a sextet of unfamiliar palates… the pressure is on. This food, I think, could enrich the goings-on in that hushed conference room; I can play a part, albeit a menial role, in the executive inner-workings of this company. Either that, or I ruin everything and make myself look incompetent.
I make sure the food gets here fifteen minutes early so that I have time to set up the arrangement. It’s an unmanageable smorgasbord though, as I don’t recall what I had ordered. Seeing as the wraps are wrapped up, not only in a layer of opaque foil, but an opaque whole wheat tortilla as well, I have no hint other than numbers written on the packaging. The numbers are a sort of code, but I am without a key. Yes, I see that there are two wraps labeled with the number three, and three wraps labeled with the number one, and one wrap labeled with the number five… but what does it all mean???
As I’m trying to crack this code, the investors arrive. Thirteen minutes early. None of the execs in the office are in the immediate vicinity, so here I am trying to make small talk with strangers from a strange company, while artfully sawing open the impenetrable wrappings of these wraps with a uselessly serrated butter knife. It is no easy feat. I'm starting to sweat.
Istanbul and Neo, my two bosses, peer into the conference room window, and I see a look of alarm pass over their face. I was supposed to have this lunch ready by the time the investors got here. But they enter the room, and the look of alarm quickly passes as they realize that I somehow have these investors swiveling and reclining back in the conference room chairs laughing, cheers-ing their bottles of water with my bottle of water, teaching each other secret handshakes we’d learned in the good ol’ days… maybe it’s the years and years of experience I’d gained bullshitting with customers at Café Gypsy, but I am a hit. Istanbul and Neo seem wary but satisfied, and I go back to my cubicle, feeling that perhaps I’m not a total waste of space in this company after all.
After the meeting, the investors come find me and bestow upon me generous blessing of gratitude. Lenny Bambino, my nemesis, glares at me from his stupid corner cubicle. I’m feeling pretty damn good about myself.
As if it couldn’t get better, Neo informs me that these investors said that somehow I had been the one to refer them to Badvertiser. “They must have me mistaken for someone else,” I tell Neo, insisting I haven’t ever referred anyone to use this company. (Really, Neo, I haven’t been referring people to use Badvertiser. Haven’t you been reading this blog?) But he insists right back at me that I am, in fact, the one responsible for bringing these investors into our office. I can’t convince him otherwise.
So now, I’m celebrating to myself this little fluke of a victory, eating a victory wrap leftover from the meeting. For what else is there to do but bask in free credit where credit is not due?
I thought this was a permanent new rule, but it turns out it was just to give the illusion that the staff is always impeccably dressed; we are putting on a show today for some big-name, fat-wallet investors who are coming in for a lunch meeting.
I, the veritable housewife of the Badvertiser office, am ordered to order lunch for the investors. Wraps and beverages from an unfamiliar eatery for a sextet of unfamiliar palates… the pressure is on. This food, I think, could enrich the goings-on in that hushed conference room; I can play a part, albeit a menial role, in the executive inner-workings of this company. Either that, or I ruin everything and make myself look incompetent.
I make sure the food gets here fifteen minutes early so that I have time to set up the arrangement. It’s an unmanageable smorgasbord though, as I don’t recall what I had ordered. Seeing as the wraps are wrapped up, not only in a layer of opaque foil, but an opaque whole wheat tortilla as well, I have no hint other than numbers written on the packaging. The numbers are a sort of code, but I am without a key. Yes, I see that there are two wraps labeled with the number three, and three wraps labeled with the number one, and one wrap labeled with the number five… but what does it all mean???
As I’m trying to crack this code, the investors arrive. Thirteen minutes early. None of the execs in the office are in the immediate vicinity, so here I am trying to make small talk with strangers from a strange company, while artfully sawing open the impenetrable wrappings of these wraps with a uselessly serrated butter knife. It is no easy feat. I'm starting to sweat.
Istanbul and Neo, my two bosses, peer into the conference room window, and I see a look of alarm pass over their face. I was supposed to have this lunch ready by the time the investors got here. But they enter the room, and the look of alarm quickly passes as they realize that I somehow have these investors swiveling and reclining back in the conference room chairs laughing, cheers-ing their bottles of water with my bottle of water, teaching each other secret handshakes we’d learned in the good ol’ days… maybe it’s the years and years of experience I’d gained bullshitting with customers at Café Gypsy, but I am a hit. Istanbul and Neo seem wary but satisfied, and I go back to my cubicle, feeling that perhaps I’m not a total waste of space in this company after all.
After the meeting, the investors come find me and bestow upon me generous blessing of gratitude. Lenny Bambino, my nemesis, glares at me from his stupid corner cubicle. I’m feeling pretty damn good about myself.
As if it couldn’t get better, Neo informs me that these investors said that somehow I had been the one to refer them to Badvertiser. “They must have me mistaken for someone else,” I tell Neo, insisting I haven’t ever referred anyone to use this company. (Really, Neo, I haven’t been referring people to use Badvertiser. Haven’t you been reading this blog?) But he insists right back at me that I am, in fact, the one responsible for bringing these investors into our office. I can’t convince him otherwise.
So now, I’m celebrating to myself this little fluke of a victory, eating a victory wrap leftover from the meeting. For what else is there to do but bask in free credit where credit is not due?
17 August 2010
Destiny
The problem with having artist friends and acquaintances is their disregard of propriety.
The problem with me is that I, too, have little to no propriety. Chances are if you ask me to get naked for the sake of art, I will.
It all started with a little blog called the Daily T. Lo, which my screenwriter friend T. Lo and I created from the futon of her L.A. apartment a few years back. I had just quit Café Gypsy for the first time and had moved in with her for a little sabbatical from my life.
The Daily T. Lo was a fake blog, now defunct, about our lives together in which I co-starred as her perpetually, annoyingly, and embarrassingly topless roommate. There are lots of pictures on this blog of me eating scalding hot spaghetti and holding awkward yoga poses with a black censor bar over my tits. (I wasn’t ever really naked.)
Then, earlier this year, as I was on the verge of quitting Café Gypsy again, my scarfmaker friend Isobel asked me to model her work for a sort of “look book”—but, she mentioned, I would have to be topless. Topless, I thought, meant scarves would be covering anything that ought to be covered. But the day before the shoot, I found out I would be wearing only a thong.
Technically though, I hadn’t bared all, because I ended up covered in voodoo-like body paint, head to toe. Perhaps in an act of filial provocation, I showed off the pictures to my mother, who was none too happy—not simply because I was wearing only a thong, but because the photos were freaky rather than pretty. My mom prefers when I do “normal,” pretty things.
Well, last Friday night I went over to the apartment of this older artist couple I met through Café Gypsy, to meet with the guy, an old Irish photographer named Alen Macweeney. He had asked me if he could do a portrait of me, and after checking out his work, I said sure. We exchanged a couple of emails, and he suggested I wear whatever I wanted for the shoot—or nothing at all. I laughed, thinking to myself, “What do I look like, a nude model?”
But destiny called. Halfway through the shoot with Alen, I ended up topless. No censor bar, no paint, no nothing. Just destiny.
I don’t even know why I am writing this blog, documenting my quest to find the perfect job and to quit the imperfect ones. It’s all been bared to me now.
I am to become a nude model.
The problem with me is that I, too, have little to no propriety. Chances are if you ask me to get naked for the sake of art, I will.
It all started with a little blog called the Daily T. Lo, which my screenwriter friend T. Lo and I created from the futon of her L.A. apartment a few years back. I had just quit Café Gypsy for the first time and had moved in with her for a little sabbatical from my life.
The Daily T. Lo was a fake blog, now defunct, about our lives together in which I co-starred as her perpetually, annoyingly, and embarrassingly topless roommate. There are lots of pictures on this blog of me eating scalding hot spaghetti and holding awkward yoga poses with a black censor bar over my tits. (I wasn’t ever really naked.)
Then, earlier this year, as I was on the verge of quitting Café Gypsy again, my scarfmaker friend Isobel asked me to model her work for a sort of “look book”—but, she mentioned, I would have to be topless. Topless, I thought, meant scarves would be covering anything that ought to be covered. But the day before the shoot, I found out I would be wearing only a thong.
Technically though, I hadn’t bared all, because I ended up covered in voodoo-like body paint, head to toe. Perhaps in an act of filial provocation, I showed off the pictures to my mother, who was none too happy—not simply because I was wearing only a thong, but because the photos were freaky rather than pretty. My mom prefers when I do “normal,” pretty things.
Well, last Friday night I went over to the apartment of this older artist couple I met through Café Gypsy, to meet with the guy, an old Irish photographer named Alen Macweeney. He had asked me if he could do a portrait of me, and after checking out his work, I said sure. We exchanged a couple of emails, and he suggested I wear whatever I wanted for the shoot—or nothing at all. I laughed, thinking to myself, “What do I look like, a nude model?”
But destiny called. Halfway through the shoot with Alen, I ended up topless. No censor bar, no paint, no nothing. Just destiny.
I don’t even know why I am writing this blog, documenting my quest to find the perfect job and to quit the imperfect ones. It’s all been bared to me now.
I am to become a nude model.
12 August 2010
When Syphilis Gets On Your Creative Parts
Me and my new friend, a statuesque, ukulele-playing blond named Sparrow... we'd simply put it all off for too damn long: Writing.
It was the thing we were supposed to say when people asked us what we did. It was our deal. Our main project. But somewhere over the years after college, the main project had become a side project, and then the side project was replaced by an inexplicable malaise.
I mean, after months of acquaintance through our jobs managing at Cafe Gypsy, neither of us had any idea that we both had this selfsame affliction. We never talked about it. It was embarrassing; something we could've taken precaution to prevent; something more serious than writer's block: Creative Syphilis. I almost forgot what it was like to draw up ridiculous conceits for the sake of a good story.
Things changed when Sparrow attended a pre-4th-of-July, post-McQuitter barbecue that Mikki, Betha, and I had thrown at our apartment. She caught of glimpse of my bookshelf and postulated that we might have been friends, based on the titles strewn about my floor. How I missed being able to judge people by the bookcovers they owned!
And just like that, it started up again. We were on the road to recovery. We decided to enter a contest to motivate ourselves, a short story contest through a publication called Glimmer Train. We had a month to write our short stories. Three thousand words or less. An easy side project to pursue.
We wrote sporadically up until the last possible minute: 11:59pm, when the deadline was an ominous, solid midnight... but finally, we each submitted a story. A fine story. But after sharing our work, we agreed that they both felt unfinished. No award-winning masterpieces this time. Considering the word and time limitations--with both of us still having the occasional flare-up of non-writing--our stories were still incomplete.
But it's just that, after years of silence, there is so much to say!
That syphiltic malaise has been replaced by this burning sensation, a compulsion to write...
It was the thing we were supposed to say when people asked us what we did. It was our deal. Our main project. But somewhere over the years after college, the main project had become a side project, and then the side project was replaced by an inexplicable malaise.
I mean, after months of acquaintance through our jobs managing at Cafe Gypsy, neither of us had any idea that we both had this selfsame affliction. We never talked about it. It was embarrassing; something we could've taken precaution to prevent; something more serious than writer's block: Creative Syphilis. I almost forgot what it was like to draw up ridiculous conceits for the sake of a good story.
Things changed when Sparrow attended a pre-4th-of-July, post-McQuitter barbecue that Mikki, Betha, and I had thrown at our apartment. She caught of glimpse of my bookshelf and postulated that we might have been friends, based on the titles strewn about my floor. How I missed being able to judge people by the bookcovers they owned!
And just like that, it started up again. We were on the road to recovery. We decided to enter a contest to motivate ourselves, a short story contest through a publication called Glimmer Train. We had a month to write our short stories. Three thousand words or less. An easy side project to pursue.
We wrote sporadically up until the last possible minute: 11:59pm, when the deadline was an ominous, solid midnight... but finally, we each submitted a story. A fine story. But after sharing our work, we agreed that they both felt unfinished. No award-winning masterpieces this time. Considering the word and time limitations--with both of us still having the occasional flare-up of non-writing--our stories were still incomplete.
But it's just that, after years of silence, there is so much to say!
That syphiltic malaise has been replaced by this burning sensation, a compulsion to write...
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