Monday, February 28, 2011

An Open Letter to Ann Taylor

Dearest Ann,

I realize you are a fashion monolith in New York City, and probably have little time for me, a loyal customer.  Yet my hurt is too great to bear.  After all we have been through together!

I tolerated your Ruffle Phase, your Faux Diamond Tire Chain Phase, the Sorbet-Hued Phase, Ribbon-ated Everything Phase.  You lure me with the bad-ass slasher sales, and the discounts from a certain store manager because we have the same middle name.  You know I am powerless when your underage garment workers know they get an extra millet for lunch if they tailor the clothes to measure about 4 sizes larger than the standard, putting me in a size negative 11.  And despite the fact that I have four beaks to feed, I still find ways to rationalize every A.T. purchase.  The right ruched turtleneck is a business expense (read: tax deduction), so bite me, IRS.  Sadly, your betrayal goes beyond any commitment I may have to you.  And I think you know exactly what I am talking about:

Allowing a certain Zombie-tologist to be your New Face of Ann Taylor???  Seriously???  A Vicodin-esque blank stare, a half-smile engineered by her Evil Puppeteer Thetan-Husband, and a desire to gain spiritual Nirvana thru a cult whose leader’s name sounds like “Miscarriage?”  What the hell is up with that?  She is supposed to inspire Fashion Greatness?  Give me a break.  You might as well have scoured the morgue and propped up the most recent overdose victim in a scarf and sensible pumps. 

"I've been a fan of Ann Taylor since I was a young girl -- I grew up loving the clothes," quotes the New Face.  WHAA?   Didn’t she have a Fonzie t-shirt from Sears Junior Bazaar?  Or a pair of piped terry cloth shorts?  “Loving the clothes” as a “young girl,” is more effed up than believing that Thomas Cruise Mapother IV will transport her to Mystical Destiny in a spaceship.  (Oh wait, she already does believe that).  Consider your buying public.  If she ends up on a billboard, it will be like a Stepford Wife IMAX feature. 

You have time to make this right and mend our relationship.  Remove the Fem-bot and replace her with someone acceptable, someone with a pulse.

It’s either Katie Holmes or me, Bitches.  You pick. 

Monday, February 21, 2011

Lunch, Schmunch

I work with a bunch of Fellas, so they do not comprehend the true meaning of “lunch.” To them, the  term actually means eating a mid-day meal on or about the noon hour.  Hey, I like to graze on leftover Kung Pao with my tie flung over my shoulder as much as the next gal.  However, a committed AWM knows the true purpose of this respite from the Kid-Free Fantasia called “work.”  This time-out in the middle of the day is a call to battle for AWM’s across this great nation of ours.  A call to organization.  A call to time-management.  A call to Target! 
No shit, don’t you find you get your best work done during the lunch “hour?” And I use that term loosely, as I rarely get all of my errands done in 60 minutes.  Who wants to take care of business on the weekends, with all of your rugrats in tow?  Getting gas, getting the dry-cleaning, getting the class snack for the Valentine’s Party, getting your nails done is just so much easier when you are solo, with the “I-Gotta-Get-My-Ass-Back-To-The-Office-Before-They-Notice-Just-How-Long-I’ve-Been-Gone” Boogeyman breathing down your neck!  A bang trim, a pharmacy run, a trip to the tailor’s can all be done lightening-speed under that kind of pressure. 
Call me insane (everyone else does), but I think one should occasionally go out to lunch on a weekday and dine with other humans.  The Fellas don’t grasp that either.  My excitement about having a leisurely, gossip-and-carbohydrate-filled lunch with other AWM’s is so intense, it’s a little sad.  Once all of those not present have been picked apart like a flattened armadillo swarmed by buzzards, the last smear of queso is scraped out of the bowl, and the check is meticulously divided amongst the parties down to the last cube of ice, I am refreshed and ready to go back to work. And there is no way in hell that can get done in an hour, sorry!  If you are worried about sliding back into work after a Lengthy Lunch, please see earlier post “Tardy to the Office Party; Or, How to Cause A Distraction Without an Incendiary Device” below. 


The Fellas are further confounded by my lack of desire to join them for the noon feast when I actually do stay in the office at lunch.  Please!  Don’t they realize that lunch en suite is the opportune time to read up on the latest act of mental  genius of Lindsay Lohan, or to peruse online retail outlets?  Grunts, coughs, belches, and the stalwart silence of a Fellas Lunch be damned!  Gimme a Kardashian Underwear Mishap!  Gimme free shipping at J. Crew!  Gimme a crumb-filled keyboard any day!  {Let me enter a disclaimer here:  I find the monkeyshines of “celebrities” to be insipid, vapid and tasteless.  But I am a dog going back to my vomit when it comes to reading the tabloids.  They make me feel better about myself.  I wasn’t involved in a Sexting Scandal  at a Pre-Grammy’s Party with Justin Bieber! (or was that me???)}. 
Rise up and respond to the call, AWMs! 

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Tardy to the Office Party;Or, How to Cause a Distraction Without An Incendiary Device

Now I don’t work in a canning factory, or a place where I gotta punch a time clock, but there is an expectation that I arrive “on or about” a certain time in the morning.  However, I am prone to thinking that if the first number of the time you actually arrive is the same as the first number of time you are expected to arrive, you are “on time” enough.  I mean, what is the big friggin’ difference between 8:00 and 8:48, really?  Details. 

My office-mates are actually quite understanding about my tardy-ish arrivals. Alas, I realize some AWM’s may not have this good fortune.  How to avoid the sideways glances and smirks from your co-workers and/or supervisors?  Now you can take the sneaky route, and try to slink in crouched down behind a rolling supply cart.  Or continually leave your office light on and a jacket slung around the back of your chair, giving the impression you are present, just currently out of the office.  Other suggested props:  half-empty coffee mug, open folders, crumpled food wrappers.  Yet, dear AWM’s, I beg of you, be not so covert and furtive.  I suggest you make your entrance with such fanfare that all present will be so distracted that time and its petty restraints will be immediately forgotten.   Breeze in,  and try the following forms of diversion: 

*Start spreading the compliments like confetti:  “Love that keyboard tie, Ken!”  “Those harem pants look great on you, Daphne!” “Would you call that shirt lilac or mauve, Eddie?  It’s totally you.”

*Start asking about personal endeavors/family:  “So how did Les Jr.’s oboe recital go last night?”  “Are you ready for the big cross-country minivan trip with your mother-in-law next week, Marge?”  “You tell your wife that the Frito Caramel Dip she sent yesterday was the best I’ve ever eaten, Ed!” 

*Wear a cute new outfit yourself.  Buy several, keep the tags intact and concealed, return item to the store immediately thereafter. 

*Or a quizzically ugly one.   Shirts with wings, prairie skirts, hand-knitted ponchos, all highly recommended. They will be too bamboozled to comment on your tardiness.

*Pull the fire alarm outside the door before you walk in. Oh, not really.

*Pretend to be on a very important, mildly terrifying, cell phone call as you walk in. Key comments to make into empty line:  “What do you mean it won’t stop hemhorraging??? , “Look, roll it up in a rug, wait until it's dark, and dump it off of a bridge, for crying out loud!”, “If we get him into counseling immediately, we might be able to avoid any criminal charges!” Go directly to your office and shut the door, pretending to continue the conversation. They key is to appear too damn scary to be interrupted and reminded that you are late. 

*Or the be-all and end-all of late office entry diversion:  BRING DONUTS!

These techniques can be rotated on a weekly basis. Maybe bring kolaches every now and then to mix things up.  Regardless, you may find that no one really expects you to be on time.  And you will probably be late tomorrow, anyway. 

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Nannygate

With my second birthing producing twins, we decided to go the nanny route for child care when I went back to work.  The thought of loading two infants, with all of their accoutrements (formula, bottles, diapers, cream, linens, and changes of clothes) during the mad a.m. rush seemed like a prescription for disaster.  Handing over the reins to a (hopefully) competent adult while the babies were still wearing their pajamas seemed like a much less stressful route.  So we searched, we lobbied, we screened, we interviewed, we test-drove, and we finally decided on a lady to leave all alone in our home for 9 hours a day with our infant twins.  She came recommended from a colleague, and our profession lends itself to scrutiny, skepticism, and casting an extremely critical eye.  She seemed ebullient, competent, and eager.  We thought we made a sound decision. Right?
The wheels fell off of the deal after about 6 months.  Not in her handling of the children, but the handling of us.  She was irate about having to work on Good Friday.  She was indignant, and huffed and puffed and muttered under her breath.  Jeez, I had to work too, did she think I was happy about that?  Wouldn’t I rather be at home, eating non-meat products and dyeing eggs with the kids?  Our relationship went downhill from there.   She constantly asked us to “front” her money.  She became aggravated when her pay was not clipped to the calendar first thing Friday morning.  She was bothered when we didn’t do more to help her look for an apartment. She got upset when my husband moved the NutriGrain bars to another cabinet in the kitchen.    She took this as severe affront.  Finally, we had to let her go, with no concrete child care plan.  Her “drama” became too much to handle. We had four kids; we didn’t need to be at the emotional whims of yet another person.  Soon after, we received a package in the mail with no return address. She had sent back every card, every picture, every gift, every what-not we had given her during her tenure.  How could she?  We welcomed her into our family, it didn’t work out, but how could she be so hurtful?   
Despite the crushing fact that we had no child care, I berated myself for my failure as Home Administrator. I’m a working gal, I should have been able to “manage” her better.  I have supervised numerous people in my job.  I have always gotten along with, and motivated, my subordinates. I think I have done well supervising other females, especially.  I could not grasp why this relationship did not work out.  I am used to working through conflicts at my job, and despite the weekly “summits” we’d have with her when we’d sense her discontent, the situation just did not get any better.  The common goal of caring for our precious children was not enough to bring us together as employer-employee.  My ego took a smacking. 
My husband tried to convince me that the situation was far beyond my capacity as Nanny Manager, as she had her own agenda, regardless of our efforts.  But I still wish I could have salvaged the relationship in some way. That unmarked package sucked. 

Leisure Karma

I have come to realize that I will have to actually double my time off from work whenever I plan a vacation.  For example, if I plan a 5-day vacation, I can count on at least 5 more days after that where I will be not present at work.  I am not talking the I-wish-I-was-still-at-the-beach/mountains/lake-relaxing-rather-than-this-wretched-indoor-torture-chamber “not present” feeling after a vacation, but actually, really, physically not present at the office after a vacation. That’s because the Evil Eye that punishes Angry Working Mothers for making the silly mistake of assuming paid days off are for leisure, rather than for taking kids to the doctor or waiting at home for the dishwasher repair guy, will always have the last word when it comes to your vacation time. 
Example:
Mon-Fri:  Actual vacation days.  Not present at work.  May be even relaxing or enjoying self.
Following Monday, you return to office:  Work til noon, and the school calls to tell you your kid has a fever.  Blame nasty airplane air.  Blame junk food eaten on vacation. Blame all you want, its the Evil Eye.  Go get kid and go home.  Have the “my job is more crucial than your job” fight with husband.  Decide to split the next day. 
Tuesday:  Stay home til 1, then go into work when husband comes home.  Kid #2 comes down with fever in p.m.
Wednesday:  Stay home with both kids.  Weep openly.  Pray there isn’t a “For Rent” sign in your office by now.
Thursday:  Take Kid #3 to dentist appointment that has been scheduled for months in the a.m.  Look eager and competent during your afternoon at work (with Kid #3 there with you, as you took him out of school for the appointment).
Friday:  You wake up with fever, graciously donated from kids.  Call in sick.  Would sob openly, but hurts head too much. 
Evil Eye always gets the last word. Be afraid.  Be very afraid.  And plan accordingly.

Act, Wallow or Ignore? Finding Your Exit Strategy

We've all been there.  You're tearing out the door, mildly late, mildly sweaty in your pin-stripes.  Arms laden with coffee, purse, lunch bag, backpack(s), packages to mail, change of clothes, etc., when you hear the cry.  The alarm.  The death knell:  "Mommy, I have poopie."  Why, oh why, does it always happen at this crucial moment of Morning Mania?  Why can't toddler bowel movements be better timed?  Either an hour before departure or any time after day care drop off?  Don't you deserve a Poop Change Hall Pass sometimes?  Alas, you are faced with THE Dilemma.  Do you:
1.) Drop your load, leave the other kids screaming in the car, change the diaper, wash your hands, re-dress the kid, re-locate all of your belongings, put the kid in the car seat, root for your keys somewhere under the changing table, and craft creative excuses for your tardiness to your co-workers, or
2.) Give the kid a toy/goldfish/tree limb to occupy him/her, crack the car window , letting your child wallow in his own filth, and hastily change the diaper when you arrive at the day care("Oh darn, this must have happened in the parking lot!"), or
3.)  Follow 2.), except when you arrive at the day care, settle your child in as if nothing is awry, making a swift exit before your evil plan of letting the caregivers handle the task is discovered.

I am going to invent something.  A little light on your kid that grows brighter as the likelihood of a toilet necessity increases.  It's just not fair that these incidents come with no warning.  That way, you could gauge your departures based on the kid's level of luminosity.

"Honey, Don't start the car just yet.  Junior's glowing like comet."