Monday, September 29, 2008

Pretty Woman

I have often wondered why I am still single – and not just when some lame ass guy in a bar asks me in lieu of a cheesy pick-up line. Seriously, I am smart, funny, at least a six on a scale of one to ten, so why then don’t I always have a date for major holidays.

When I was younger, my mother would tell me it is because I am too intimidating (now she tells me it is because I am too picky). At the time I shrugged her off, blaming it on something more tangible, like my small breasts or my big nose or my protruding chin.

Now, though, I wonder if my mother wasn’t on to something. Now I think that guys don’t often approach me because most guys don’t think they can afford me.

Let me explain.

First, I don’t often go out on a Friday night wearing dirty jeans and work make-up. Even on Friday nights that I go out straight from work I usually put on a good face. But this Friday night was different.

I was home with my hair pulled back, wearing my glasses, boy-shorts, a zip-up sweater and Uggs. I had two glasses of wine and had spent my evening watching the debate and texting the Republican. I knew there was a chance Stanley would text wanting to hang out, but I guess most of me figured, after a long train ride back from New York, he may prefer to spend the rainy Friday night home with his dog.

Second, as noted above, it was raining. And we were only headed to a neighborhood bar to wait for Bridie to fill us in on her crucial is-there-any-chemistry second date. I saw no point in making a pair of clean jeans filthy, especially when the ones I chose had at least one more wear in them. The sweater I was wearing that night, well there is no excuse really for this sweater. It is a work sweater that my mom bought me. Practical enough, but not something I would ever wear to a bar on a night that I was looking to pull. Of course if I was looking for a boyfriend I also wouldn’t have walked out of my apartment with my bangs clipped back.

Okay, to recap, it was 10:45, on a rainy Friday night. I was wearing dirty jeans, an ugly purple sweater, flip flops (why not) with my bangs pinned back and only eyebrows on my face. I needed a cab and so I stepped out into the "loading only" spot in front of my apartment and stared at the oncoming traffic.

I wasn’t out there long when a big, white Mercedes-Benz with an equally as large white man pulled up along side of me and rolled down his window. Later, Stanley would ask if I thought the guy was going to ask for directions. Actually I thought the guy wanted to park illegally as I stepped back toward the curb.

But he wasn’t looking for directions or even a parking space. Instead he yelled out the window, “Looking for a date?”

I don’t think it immediately registered what he was asking because it took me a minute to respond. And even when I did muster “No, I’m looking for a cab.” I don’t think I was all that convincing as he remained double parked in front of me as if waiting for me to change my mind.
When he finally did pull away and a cab pulled up it hit me -- I was just propositioned on Broad Street.

The next day, when I got to tell Bridie about my night (as it turns out there was chemistry) she said she was relieved this happened. She had wanted to tell me for sometime now that I look like a high-class hooker, she just didn’t know how to bring it up.

I told her I was going to make myself a t-shirt that read “20% off.”

Monday, September 15, 2008

Welcome to the Charles Townsend Agency

I imagine a number of you wonder where I work; or at least what it is I do. Well, in the interest of maintaining my anonymity, I’m not going to tell you. I will tell you, however, where I sometimes fantasize that I work. There are times, okay a lot of times, when I like to pretend that I work in a private investigator’s office; particularly one Charles Townsend Agency.

For those of you that don’t know, Charles Townsend was the Charlie that signed the Angels’ paychecks.

See, like the Charles Townsend Agency, we have a head honcho that finds the clients and introduces us to them and doles out assignments, but for the most part remains a voice over a speakerphone. Though I have met our Charlie, even spoken to him face to face; at our holiday lunch last year he even stopped by for a record 15 minutes.

We also have a Bosley. He knows Charlie the best, hangs out with him, calls him; rumor has it they have even chilled together outside of the office. On a day-to-day basis, Bosley provides us with all sorts of direction and encouragement. He even lends a hand when our caper requires a man.

And then of course there are the Angels, though our group has more than three. Nonetheless, we Angels are all young, all varying degrees of attractive and, oh right, all women. Now, since the departure of Theresa, all of our Angels are brunettes. Something Bosley has tried to correct by suggesting I return to my natural, blonde coloring. And while I have considered it, especially after he told me I look younger with lighter hair, I don’t think I have the body to be our Farrah or Cameron.

Plus I much prefer to be the tough one, who is never in a bikini but is always getting into trouble by falling for the wrong sort of man.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

I Say I Shouldn’t See Your Thighs If You Are Over 35!

A long time ago in an office way up high, there worked an adorable, little intern that liked to wear pink mini dresses and Pucci heals. Sometimes she wore turquoise mini dresses with Jimmy Choo slides. Other days she wore white mini-dresses with knee-high boots. Her skin was perpetually tan, her hair perfectly coifed. In other words, the personification of a gum drop.

Then, one day, the evil office manager walked into Gum Drop’s office, closed the door and had a very brief conversation with her. She opened the door, crossed the hall and sat down in front of my desk. Office Manager explained to me that she had to have a talk with Gum Drop about the length of her skirt. It seems clients were complaining that they were just too short and not professional.

I looked across the hall at Gum Drop, wishing I had her courage to wear coral, and wondered when she ever met a client. I then wonder which of our clients complained considering most of our clients are men and I couldn’t picture any of them complaining about having to look at Gum Drop’s legs.

I then looked back at the Office Manager, a woman that also liked to wear dresses, though hers were mostly neutral tones, and heals, but in black or brown.

And then, one day, Gum Drop left our drab and dreary land for a place (that I hope) appreciated her South Beach Barbie ways.

I bring up Gum Drop because today I had a client meeting. And because I am very serious and very professional, I put on my black suit and I straightened my hair and I wore pearl earrings and a neutral toned lipstick. I did everything I believed one should do when meeting a client and wanting to win them over with one’s brain, not beauty. My outfit would make Office Manager proud.

A few minutes before the meeting my coworker and cohort for the next hour step into my office. I was just finishing up some work when she asked if I was ready for this meeting.

“Yeah,” I responded. “I just need to finish up this one thing.”

To which she responded, and actually she responded before I could finish, “I even wore my special dress today.”

This was when I looked up to see what my senior, in all the ways that implies, co-worker was wearing.

Do you remember the green dress JLo wore to the Grammy’s? Well it wasn’t that bad, but pretty darn close. On top, I could see her bra and at the bottom, I could see a whole lotta thigh. Actually now that I think about it, while it wasn’t as revealing as JLo’s dress, the green dress might have had more fabric overall. It certainly was more fashionable. And had my co-worker selected this dress for a night out with the girls, or an eighth grade dance, perhaps I wouldn’t be so shocked.

Instead, she chose to wear it into my office. I quickly averted my eyes, hoping I had looked away in time to avoid any face contortions. I then told her to go ahead without me, as my last couple of things would surely take me more than a few minutes.

When I finally did leave for the meeting, I left my suit coat at my desk in an effort to not look too dressed up next to the Brat Doll’s Mom that would be running the show.

Later, as I walked out of our meeting, wishing BDM (Brat Doll's Mom) would not get up to shake hands with the clients, I wondered if there would be any “complaints” made about her and her mini dress.

My money is on BDM remaining un-reprimanded.