Monday, January 31, 2011


When I was in my early twenties, I worked for a large department store.

Every year, we celebrated 'Take Your Child To Work Day'. All the employees would bring their kids to the store to greet customers behind the counters, fold shirts in the back rooms, and sweep the floors in the break room. Basically, it was an excuse to abuse child labor laws and get all our cars washed, as we sent them out to the parking lot around noon with buckets of soapy water. (I highly recommend getting a small child to wash both the inside and outside of your car- their small, nimble fingers can really get into any hard-to-reach place.)

In conjunction with Take Your Child To Work Day, my company always brought out Blobby, a large, fuzzy, orange, blob-looking mascot costume- and once a year, they talked one employee into wearing it all day to entertain the children, wave at cars in front of the store, and participate in a humiliating act of self-degradation.

2003 was my year.

"I am NOT wearing that fucking costume," I complained to my manager, arms folded in defiance.
My boss glared at me over her glasses. "You've been late to work four times this week. You're wearing it- or consider yourself fired."
"Define late," I hedged, trying to figure a way out of my impending doom.
"Showing up at noon reeking of vodka when you were due at 9am is late," she barked. "Get into the costume and entertain those goddamn kids- and remember- NO talking when you're Blobby- Blobby does not speak. Blobby only waves at people and gives hugs."
"Blobby sounds like a fucking loser," I pouted.

An hour later I was in the Blobby costume- it was hot and stuffy inside. The costume was over six feet tall, so my view to the outside world was through Blobby's nostrils.
"The children are waiting for you!" The man from human resources announced gaily in his office, after securing Blobby's tail to my ass. "Have fun! And remember- you can't talk. Blobby does NOT speak- okay?" He swung open the door and pushed me into the store, where all the spawn were waiting.

"BLOBBY!" Shouted roughly 8-10 children, all waving their arms wildly and jumping up and down with excitement as I walked through the door.
I waved and waited for them to calm down. "What's up?" I asked.
The children's jaws dropped in shock.
"Blobby- you- you talk?!" Asked one little boy, his eyes wide. They had all hung out with silent Blobby previously.
"Of course I talk," I scoffed. "I just had strep throat before and couldn't speak."
"What's strep throat?" Asked a little blond girl.
"It's what you get when you drink to much and make out with shady-looking guys in bars," I explained.
"Oh," she said, nodding wisely.
"You're a girl, Blobby?!" The first boy asked, still in shock.
"I am- girls can do anything- they can be doctors, lawyers, and even pathetic, costumed, department store mascots. And don't you kids forget it." Bored, I glanced around. "You guys want to ride the escalator up and down for a couple hours?"
"Yeay!" Shouted the children.

Two hours later, I was in the break room with the kids and answering a flurry of questions. They couldn't get over the fact that I could talk, and had a million questions for me.
"Where do you live, Blobby?" Asked the oldest of the group, a six-year-old who seemed suspicious.
"I live in the basement of this building," I answered.
"The basement?!" He asked, stunned. "Isn't it cold down there?!"
"Oh, no- not at all. The basement has large coal ovens in it- the same coal ovens that heat this department store. I shovel large amounts of coal in the hot ovens all day and all night." I looked down sadly and wiped a fake tear off my googly eyes with one of my large orange hands.
The children looked horrified. I could tell they were all picturing their beloved Blobby, bent over a hot coal oven, sweating through her orange fur.
"But Blobby, you don't have to do that!" One of the youngest girls protested.
"But I do," I said, and paused for dramatic effect. "They chain me to the basement floor. I have to shovel the coal, or-" I made my voice quiver. "I don't get fed...and...there's the beatings....."
One child burst into tears as the older boy clutched my furry arm in desperation. "You have to run away, Blobby! You can come live with me!"
I patted his head gently. "I don't think your parents would want to house a six foot tall mascot, but I appreciate the offer. Oh- and tell your dad I said hi."
One girl raised her hand. "Do you know Santa Claus?" She asked, eagerly, because kids think that all mystical creatures know Santa Claus. Kids are dumb.
"Oh yeah," I said, nonchalantly. "We're actually dating."
The children gasped. "You're dating Santa Claus?!" They screeched.
"Yeah, but-" I brought my voice down to a whisper. "Don't tell Mrs. Claus, okay? It's strictly physical- I don't want any drama, you know?"
The kids nodded solemnly.

After lunch I gave them a tour of the store. I dry humped a couple of mannequins, which made them laugh really hard, and pretended to pass out in Active Sportswear, making them all scream in horror. I felt like Maria in the Sound Of Music, gallivanting around Austria with the Von Trapp family. Except this was much more fucked up.
"My hands hurt, Blobby," one of the kids complained, behind me. Toward the end of the day I had made the kids take turns giving me shoulder massages as I flipped through a magazine.
"I'll tell my man Santa Claus to not bring you any gifts this year," I threatened, while perusing an article on open-toed pumps.

At five o'clock I gave all the kids hugs goodbye and sent them on their way. Exhausted, I wadded back to my boss's office and plopped down in a chair, pulling Blobby's head off its body.
"How was your day?" My boss asked, eyebrows raised.
"You never called anybody over to zip you out of the costume for bathroom breaks," she continued.
"Oh, right-" I paused. "I sort of..." I stopped.
"Oh, my god- you pissed yourself in the costume?" She asked, horrified.
"It's super absorbent," I replied, defending myself.

The next day, the store received lots of angry phone calls from parents, mad because their kids had told them that Blobby, the store mascot, was giving blow jobs to mannequins, having an affair with Santa Claus, and being beaten in the basement. During my firing, my boss kept shaking her head and asking me, "How could you?!" I didn't really have an answer, and, honestly- I wasn't that upset. I had absolutely no desire to ever put on the Blobby costume again.

Besides, it's stained with urine.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Can't Turn It Off

On Saturday, I was in the checkout line at the grocery store and the cashier was TOTALLY hitting on me.

“You saved $4.23 with your shopper card,” he said, gazing into my eyes as he pulled the receipt off the register and handed it to me, his fingers lightly caressing the palm of my hand. “Thank you for shopping with us today.”
“No, thank YOU,” I flirted back, clutching the paper shopping bag to my huge (read: padded bra) chest. “Thanks for checking me out,” I said, because I find puns both amusing and sexy.
“Um…sure,” the cashier, both married and old enough to be my dad, looked momentarily confused. “Have a nice day.”
“I will,” I replied, and gave him a big wink. “I’m sure YOU’RE having a nice day as well.”
Now the cashier looked really confused. “I…….” He nodded briefly and turned his attention to the next customer.

I have a confession to make, and please- don’t judge me (that’s reserved for God and Fox News). I ALWAYS think that men are hitting on me. Always. There. I said it.

I have thought about this a lot. I really, really struggle having normal, non-sexual conversations with men I’m not related too. I believe this is for a variety of reasons:

1.) I’m a girl’s girl. I only have female friends. Sure, I have a few acquaintances that are men- but a true friend? Women only. I just don’t really relate to guys- I’m pretty sure they don’t talk about anything I’m interested in, which is fashion, Hollywood, and the comfort levels of thong underwear. I don’t really know what to talk to them about. Beer?
2.) I have an inflated ego based on nothing. I am extremely average. My vanity is not based on facts or data, only my own shallow, irrational thoughts. (Read: Front of fashion magazine says: “Plum eye shadow makes guys want you!” So I purchased plum eye shadow, wear it, and am convinced I am Megan Fox.)
3.) I get bored easily, so I create fantasies in my head to dull the repetitiveness that is life.
4.) I am mentally not well.
5.) I’m pretty sure they’re hitting on me.

“I think we need this major account to leverage our overhead so we can avoid outsourcing,” said one of my coworkers, Ronnie. We were in a status meeting with about fifteen people. Ronnie was sitting next to me, a seat he obviously picked because he’s in love with me. He turned to me. “Could you pull some of that data from last year’s numbers?”
I crossed my legs and smiled suggestively. “You WOULD choose me to help you with that, wouldn’t you?”
Ronnie paused. “Um…yeah, you’re the only one with access to those numbers.”
I snorted. “How convenient for you,” I said.
“I’m sorry…?” Ronnie asked.
“It’s just…” I leaned in a little bit so he could smell my new perfume and get a peek down my shirt. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work,” I whispered. “I’m married, and I know this is really hard for you to understand, but it’s not going to happen.”
My boss interrupted. “What’s the problem here, Living Shallow? Get Ronnie the numbers.”
I sighed and leaned back into my chair. “I don’t want you two fighting over me- for crying out loud, boss- you’re causing a scene. Jesus.” I rolled my eyes and stared at my cuticles. My boss has been crushing on me since 2007, when he hired me. It’s cute when he has these jealous fits of rage, but in a meeting? He should really try to be more professional.
My boss briefly closed his eyes, either to try to control his temper or picture me in a bikini. I assume the latter. “If there’s problem with you doing your job, we’ll talk about it later in my office,” he barked.
“Big surprise, you want me alone in your office,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?!” My boss roared.

A few days later my husband and I went out to dinner. The waiter could not have been more obvious about his feelings for me.
“More wine?” He asked, smiling at me.
“Yes, please,” I watched him pour the bottle into my glass, lust written all over his face. I could tell he wanted to say a thousand things to me- that I am the window to his soul, the mother to his children, the oxygen to his breath. But instead, he just listed off the specials of the evening as I read the pain in his eyes.
“……and that dish has a caramelized topping on it- it’s very good,” he continued. “I’ll let you two have a moment before I come back for your order.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said, woefully.
The waiter’s smiled stayed on. “Anything else you need, miss?”
“Only to ease the ache in your heart,” I whispered, sadly. I reached out and clutched his arm. “I know that unrequited love is like a thousand knives into your soul, and I’m sorry for that,” I said, dramatically.
“I’m sitting right here, honey,” my husband said dryly, interrupting me.
I ignored him and stared deep into the waiter’s eyes. “It will be painful to move on, but move on you must- as I am betrothed to another.” I touched the napkin dramatically to my eyes and gave his arm a final squeeze before letting go.
The waiter blinked a few times in confusion. “Er- I’ll be back with your salads,” he said, before running off.
My husband eyed me. “Is this about that whole you thinking everybody’s in love with you thing again?” He said, complaining. “Because that’s weird, honey.”
“I can’t turn it off,” I sniffed, defensive.
“I’m going to have to leave him a huge tip now,” my husband complained again.

When my friend, Rebecca, wants me to visit, I usually decline because I don’t want to cause tension between her husband and I and make things awkward. He always asked me really personal things, like how my job is. It’s SO obvious he wants me. To make matters worse, her five-year old son hits on me constantly. Please- all those repeated requests about pushing him on the swings? Could he BE more obvious? It’s pathetic, really.
“I’m pretty sure my son doesn’t ‘want’ you, honey,” my friend said, dryly, after I asked her to hose her kid down with cold water before I came over.
“Clearly you’re in denial, and I really don’t want to argue about it,” I snapped. “I just hope our friendship survives this.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she moaned.
“He cries over me?” I asked. “Figures. What a fucking baby.”

I guess in the back of my mind there’s a piece of me that thinks maybe there are actually men out that aren’t interested in me. That maybe I’m mistaking basic everyday politeness for lust? That maybe every man I encounter doesn’t want me to give birth to his spawn? Perhaps I am simply stroking my own ego? That maybe they are actually in love with their own wives and not-

Oh wait, there’s a knock at the door.

I open the door and am greeted by a UPS driver.
“Package, miss,” he says, and then holds out a clipboard. “Sign here please.”
I sign and hand him back his pen as he hands me back a box.
“Thank you, have a nice day,” he says, before hurrying off.

He wants me.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Ten Resolutions

This is going to be MY YEAR.

I say that every year on New Year's Eve, usually around 11:43pm, right before I either blackout or vomit from all the alcohol. The next day, hungover, I write out all my new year's resolutions, swearing to myself that THIS YEAR is going to be the year that I actually follow through with all my goals.

I swear I'm going to keep them.


I have been every color of blond- ash blond, honey blond, sunset blond, caramel blond- but, surely- there are more? There's got to be an entire world of blond I have yet to discover- I'm going to become the Christopher Columbus of blond hair. Straw blond? Billy Idol blond? The possibilities are endless.

Every time my boss asks me to do something, I sarcastically say "Sure.....Daddy." He gives me a pretty odd look, especially when we're in staff meetings or conference calls and I do it. I should probably stop.

Read: Abuse laxatives.

Eh....actually, this probably won't happen. Mormons are like those crab apples that fall from trees and end up scattered on the sidewalk- I can't help but step on them, because the sound of that crunch is so satisfying. Also, I wouldn't make fun of them if they didn't give me SO MUCH to work with- I mean- multiple wives? Aversion to coffee? Those creepy white smocks they wear under their clothes? I have enough material for years of jokes.

Last weekend, I wasted tons of time reading Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, discussing politics, and volunteering. No more. I should have spent that time reading gossip magazines, smacking my gum, trying on eyeshadow colors that make me look more like Kate Bosworth, and staring vapidly into space.

When we go out to eat, I love giving my order to the waiter and then saying to my husband, "Go ahead, My Overlord." Or when a telemarketer calls I always say, "I'm going to need to check with My Overlord." When I'm filling out forms at the doctor's office, I love writing 'My Overlord' in the emergency contact section. I do it because it's really funny, but my husband's patience is wearing thin. So I'll just start calling him 'Master Of All That Is Holy."

Mostly because one women emailed me and told me that my blog is the only laugh she gets all day at her miserable, dead-end job. So Marnie28....this one's for you. Also, Marnie- try sneaking shots in the restroom around 10am. Your days will get a lot better- trust me on this one.

It's going to look just like the one Lindsay Lohan stayed in- you know, rolled towels in baskets, zen music playing in the background, calming pale blue wallpaper, 3 grams of coke hidden in the toilet dispenser, and a therapist on site. It's going to be dreamy.....I should call that magazine, House Beautiful and see if they would want to do a photo shoot.

My husband travels a lot for work (he's also the cook in the family), and when he's not home at night I turn into a frat boy. Two glasses of Jack Daniel's over ice with a side of white wine? Welcome to my Tuesday nights. But word on the street is that 'dinner' should include this thing called 'food', and while I'm no Julia Child, would it kill me to throw together a sandwich?

Seriously, that is so wrong. I'm going to get my highs naturally- through things like working out, prayer, and spending time with friends and family. Plus, one of the high school kids I was dealing to told me he was going to call the cops. Fucker!

Well, there they are. My top ten- they're pretty lofty I know, but I'm going to work real hard and try to achieve them. Wish me luck.

Happy New Year!