Another Quiet Day as a Sex Worker

"Where's my catalog! Lead Designer!! How can I go to the book fair in Italy without my catalog!! This makes me so mad! Why doesn't anyone listen to me!! I told you I need that catalog. I'm flying in three days and I want the catalog finished. Jesus! What do you do all day? Why isn't it done!! Why?!!" 

"Well Cruella it was done. You made changes and we're working on them."

"Oh, shut up! What changes? What the hell are you talking about? I want my catalog done, and I'm not taking something that looks unprofessional. You better get it finished! How can I take something that looks cheap and unprofessional? This is what buyers see!! JESUS, what's wrong with you?"

"Yes, Cruella. You'll have the catalog. We'll get it done. We'll print it in-house to save time."

"Fine, Lead Designer. FINE!!! But I swear, it better look good. No it better look better than good. And you can print it here, but you better send it out to get cut and bound! I'm not taking something that looks cheap!! I'm NOT!! When you do it here it looks unprofessional!!! I"M NOT taking something unprofessional!! When you do it by hand it looks so cheap. It looks UNPROFESSIONAL!! IT LOOKS CHEAP AND UNPROFESSIONAL!! THIS IS IMPORTANT!!!!! THIS IS AN IMPORTANT EVENT!!! YOU'D BETTER SEND IT OUT TO GET CUT AND BOUND!!! 

I AM NOT TAKING AN UNPROFESSIONAL HAND-JOB!!"

I believe I broke the golden rule after that comment: it is generally accepted in professional situations that you're not suppose to laugh so hard at your employer that coffee comes out your nose. Unfortunately for me, I singed my septum and learned a valuable lesson--never, no, never laugh, guffaw, snicker, goggle, or respond in any way to a Cruellaism--she doesn't like it. The same iron-clad restrictions does not extend to your co-workers however, thank God.

Later that day, Lead Designer, in a fit of competence, was working like a Trojan (the warrior, not the condom, though that would be fitting as well) on the catalog. Completely absorbed in his work, he was unaware, or uncaring that his perpetual almond crunching was getting on his assistant's last nerve.

Young Female Designer finally turns to him, in a fit of agitation, and says, "What are you doing? Where are you putting all those nuts? In your nut-sack?"

Tell me please, what are the odds that a person performs a complete and thorough caffeine sinus cleanse twice in one day? 

Just another quiet day at the office. Oh, how I wish you could be here. It's too good to be true.

Yee Haw

You gotta put yer hat on Boy. 

You, you, wanna be in the band, ye gotta put yer hat on.

Welcome to Calgary. Now run. Run like the wind. 

It's a long life to be longing

And so time marches on. Ponderously. Keep a stiff upper lip, little soldier. Don't disintegrate, dissolve, or disappear. There's too much to live for. But, as Hawksley pointed out, it's a long life to be longing. 

So, my friends, what news? What spins the wheels and makes any of this worth the back-pedaling? 

In a word. 

Pizza.

But you don't come here for this drivel. No. Nor for incomplete sentences. You come for harrowing tales of small office politics. The antics of the antiquated and colloquial big-city small-minded. So get to it, you bellow. What, what, what is happening since Grunty and her poop? Well. Rest easy and be still, dearies, here follows your next installment:

Toast Trouble

The office in which I work is small. No larger than a reasonably good sized apartment. And as is the wont of the modern Mussolini (read, employer), is a completely open space, punctuated with the mini cloth walls of the cubicle. A sad little maze for sad little people offering so little privacy that scratching your privates is completely out of the question--don't even try to pick your nose. Total humiliation. 

Every sense is assaulted. I see, hear, and smell all my fellow hell-dwellers. So try to imagine, if you can, what would happen, in this tight, wide-open space, if someone, anyone really, burnt their toast. Every day. 

Cruella comes in, most days, around 10 a.m. She flies in, tottering at high speed, on heels, that in some countries could be considered lethal weapons. After parceling out disingenuous, dangerously terrifying grins to the minions, and occasionally stopping at a lucky peons desk to ask some stickily personal question, of which she listens to roughly half the answer, before walking quickly, but mincingly away, she makes for the kitchen. The routine looks something like this:

"Lead Designer! Who took the coffee? There's no coffee! How do I make coffee!

How do I use this thing?!" 

You're keeping in mind this is every day, right? Every day. 

I'll save you the grotesque agony of listening to the exchange. In fact, many times, and with growing frequency, I, who most days am as patient as Job (that is a total fabrication, but suspend disbelief for the sake of the story, please) can no longer bear listening to the, "Five big spoonfuls, yes, five. Big spoons...." so I get up and make the coffee myself. 

I imagine you're imagining me walking into the kitchen and smiling benevolently at Cruella and telling her I'll take care of it, not to worry her empty little head. But no. Alas that is not what happens. As Lead Designer is calling out instructions, with no attention to what coffee-making activities are actually going on, Cruella has left the kitchen and clicked off somewhere else. But not before depositing her bread for breakfast in the toaster. 

Now we're all adults here, even the floor-soiling dog, so one would be lulled in to the belief that we can manage our own toast. After all, I am being paid a scandalously poor wage to edit the books that educate young minds, not babysit (and yes, I see the sad irony there!) So we all put on our headphones and avert our eyes. 

However, one day, my cube-mate (whom I haven't introduced to you, as he has wisely fled elsewhere) came flying out of his chair, shouting "Jesus!" As his chair rolls wildly across the floor, he runs to the kitchen. All eyes are on him. But only briefly. As we stop what we're doing and follow his nicely formed form dashing to the kitchen, our eyes are drawn to the billowing black, BLACK, smoke roiling across the ceiling.

It's only when I see the thick cloud of smoke that my olfactory senses are alerted. Burnt toast. No. Not burnt. Charred beyond recognition toast. What toast would look and smell like in the cafeteria in Hell. 

Well, Tink calls, "Cruella! You burnt your toast, tee, hee, hee." Cruella comes hustling around the corner, marches straight up to Lead Designer, puts her balled up fists where her hips would be if she had any, and screeches, "Lead Designer! My toast is burnt!! My toast is burnt! Why is my toast burnt?! Why weren't you watching it?!! Lead Designer!!!!!" Then she pivots, perilously, on her spike and storms away. 

That would be enough for one day, yes? But as we sit there, coughing, sputtering, grasping for our inhalers, and marveling at the copious, remarkable amount of smoke one piece of toast could possibly create, Young Female Designer comments, "Hey, don't we have smoke detectors?" 

In a word. No. 

No smoke detectors. No sprinkler system. Just a tinderbox of an office, a warehouse full of books, a group of hapless people, a dog, and a diabolically insane toast singe-er.  

If I don't get out of here alive, I'm leaving you my pencil collection. Protect them, and love them like I have.

 

Yaowch!

In the immortal words of Z--YAOWCH!!!!

Don't let anybody, and I mean any body, tell you that tattoos don't hurt. There I sat, grimacing in blinding pain, with Shawn Hedley dragging a needle filled with ink over the top of my foot, when Carrie asks, "So Shawn, where is the most painful place to get a tattoo?"

You get 2 guesses?

New Tattoo

So nothing deeply moving, shockingly salacious, or overwhelmingly melancholy to report. Something better. A new tattoo. Tomorrow at 10:00 a.m., I am going to be a living canvas!

I am, in the words of the great poet, Barney,  'super-dee-duper' excited.

For those who don't know, or even more broadly, for those who care, I've had a tattoo for 22 years. 

(Flash back sequence) It's a warm September day. I've only recently returned from Europe. My mom, her paramour, myself, and my brother, are sitting in the beautifully landscaped backyard, sipping something tasty. I am pontificating on Europe, and in particular, Parisians. I remark how they love to smoke, wear cowboy boots, and get tattoos. As the discussion heats up, as it always does in my family, I make the flippant statement that I'd get a tattoo. Keith, the said paramour a la mother, say, "No you wouldn't."

Well, I'll spare you the yes-I-would-no-you-wouldn't conversation. I do what I am so often inclined to do when challenged--exactly what I want to do, or exactly the opposite of what someone else wants me to do. In this case, I go in the house, grab the yellow pages, and start phoning tattoo parlours. Well, it being the 80's (and tattoos being rather more counter-culture than not) the only place I could find open was a biker place on 97 Street in Edmonton (think ghetto). 

I make an immediate appointment. Well, being a rather anti-establishment bunch, my mom and older brother decide to come along and tag themselves as well.

To make a long story even longer, we got our tattoos, went home, and gloated. Now I've never regretted it. But what I loved 20 years ago has grown a little old (but then so have I, I suppose). So I am having it covered. I've been talking about it for years, but it wasn't until recently, when I mentioned it to a beautiful and talented  artist friend (I don't want to name names, but her initials are Carrie) offered to come up with some ideas. 

She hit the tattoo on the head!  So here it is (incidentally it is not fully coloured yet, but spectacular none the less): 

Terror, Innuendo, and Body Functions

Be still my friends, and listen to a tale so hair raising it will give you split ends.

I work in an office. To most eyes, there's nothing unusual about it. Nothing that would freeze your blood in your veins, or cause you to pack clean underpants in your brief case every morning. Just any office. A small office. 10 people typing, filing, writing, editing, designing. But in this office lurks a cast of characters even Ricky Gervais couldn't dream up. 

The owner: a small, wisp of a woman with dyed black hair and a voice the tone and pitch of a cat in heat running around the office on sky high-heels screaming obscenities at the minions, "Are you fucking stupid? A baby could do that?!!" I call her Cruella.

The lead designer: a tall, deep voiced, lazy-eyed book designer who is the constant brunt of the owner's screeching wrath, and who regularly makes wide, graphic, and detailed sexual statements without realizing what he's saying, "Hey Young Female Assistant, I have a big sausage. Do you want some?" Let's call Lead Designer, Lead Designer.

The manager: a 35 year old married woman with no children who holidays every year for two weeks with her 35 year old childless husband in Disneyland. Add to this a chronic habit of lying, exaggeration, and wearing a Tinkerbell hoodie to the office, and you begin to draw her likeness, "My husband is strong. He's really strong. He's stronger than anyone I know. He's the strongest man in the world." 

And, "I have a mortal fear of sharks. I'm terrified of them. I'm so scared of sharks I have to shower with my eyes closed." Affectionately crowned, Tink.

Long suffering minion #1: a 40 year old, unmarried, child-free, unattached, in fact, never-attached, miserable lump of womanhood. She is so threatened that someone wants her job, or that she's going to be replaced, that she won't talk to anyone in the office unless she can bark orders at them, (save the accountant, to whom she only speaks in baby-talk). All other communications consist of grunts: "Good morning LSM #1., how was your weekend?" She replies, with out raising her eyes from her work, "Uuggghh." She is also a claustrophobic. I have dubbed her, Grunty.

Long suffering minion #2: Our expeditor. So cowed that his duties include filling and shipping orders, and picking up dog shit. Did I neglect to mention that Cruella brings in her big golden lab to work every day? LSM #2's job includes the dog. He walks it, feeds it, waters it, and cleans up after it. In fact, when the said decrepit, ancient dog shit on the floor one day--in the office, you understand--and a kind hearted employee picked it up, Cruella lost her mind and started screaming, "Who cleaned it up??!! WHO CLEANED IT UP???!!!!! Why? Why did you do that? Is that your job? IS IT???!!! That's LSM #2's job!!!" Obviously, he'll be called Roger.

Young Female Assistant: an attractive, intelligent 25 year old who's so shy she nearly melts in to the walls. She is the devoted acolyte of Lead Designer, and does all the dirty work (close cropping fluffy kitties 5 days a week), while being coached, by said Lead Designer, on how to dress and the right way of meeting men. And finally, you'll recognize young female designer by the pseudonym, Young Female Designer.

Cast of characters intact, now the real story begins. I can't, for your own safety, reveal all the face-melting anecdotes at once, but I will, from time to time, parcel them out at what I feel meets toxic safety levels. 

That said, here it the tale of Toilet Trouble.

8:30 a.m. I arrive at work, chipper, whistling a happy tune, and looking especially good, thankyouverymuch. It has been a delightful week.  Cruella and Tink are away on business. The office is quiet and laughter sometimes punctuates the air. Our days of cowering in fear of being given some mad tongue-lashing because Cruella burnt her toast (more to come on that story, so sit tight), or being cornered in the kitchen and regaled with stories of how awesome the High School Musical production number was at Disneyland last year, were over for the week. But fate had other plans for me and the office. As I walked through the door, Lead Designer, Grunty, and Roger are running around looking horrified. A unique scent permeates the air. It takes only moments for me to isolate this particular smell. Shit. No, not shit, this smells bad, but shit. Literal shit.  

Grunty, who's done her level best to be in before every one else this week (more than likely to act as class monitor while the teacher is away) had to relieve herself. She entered one of our two bathrooms, which are like the typical household bathrooms, no stalls, just a room with a toilet and a sink, and had a great big poop. Well she did what any right thinking pooper does, she flushed. On this particular morning though, the flush backfired. The toilet and all its contents gushed on to the floor. Grunty came flying out screaming, "It's flooding, it's flooding!" As she came out the open door, so did everything else.

Roger, use now to being poop-picker, waded into the bathroom and wedged something under the float in the tank to stop the excessive, every growing poo river. My coffee and Tim Bits weren't looking quiet as appealing to me any more. With deep shame, and an apparent fear of her own feces, Grunty retreated to her desk, on the other side of the office, and left the extensive clean up to Roger. It wasn't pretty. I will spare the gory details. Suffice to say, yuck-poo!

Well, good ole Roge spent the better part of an hour mopping, cleaning, wiping, and sanitizing, while Lead Designer laughed and Grunty cowered. But where was I in all this? Well, being the big-hearted, generous girl my mother raised, I did the right thing. I sat at my desk and thoughtfully shouted encouragement to Roger and his mop.

And the moral of the story is: work from home.   

Ooohhhh. How He-Manly.

A poster I created as marketing materials for a local Calgary band.