Crazy Little Twig Monster

Arg! That tiny little bitch-face is driving me crazy!

At the end of last week she decided she wanted me to be her best friend. When she’s trying to be nice, she talks a mile a minute and is all fluttery and I can’t get a word in edgewise. I just sit there looking quizzically at her nodding and saying “uh-huh” a lot, then she flits away. I had to put up with a whole day of this, it was ridiculous.

Then Monday came and she was running hot-and-cold, and it’s lasted all week. It’s totally throwing me off. She’s either artificial saccharine-sweet or the fucking ice queen. I don’t know how she manages to have so much going on inside of her teeny bird brain to swing her moods around so dramatically. I bet she’s a Gemini—no, that can’t be right because I always click well with Geminis. Oooh, I bet she’s a nasty Scorpio… Anyway, why the fuck do I care, I’m not going to be sending HER a fucking birthday card.

I’m just bitching because about ten minutes ago some dude came in and said he was a friend of the company president and he just wanted to poke his head in her office. Before I really had time to stage an objection, he was down the hall. He peeked in, found out the pres is out and left. Not a minute later I hear a really quick-tempo clomp-clomp-clomping, and I look up to see little black scissor legs slicing up the corridor. Twiggy was in a total wide-eyed tizzy and was giving me the spiel about not letting people walk through the office, something could go missing and she’d be liable, the sky is falling, god is coming to strike you down. He nose was flared out and I noticed she had a tiny booger suspended in the hairs of her right nostril.

The bright side is that she is on vacation for the first three days of next week, and today I’m leaving early! One more hour and I will be free of that insufferable little sparrow-person until Thursday, mwah-ha-ha-ha!

Today Was the Big Day

Well, I had my interview this morning, and I think it went o.k. The woman who interviewed me was very friendly and kind, so I was comfortable. I hope I wasn't too much myself so as to be perceived as unprofessional. I feel like I bombed the writing test, but only because I was being very careful. I was to analyze three documents, write a summary, write a short 3-line description, and choose a few keyword topics the document could be searched by. I got the short description and half the summary of the first document completed. The interviewer noticed I looked worried and said that there was no reason to be concerned, the writing test was just to show my thought process. I hope they choose to offer the position to ME! I was so darned enthusiastic, and I couldn’t help it. If I were on the other side of the (beautiful 19th century pine) conference table, I would rather bring on someone who is excited about the job but has a few things to learn than hire someone who has all the essential skills and knowledge but has a lukewarm attitude toward the job. We’ll have to wait and see how it pans out. I should know in about a week either way.

Expired Tuesday

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re back in high school and you’re like 30 and not wearing a shirt and you’re supposed to be at work for an important meeting but the teacher won’t give you a hall pass? That’s pretty much what I’m feeling right now, except I’m awake.

You see, I went back to the mall for some part-time work to support my crack addiction (obviously, I must have been on crack to even consider it, right?). Just kidding, I just wanted the 40% discount off clothing and some spending money because every last penny I make is budgeted to be spent on one bill or another. And now, instead of being ahead, I’m behind! The extra hours of work and stress wore me down and I got sick right away and missed TWO DAYS at my day job, plus one shift at the mall—about which they had a complete case of the ass!

Tuesday was the final straw. I had to get to my day job an hour early, so my day was 8am-4:30pm, and I was scheduled later on at the mall. I got there at 5:30 and stopped in at work to grab my wallet that I forgot there in case I found something to wear during my one hour of shopping for my brother’s wedding this Saturday (I didn’t). My supers were like, “Hey, why don’t you punch in NOW?” I declined. I ran around looking at dresses and grabbed some dinner and headed back. After I punched in, they informed me that we were all staying late to finish the re-set and prepare for a major corporate visit in the morning.

All that was written on the schedule was 6:30 to close, which is 9:30 or 10. No one called me to get my permission to be scheduled late into the night. They just assumed jurisdiction over my person, deciding that once I punch in, they can just keep me working until their task is complete. As the night wore on I became more and more angry.

There was SO MUCH to do and we were getting nowhere. The store was supposed to be re-set completely on Sunday night, and two managers came in early Sunday to get a jump on it, then were back after closing to finish. Well, the problem was that they had over TWENTY boxes of shipment to process. Which means twenty 24”x24”x18” boxes stuffed full of clothes that are folded up in tissue paper and wrapped in plastic, some with chintzy plastic hangers. It takes about thirty minutes to process each box (multiply by 20 boxes=ten man hours) because you have to unwrap and sort, take out the crap hangers, hang the clothes per corporate guidelines, sort by size, and find somewhere to store it until it goes on the floor. We only have 5 eight-foot rolling racks, mind you. Plus, of course we get crappy little trinket-y accessories to unpack and put out too. Each pair of earrings or keychain or ring is wrapped in its own little plastic bag and taped shut, and they all go together inside of a larger plastic bag that is taped shut and comes inside of a box that is taped shut inside of the big shipment box. There’s a lot of trash to take out.

As if enormous shipment weren’t enough, they had to do markdowns, a huge undertaking in itself and can take as long as two days between a staff of six: find products listed, pull it all off the floor, count and record each garment, HAND WRITE new prices on each and every tag—they can’t spring for a goddam pricegun?!—and place all the clothes on the floor that will fit, otherwise pack up the rest in boxes and bring to the off-site storage room, which, in the Megamall, is literally a quarter of a mile away. And THEN, to prepare for the corporate visit, each and every rack, sidebar, standout, 4-way, and gondola of clothing had to be put in order by size; all the shelves of pants had to be refolded to corporate specification, perfectly stocked, and in size order; the whole store needed to be thoroughly cleaned—another two hours of work that is just a big waste of time because in a matter of hours everything would be covered in dust anyway.

The mall is one huge dust factory. The dust comes from the fibers of the MILLIONS of garments housed in the mall. They just circulate and re-circulate through the air ducts, clogging the ventilation system and dropping whole dust bunnies that pile up in every corner of the building. The result is a definite, yet unsubstantiated Mall of America Syndrome which keeps the full time shopkeeps all across the mall sick. They think they’re just getting virus after virus, but it’s the dust and dust mites. I digress.

So there I was at 9:30 doing the most recent shipment of clothes and I’m listening to the two managers talking across the store to each other. What I sussed out was that the two of them had been staying over night till 4am both Sunday night and Monday night and enlisting the assistant manager’s beau to help without being paid. While the two of them were remerchandising walls and dressing mannequins, the assistant manager called her boyfriend and begged him for a straight ten minutes to come in and help again—for free of course. He kept saying no (I was thinking, “That’s right, guy, put your fuckin’ foot down”), but she started getting pissed so he caved and came in to clean. I guess he knows not to piss off a fat lady.

When I finished the shipment, I had to refold and re-merchandize about twenty four DOZEN pairs of pants with the other associate. When we finished that shit I called it quits. It was fucking half past midnight, my husband had been waiting out in the parking for me for half an hour with a clear view of two idiots fucking in a car, and the store was nowhere NEAR done. Clearly, this is not worth $7.00 per hour—$5.46 per hour after taxes.

I am totally quitting. Again.

Mullets Are the Shit!

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a "fascination" with mullets. So I am taking it as a good omen for my impending interview that I have received a random "good luck" comment from a man with a fantastic mullet. Even better, he is pictured all sweaty wearing a soccer uniform. This. Is. A. Sign. (Please please let it be a sign...)

In my twenties I managed the bakery department of a natural foods store and my little crew obliged my mullet obsession. I had mullet pictures all over our communication log and taped to the freezer unit. One girl even brought me a picture of herself with her arm slung over the shoulders of a very tall man with an uber-mullet. She said when she saw, him she thought of me. When she put that picture up on the freezer unit, it was my proudest moment as their leader. We were rogues in chef coats (that is, until I was asked to step down from the Team Lead position—not mullet-related).

Thanks Random Mullet Guy!

You Won't Fucking Believe It!

I finally got an interview!! And lucky me, it's for the job I want the most!!! Whoo... what am I going to wear? OMG!

"Screw You Guys...I'm Goin' Home."

Only Eric Cartman can properly capture the sentiment that I would like to express to my co-workers at my present temp assignment. Although, many of the people who work here would be APALLED at my use of the term "CO-Worker" to describe my relationship to them, because that might just suggest I am “on their level,” which I’m pretty sure would insult them.

For instance, the executive assistant to the president and management team is especially pernicious. We are the same height; there all similarities END. She is at approximately 40% of my weight (soaking wet), and she’s nervous and high-strung enough that I bet if I snuck up and startled her she’d pee a little in her black knitted tights. She has a short, severe haircut that is black and spikey, and she wears trendy expensive cat-eye-frame glasses. And she slouches. She does not smile. Whenever I pass her I greet her and give a little grin, but she just glances over at me without smiling, then eyes forward and continues on her little quick march.

And dear lord, is she defensive!! Last week the office manager took a vaca-day on Friday, so I shot her and email saying, “Who’s coming in at 8?” (to cover the early a.m. reception desk time), and this was her response, which I have cut-and-pasted directly to this posting: “I guess I am...but it would be nice to know a couple days out, because let's say I have other plans or whatnot. I sometimes go to the gym during that time.” I was like, whatever! Did I imply that I wouldn’t do it? So I wrote back, “I didn't mean for that to sound like a passive suggestion. Would you prefer to cover the front desk for the morning hour, or the evening hour? Also, how does your afternoon look for break coverage?” Heaven forbid I should ask a direct question.

Did I mention that she is NOT HELPFUL? Jeezis Criminey, she will squirm and fuss her twiggy ass off to get out of doing anything for someone else. How she managed to be anyone’s “assistant” is completely beyond me. It’s probably a status thing; me being the junior admin assistant temp, it’s probably beneath her to do anything for me. Case in point: yesterday a contract employee called in from home asking me to grab some things from his office so a courier could pick them up right away. The office manager was out of the office smoking or something, so, as my last resort, I had to call her. I asked if she would go in the guy’s office and grab a couple things, or watch the desk so I could do it.

Twiggy: “Well, where’s T****?”
Ms. Piggy: “She’s stepped out, will you help me?”
Twiggy: “[Sigh] Yeah, quick”
Ms. Piggy: “Do you want to watch the desk, or run to M***’s office?”
Twiggy: “Just tell me what you need from his office.”
Ms. Piggy: “There is a FedEx bag of lab coats, and a box of videotapes that someone is coming to pick up.”
One minute later…[phone rings]
Twiggy: “I can’t find the box, which one are you talking about, I don’t know where it is.”
Ms. Piggy: “I don’t know what it looks like. It’s a box of video tapes and a bag with lab coats in it. I think he said the box is under his desk.”
Twiggy: “oh, here are the lab coats.” [pause] “I found the box. It’s too heavy for me, I’m not going to hurt myself bringing it out.”
Ms. Piggy: “I think there is a cart somewhere—“
Twiggy: “No, I’m not going to carry it out and hurt myself.”
Ms. Piggy: “I’m not asking you to carry it. I’m pretty sure there is a cart here somewhere.”
Twiggy: “Well, get T**** to do it, I can’t help you.”
[Click.]

She didn’t even grab the godamm lab coats while she was already in there looking at them! WTF? I got T**** to help me when she came back, and what she brought up to the desk was a 12”x12”x15” box that weighed as much as a bowling ball. You have GOT to be kidding me. Crazy bitch.

Then again, maybe it has something to do with her short hair. She’s so skinny, she probably can’t hold up a hair dryer long enough to style some long hair. And anyway, all that extra weight added to her disproportionately large head might crush her dainty little pencil neck. Me, I got no neck, and I’m pretty much built like a Sherman tank, so I forget that some of these dinky peanut-sized people are just for looks and have no function, like 7” spike heels or silicone breasts.

Too Big to Ignore

I was eating lunch in the employee kitchen today and there was an issue of Us Weekly on the table so I flipped though it. It was lamer than anticipated, but what caught my attention was a segment about which stars admire which other stars. On page 76 of the September 4, 2006 issue, Lisa Rinna reveals that she admires Madonna’s “buff bod.” I looked at their photos side by side, and they look like a pair of female impersonators, like skinny men in drag. Is that what our popular culture has come to? That the slightest hint of womanly softness and suppleness is fat and ugly? That the pinnacle of feminine beauty is to look like an underfed, strung out man in a dress? Seriously, Madonna practically has an adam’s apple, and Rinna’s jaw line looks like it could split logs. Even cleavage has been cast out of the spotlight because the image of breasts touching looks fat or flabby. Make no mistake, big boobs are still “in,” but now they appear as hard, separated floating orbs, leaving exposed lumpy, bony sternums in lingerie ads, on the red carpet, and all along Rodeo Drive.

Our sisters of the seventies strapped on combat boots and stomped their happy asses out of their kitchens and right out into the street talking all kinds of craziness that no one wanted to deal with in contemporary civil discourse. They quit shaving and flipped the bird at the rigid standards of beauty. Because of them, women in the West now have a lot more flexibility in their dress, conduct, and demeanor.

As a direct result, the subject of beauty standards has been deconstructed to death in the last thirty-some years, which begs the question, WHY are women still such slaves to representation? I know it’s tough to just get over it, but really, let’s do already! Forgive me for speaking such heresy in “post-feminist” America, but it seems to me this phenomenon might have something to do with the “male gaze.” But not a male gaze in the traditional sense….

Now it is women who hold positions of power in fashion design and marketing, magazines, TV, and even smut publications. Oddly enough, it seems like the women in power are usurping the male gaze and wielding it against their sisters. Our popular culture is once again embracing strict ideals, but this time with a definite pornographic sensibility. Somehow this imagery is validated by the fact that women are choosing to produce and sell the images.

Now, we take it for granted that we can refuse to be manipulated by male dominated media representations, but we are caught off guard and are more easily swayed when we feel the pressure coming from other women. We are accustomed to, and less threatened by, women telling us what to wear, what interests to have, how to dress to please a man. The women executives who stand to gain financially are exploiting the trust that we women have with each other in our boys vs. girls world. Ironically, our male counterparts that were also raised on basic feminist tenets (“women are people, not things,” etc.) are now less likely to be as invested in the typical standards of beauty as the men of previous eras; the joke is on us.

The more serious question to consider is this: How can we stand against The Man as sisters, when The Man is a sister? Oprah Winfrey, self/fat-hating richest woman in the world; Christine Hefner, CEO of Playboy Enterprises; Kate White, Editor in Chief of Cosmo; etc. Have we reduced ourselves to madams and hoes? Or can we literally, as well as figuratively, bounce these images from the nucleus of our pop culture?

I like to think so. I am encouraged by the new laws imposed on fashion shows in Madrid, Spain in regard to the health of their models. An article published online from the International Herald Tribune, Europe, explains that Milan is eager to follow suit. Those quoted in the piece as opposing the law are Modeling agency owner Ricardo Gay, and chairman of the Italian National Chamber of Fashion Mario Boselli. Gay is upset because these laws would mean that 80% (!) of his fashion models would be eliminated, and Boselli was quoted as saying that nowadays, anorexic models are virtually non-existent. It is common knowledge that the majority of models are underweight, but now we’re supposed to believe that it is not due to eating disorders. Should we also believe that the world is flat, or that women ARE less intelligent than men?

It seems to me we haven’t come so far in our recovery from male dominance. Many times, when a woman has been mistreated, she attempts to gain control of her pain by continuing to reproduce it. This is what I see happening with the male gaze; women are striving to prove they are in control of it by gaining mastery over their bodies, whether through food restriction rituals, surgical procedures, or cosmetics. Then, when we don't see the results we want, we often despise or punish ourselves for “failing.”

Second Wave feminists have been criticized heavily for crying victimhood at the hands of patriarchy, and third wave feminists have a point about how we should instead take credit for how far we really have come compared to more repressive times in Western culture. But psychologically speaking, we are still operating under a victim mentality by choosing to victimize ourselves and other women. Instead of celebrating the demise of patriarchy as we formerly knew it, we’re holding a place at the table for it, just in case it storms in hungry wanting dinner.

We need more women like the ones in Spain—women in powerful positions choosing to make their world more woman friendly, instead of taking advantage of their positions to profit from our insecurities. It is not enough that we have “tough” women in the three branches of government, on television, and in the corporate boardrooms because, unfortunately, most of them are working for their own agenda to achieve status, power, fame, and money. What we need are more women who are willing to take responsibility for how we live as women, and for the legacy we pass on to our younger sisters. I strive toward this goal in everything I do. I have a voice. And I am too big to ignore.