Saturday, March 24, 2012

Hctib Afonos!


First of all, the size of my breasts is of no concern to anyone reading my story.  That being said, I should second that my ass is indeed fantastic.  

(Oh, so you can talk about your ass, but I can't?  You know, I said it was nice, not fantastic.  That's not fair, that's just - ow! Hctib afonos!

You've really got to learn how to swear properly if you're going to try to do so.

The thing I should mention is I don't know how to tell a good story.  I'm great at the beginning and end bits, but the meat of it is where I lose my way.  Details.  They turn fuzzy.  So if I get this wrong, I'm sure that someone will interject with corrections.  Or opinions.  Some of which will be embellished or just plain stupid.


Oh sure, scratch yourself while you're at it, why don't you?  Animal.  

(Obvious statement.  Tiny human.)

Flea-ridden dog.

(You should bathe me more often.)


(This isn't going anywhere, you know.  You're just putting off telling them the truth.  Go on.  Tell them.)

Alright, alright.  Fine.  The reason we're telling you our story is because, well, someone needs to know what we've done.  It's not every day that you get to save the world.  Let alone two of them.  Since we might not succeed, someone needs to know what happened.  Then maybe you can get us out of the mess we're in.  And it's all his fault, by the way, if we screw it up.  

(Oh, thanks a lot, lady.)

You're welcome.

You should know that he's gotten most of it right so far.  I am bored.  I love what I do for a living.  I recruit managers for hotels around the country, but the office where I work is toxic and bland.  Adam, the boss, and founder of the company, is an ancient man who thinks that the 1970s was our peak decade.  Anything that has happened after 1979 is unimportant.  He wears plaid suits, pointed leather shoes, and has no idea how to use 'the Google.'  He treats the office like its his kingdom.  We've caught him referencing himself as Adam the Great, but I have another name for him.  Adam the Perv.  He spends most of his days in the office shining his shoes until he swears that he can see his face reflecting back at him.  I think it's so he can look up our blouses, as opposed to down them, you know, to keep things fresh.  

The Office Manager, Alice, sounds like Darth Vader.  She smokes five packs a day.  Alice decorates her desk with pictures of her overfed pet rats.  She has six of them and has named them all after Russian politicians.  Ironically, Putin is the largest of them.

Richard is another one of the recruiters.  We should be on the same team, but we're not.  Richard is one of those office mates who greets you with a smile if he wants something from you and otherwise ignores you as though you were a potted plant.  He sings Broadway tunes at an alarmingly constant rate.  He has a fantastic voice, but is bitter because his musical career has not garnered much attention.  Apart from a Huggies commercial, where he played the chubby balding father, his career consists mostly of community musicals and plays.  He's in rehearsals for The Music Man now.  It's the eighth time he's performed it.  This time it's in Wilmette.  If I have to hear him sing "Seventy-Six Trombones" one more time, I really am going to burn the building down.

(Me too.  I've caught her singing it to herself.  Richard may have a handsome voice, but this lady cannot carry a tune.  Trust me.  She goes from sounding pretty to croaking and squeaking in zero to five.)

Thanks.  The only saving grace, aside from loving my clients, is Anne.  She's the other recruiter in our office.  She just moved to Minnesota and is working out of her home.  Which mostly translates to her porch from May - September and her study during the colder months.  Anne is nurturing.  Holistic.  If doctors opened her up, they'd find she has a heart too big to fit in her chest.  Her backbone is larger than you think it would be when you first meet her.  She has the kind of courage that creeps up on you slowly, and doesn't melt away at the first sign of trouble.  Anne and my clients are the only reasons why I am still working for Adam the Perv.

Brian, on the other hand, is a very sweet, very kind man.  He's an Accountant for one of the Big Four companies and works in an office in a shiny glass building downtown in Chicago's Loop.  He loves it.  Numbers are his crack.  We met at a coffee shop and have been politely dating each other for a few months now.  Wait, make that six months.  Brian is safe.  I guess that's why I was initially attracted to him.  Predictable.  It's not fair though.  I can't date a man just because I know when he'll call me.  I plan on ending it with him this weekend.  Really, I mean it.

(Hmph, you know, I bet you've planned on dumping him for the last 10 weekends.  Really.)

But this weekend I am recommitted to doing so.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow I will be the evil dumper.  Tonight I will have wine.

(And meet me.  Don't forget about me.)

Right.  I guess we should move this along.  Back to the garage.  Where did you leave off?

(Will you just let them watch what happens, already?)

Right, got it.

"What the fuck?"