Boyfriend and I were waiting for the subway one morning, per usual, and, per usual, the platform was crowded. However, it was not so crowded that you were unable to maneuver around people to get to where you were going. However, one rude “man” did not understand that, or just didn’t care, because he walked right in front of me and Boyfriend, even thought we were already close to the edge of the platform, thereby knocking into us in the process.  Boyfriend, being the sometimes mild-mannered person that he is, let it go. I, being the aggressive drama-queen that I am did not.

“Excuse me” I said, very loudly, to this man as he continued down the platform, to which he turned around and gave me a nasty look. “How about saying, ‘excuse me’ before you just bump into a girl,” I said. “Who does that?? What kind of man are you anyway?” In response, he mouthed something that I didn’t understand and looked away.  Always needing to get in the last word, I shouted back, “Jersey Shore reject!” (because that is exactly what he looked like), just as the subway pulled up and we both got in . . . thankfully into separate cars.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people and, I ask again, what ever happened to common courtesy??

Seeing the situation start to go downhill, I tried to make a quick getaway when Mary Kay said, “We can walk together.” Unfortunately, we were going the same way, so off we went, as she told me all about her exciting career as a Mary Kay girl. Up ahead I saw a familiar shopping center and was thinking of making my getaway into Walgreens, claiming the need to pickup a few odds and ends. Unfortunately, Mary kept chattering on and I was unable to say anything. We passed Walgreens and the opportunity was lost.

“Do you know that there are still many wonderful career opportunities available with Mary Kay?” she excitedly told me, as if I might care. Yea, I knew. There are always career opportunities available with Marry Kay. My friend was a Mary Kary girl for about five minutes in college. She didn’t even earn enough to cover her tab at Happy Hour on Friday nights. Not exactly a profitable endeavor, I knew, but I humored the woman  nonetheless.

MK: I actually work as an executive at a company…. (she actually said this - executive at a company - and that just screams impostor. Remember when Romy went around telling people that she and Michelle were “businesswomen” in “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion”? What kind of businesswomen? They had no clue, and everyone saw through the facade. This is what that felt like.)… but I started working for Mary Kay to earn extra money on the side, and I started bringing in $1,000 a month working two - four hours a week. Is making extra money something that would be of interest to you?

SG: Hmmm I dunno. It sounds like a nice setup but I work as a public relations executive during the day, and a high-priced call girl at night, so I’m doing pretty well money-wise. Besides, between the two jobs and caring for my one-hear old twins, I barely have time to shower and eat. I couldn’t imagine taking on another job, even if it only required a few hours of my time each month. You understand, don’t you?

MK: So maybe instead of working with Mary Kay, you would like some of their products. Did you know that they make the best skincare products? It’s true. They taught me about my skin and which products work best for me and since I came to the United States five years ago, my skin has improved 100 percent. It’s incredible. Perhaps you would like a free consultation?

SG: No thank you, I’m 27 and I know how to care for my skin. In fact, after years of experimentation, I think I’ve finally found a regime that works great for me and I don’t really want to mess with that.

MK: I’d love to stay in touch and send you samples and setup a free consultation at my home. What’s your phone number?

I gave this Mary Kay cult member a fake number and parted ways at the next intersection. What started out as a nice walk alone to clear my mind and gather my thoughts turned into an awkward stroll with a stranger where one part of me was searching for the nearest escape and the other part was scared this woman was a psycho stalker who was out to get me. It was terrifying.  I was just trying to be helpful and point her in the right direction. The whole thing was probably a setup from the start. This is exactly why you should never be nice to people you don’t know.

When, and more importantly, why, did it become acceptable, and expected, that people become available to their jobs 24/7? And if this is the new norm, why haven’t salaries increased? If we are expected to be at the beck-and-call of our work, then we should be fairly compensated for our time and aggravation. Instead, we take any job we can get in this shitty economy, and accept whatever salary we are offered (because there is always someone willing take your job and at a lower salary) and are supposed to feel grateful that we have a job. NO! No, goddammit, NO! This is awful!!! What happened to the American dream? Dear God, what happened to the dreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam???

When I was younger, I always thought of being in school as a prison term, and a job being my freedom. Now I see just show foolish and naive I was. School was easy peasy. I can’t believe that I actually complained about having to sit in a classroom all day and try to absorb some useful knowledge, which I wish I could remember today. And those four years away at college, getting my “higher education,” were a blast! I don’t think I was fully aware of it at the time, but college was the best four years of my life and, sadly, probably will be the best of my entire life. Because now, the party is over. Now I have a career and, whether I like it or not (not), I am enslaved to it. For the rest. of my. entire. life. Had I been fully aware of the implications of this and could grasp just how awful that concept is, I would have instead pursued my dream of being a soap star.

Being the dedicated worker than I am, I planned to go into work on Monday. I had only taken a total of one sick day the entire year, but I was afraid to take No. 2. Sure, my colleagues call out sick all the time. Hell, my boss takes a sick day and stays home if he stubs his toe, but I was afraid to do it. Call me paranoid (because I am), but I thought that my bosses would think that I was lying and fire me the day I returned to work.

Instead, I woke up Monday morning still feeling quite shiteous, but I decided to get up, shower and go through my usual morning routine. About halfway through my shower, as I was hacking up my left lung, it became clear that work was not in my future. I spent the rest of the shower crafting an e-mail in my head to my colleagues about why I couldn’t come in today - the final product that was sent included details of sickness (for authenticity) and apologies for inconveniencing everyone. I also (half-heartedly) offered to work on the one project that one of my superiors sent to me over the weekend (yes, the weekend - there is no rest for a PR professional). After I hit send, I made an attempt to go back to sleep for another 2 hours, but my coughing kept me awake, and scared away little Titan and Zeus.

At 9 a.m., with my good friends Regis & Kelly on in the background (well, to be accurate, Reg was out and Kelly’s hot hubby Mark Consuelos was co-hosting), I checked my e-mail, expecting numerous sympathy e-mails and hoping someone would tell me not to worry about working on that one project and just concentrate on feeling better. Instead, I received one e-mail of sympathy and additional directions on my assignment. At the end of the day, I had wound up working a half-day and got no rest whatsoever because I kept monitoring my blackberry, afraid that the minute I dozed off, someone would try to e-mail me with an urgent request. But at least I got to stay home, right?

Looking back with a semi-clear head, I realize that this is absolutely ridiculous. When did it become a crime to take an actual sick-day in order to get better? There is an entire company of people available to cover for me. I know I’m amazing and all, but it doesn’t take a genius to do what I do. I should have taken a stand and  said I was taking a sick day, shutting off my phone and blackberry and telling everyone I would see them the next day - if I felt up to it. And it’s not just me who acts this way, because I know plenty of others who act the same way when it comes to being sick and going to work. In fact, Boyfriend was telling me that one of his co-workers came into work the other day with a 103 degree fever because she was afraid to call out. And I bet you’ve done it too. It’s madness I tell you; MADNESS!

HR is always preaching to its employees that they should stay home and not come in and infect the rest of the office if they are sick, especially during flu season, and I think it’s about time we start following their suggestion. America is not (yet) a third-world-country, so people should not be expected spend every minute of their lives working. Call me crazy (because I am), but I’m a firm-believer that a person’s health and general well-being should come before a job.

Thoughts??

Let me tell you why.

This guy is one of those guys. This guy is so fucking cheerful all the time you’d think he eats fucking rainbows and cotton candy for breakfast. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have a positive attitude, especially at work when it’s sometimes hard to just get through the day, but this guy is more robotic than just positive, and I just can’t relate to someone who never complains and is so, well, deranged.

He literally fucking hums and whistles while he works, like a goddamn magical dwarf or something. Now I think it’s obvious that I’m no Snow White. I put on a pretty, happy face while I’m at work because it’s my job, but when no one else is around I hardly find it necessary to be bopping along to my own internal (and probably insane) soundtrack. This guy is taking it totally too far, belting out unnecessary loud and excited greetings to anyone who walks by the front desk, even if they just walked by five minutes earlier.

There’s no way this guy is human. One Monday he came in and told me his dog had died, and while I was really super sad to hear that (because I love dogs), I was secretly a little glad that he might reveal a shred of humanity and perhaps drop the crack-happy facade for a day or two. Nope. He kept right on truckin’ as if nothing had happened at all. I think I was sadder about his dog dying than he was! Unless this guy is doing meth in the bathroom I really can’t come up with any reason why he’s so goddamn thrilled about everything all the time.

And it’s not just his freakishly chipper demeanor that bugs me. There are other things. The humming and whistling is one of them. Also, he refers to petty cash as “PC.” This annoys the crap out of me, and I’m not sure why, so that’s probably more a statement of my insanity than his annoying-ness.

And instead of saying, “Hey, do we have any overtime sheets?” he says, “Hey do we have any extra overtime sheets running around anywhere?” What? What the fuck? Excuse me? No, they’re inanimate objects, they aren’t running around here or anywhere, you absolute psychopath. He uses this sort of phrasing for everything. “Have you seen Ed’s clients running around lately?” NO I FUCKING DIDN’T because this is a place of business where normal people work, not a fucking candy factory with fuzzy bunnies and clients skipping and running around, for Christ’s sake.

He also shouts when he gets on the phone. He’s so loud I’m honestly shocked that no one in the office has complained about him disturbing them. You’d think he was talking into a tin can attached to the other person with a length of string, he’s so fucking loud, and my head is probably, at most, a good three feet from his ALL DAY. How do you tell a person to just take it down a notch, lest they cause your ears to bleed, without seeming rude (though in reality you JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE)?

The worst part about my chronic annoyance is the fact that everyone else in the office loves this guy. They pass him and think, “Oh that guy is so charming and outgoing and good-looking and friendly! What a wonderful addition to our team!” I’d probably think that too if I wasn’t chained to a desk with him for nine fucking hours a day. That little routine gets pretty old after about one day. He jokes about everything, and it’s never funny, and it pisses me off like you wouldn’t believe. Here’s an example of a conversation:

Me: Hey, can you hand me that pen?
THAT Guy: (Pretending not see pen that’s right in front of him) Huh? What? What pen?
Me: No seriously, I need that pen.
THAT Guy: What pen?! Hahahah! I don’t see any pen!
Me: Give me the fucking pen or I’m going to get it myself and JAM IT INTO YOUR FUCKING EYE MOTHERFUCKER!!!

End scene.

And I can’t complain because technically, this guy is just doing his job, and everyone will just think I’m a grumpy bitch for having a beef with sweet little chipper THAT Guy. I’d challenge any one of them, though, to sit next to him all day for a week and not be absolutely sure that he’s trippin’ balls or a total sociopath or something.

I would actually be relieved if I found out this guy was like murdering small animals or a serial rapist or something. There’s got to be something very fucked up and disturbing going on with a person who is always so goddamn cheerful, and if there’s not, then god help us all.

To be honest, THAT Guy is actually a super nice dude, which just makes me feel guilty for finding him so fucking annoying, and that sort of makes me hate him more. So until he’s arrested for whatever bat-shit stuff he MUST be doing in his personal time, I’m stuck sucking it up at the front desk and trying not to bludgeon him with a stapler day after day. Let’s just hope he gets fired or something.

Today I went into one of my neighborhood Starbucks’ and thought it might be delicious to treat myself to a non-fat peppermint mocha. So I did. And then I proceeded to wait 10 entire minutes (I timed it) for my drink. There was a group of four ahead of me. Three of them has their drink and the barista was telling her fellow employee, who was making fun of her for being slow (but yet, not helping her), that the fourth was on the way. But that drink took her five minutes (again, I timed it) to make this drink. It was HOT APPLE CIDER. Essentially, it’s apple juice put in the microwave for two minutes. Not hard.

Once that difficult drink was finally complete, this barista proceeded to make the drink of the girl who ordered afterme. Please tell me you see the injustice of it all. I’m a busy gal with places to go and people to see and as entertaining as your barista’s incompetence is to watch, I simply do not have the time.

What’s worst of all is that when I finally did get my drink, it was luke-warm. But I didn’t have the energy, or patience, to pick a fight about it. And the very last thing I wanted to do was wait another 10 minutesfor the clueless barista to try and make me another drink that was actually hot.

Starbucks employees do not have difficult jobs. I know this because I see the employees laughing, and standing around and being slow. If I could do this job and still make the salary I make in my current job, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Look, the bottom line is, I’m not asking for a lot this Christmas, but I do ask that when you see me in your store, please, for the love of God, don’t f*ck up my order and hurry the hell up!

Thanks for your cooperation and Happy Holidays!

- SG

Just the other day I went into my neighborhood Duane Reade and asked the two teenage cashiers, who were doing absolutely nothing, if they could please spare an extra big plastic bag that I could use to store my new Kate Spade bag that I didn’t want to get ruined on the subway. In response, they both just stared at me. Did I stutter? Speak too quietly? Perhaps.  So I posed the question again. Silence. Awkward.  So, as I usually do in uncomfortable situations, I ramble on - “Ummm please? If you have any extras that would umm be really helpful. . . ” Then all of a sudden one of the two cashiers ducked down below the register and re-appeared with a bag that he silently handed to me. I thanked him and he said nothing in return. During that entire 3-minute interaction, neither one of the two cashiers said anything. Not a word! If I pulled that sh*t back in the day when I worked at Carvel or Target, I would have been verbally abused - by both the customer and my boss.

I would never leave someone hanging like that.  If someone asks me a question, I answer. And if I can’t answer right away, I will still respond to that person letting them know that I am looking into it and will get back to them soon.  So, what the hell is wrong with today’s young people? Have they no courtesy? No respect for others? Someone should let them know that if they’re not careful, one day, someone (probably me), will yell at them and/or smack them in the face.

I’ve experienced similar situations in the workplace as well. Back in the early 2000s, when I was just starting out in the wonderful working world, I was over-achiever, super-helpful employee extraordinaire. Stay late to finish up a project? Sure thing! Come in early to work on projects because the person who was supposed to work on it yesterday didn’t have time? You bet! Happy to pitch in! Since then my outlook has changed just a bit, but I still expect junior-level employees to be uber-helpful overachievers like I used to be. However, as I am learning, that is just not the case.

I actually fear asking some of my junior co-workers for help with a project. Isn’t that just ridiculous? Me, who has no problem voicing her opinion and being harsh with people when need be (or when I deem it’s appropriate), actually has problems standing up to people younger, and less experienced than me.  It’s because these young workers have a certain stand-offish attitude about them, as if they can’t believe you have the audacity to ask them for help with something. Well I have some wisdom to pass along to today’s youth, which dear old dad has said to me many a times in the past: Shit rolls down the hill. I had to do it, now you have to do it, and one day, someone more junior than you will have to do it too. It sucks, but I don’t care. It’s what you’re being paid to do. So do it, and do it with a smile instead of an eye roll. Thanks.

Because Barbie was perfect. She had perfect hair. Perfect skin. Always had the perfect job. And of course, the perfect boyfriend. 

Well American Girl took one look one look at these little girls and thought, “You know what would make a great doll for young women to look up to across the world….a homeless child.” What goes better with afternoon playtime then a little homelessness and talk of the recession?

Yup, that is correct. American Girl Dolls are now introducing “Homeless Gwen”. Homeless Gwen comes with only one dress and flip flops that look like they were rescued straight out of a LaGuardia dumpster.

According to the New York Post:

Gwen’s father walked out on the family. Her mother lost her job.As the little kiddies learn to read about this doll as if she’s a human being, one learns that, as fall turned into winter, Gwen’s mom lost her grip.

Mother and daughter started bedding down in a car. [You can purchase Gwen for $95] — more than your average homeless person would dream of spending on a rather mediocre baby substitute

Why hasn’t someone thought of a homeless doll before?! How about Panhandling Penny? Or Soup Kitchen Sally? Or maybe even Prostitution Polly?

Gwen will not have a pink corvette. Or a Dreamhouse complete with a bubble bath and two small doggies. In fact Gwen probably hasn’t seen the likes of a bath for a long time. I wonder, will Gwen also have the stench of body odor and street pollutants on her as well? How about a crack addiction and two missing front teeth? Maybe instead of a “Ken” Doll, she can simply have a “Pimp”.

I’m on line at a grocery store with my entire family (I don’t even live with my family anymore and when I did, we never, ever, went grocery shopping all together) except that they were buying their own groceries and making me pay for my own (the nerve!). As my groceries were heading upward on the conveyor belt (yup, the conveyor belt went on an upward slope to the cashier who for some reason got to sit above us all like a lifeguard keeping watch on the grocery store), I suddenly realized that I needed some foil to wrap my sandwich in because, naturally, I had a big hero sandwich with me (normal, no?) I left the line in search of foil and - just my luck! -  found an open package of it. Since I only needed a little bit, I just took some out and was about to go on my way when I was spotted by a nerd of a man in glasses (nerds in glasses are always trouble) who said he was going to tell grocery store p0lice on me (who knew such a thing existed).

In a panic over being caught stealing a strip of foil, I ran out of the store with my sandwich in hand. Once in the parking lot I hopped into my car  (I haven’t owned a car in about five years) and sped out of the parking lot, sandwich still intact. And before I knew it, I was lost (not so uncommon).  My safe Long Island neighborhood where my family lives was nowhere to be found and I was suddenly in the middle of what could only be described as a deserted, run-down, shady-ass town. But I kept driving, confident I would eventually find my way to a familiar road.

But then I received a call on my cell from my sister telling my best bet was to leave the city (what? I thought I was on Long Island! No wonder I was lost) and flee to Canada because the grocery store cops were coming after me.

That’s the last thing I remember before I willed myself awake in a panic and found my two little cats staring at me with confused, hungry looks on their adorable faces.

After I fed little Titan and Zeus and got back into bed, I dreamt that I screwed up my birth control pill schedule and missed several days and also took the wrong pills on certain days. How the hell did this happen?! My birth control comes in an idiot-proof  container that labels each pill with the day I’m supposed to take it on. DAMN IT!!, I remember thinking. Now I might be pregnant. And I’m not sure whose baby it could be. Because apparently, in my dream, I had reverted back to my college days and was a promiscuous ho. Again, I started to panic and willed myself awake.

I usually forget my dreams about 10 seconds after waking up, so what made these stick, I wondered. What are my dreams trying to tell me? I’ve been thinking about this most of the day, while drinking pina coladas, and came up with some conclusions . . .

1. I’m still harboring guilty feelings over all the free candy I’ve sample from grocery stores over the past several years.

2. I should stop eating sandwiches for lunch at work and go back to salads, or Special K meal bars.

3. I should buy or lease a car. Sure it’s an unnecessary expense since I live in the city and can usually travel by subway or LIRR to get anywhere I need to go, but you never know when you will find yourself on the run from grocery store law enforcement and need a getaway vehicle.

4. I should take a home pregnancy test.

5. And last, but most important, I probably shouldn’t drink right before bed.

Now it’s your turn. What’s your most bizarre dream??

Monday of last week- I tell my mother I will be in the city for a friend’s birthday all weekend.

Tuesday- My mother calls to ask when I will be coming over to see her that weekend, I re-explain the birthday.

Thursday- My mom calls to tell me that she is going to make some lasagna for me to take home, I start to re-explain birthday, to which she cuts me off saying “I know I know, I meant I will save it for another time ..such as Saturday?”  I promptly end call.

Monday morning- Mom calls and says “So…how was the Wedding?!”

I love my Mom. I really do. But her ability to keep facts straight is about as consistent as Duane Reade’s ‘sale’ on Aquafina. If I could keep a track record of these errors I might be able to write a book one day, a very long book,  titled,“Things My Mother Doesn’t Know….Starting With My Job Title.”

Sitting at a cookout a few weeks back a friend’s mother turned to me and asked, “Kim, do you happen to know what my daughter does for a living?”

Now I was about to answer this, and being on my third glass of wine I might even be able to spout out some highly detailed account of her job involving ’sea monsters’ and ‘a mermaid with a lazy eye’….but realized, this was oh-so-typical on the Mom spectrum…

The last time my mom knew what I did for work was when I was sixteen and working at Starbucks, and even to this day she doesn’t understand the difference between a latte and a coffee (MILK Mom! For the love of Christ MILK!).

Now don’t get me wrong, there are times when I forget a certain friend’s job title or company or the fact that they are highly allergic to pineapple (Ok so I served her a Pina Colada ONCE… I did not know ‘Pina Colada’ IMPLIED Pineapple) …but for the most part I have a vague idea of what is going on.

Mothers on the other hand have this wonderful ability to forget things like ‘your job title’ and yet remember things like ‘the fact that you pooped once in a public pool’ (Seriously, it was only once and I mean I was TWO what do you want from me,  I probably thought I was drowning and panicked (my stomach gets cramps when I panic) and it just came out, these THINGS HAPPEN TO ALL OF US…no?)

She does know where I live though, I will give her that. I could move into a remote part of Alaska where all they have is phone lines and a raccoon housing project and my mother would still somehow be able to sniff out where my house is. She will even say things to me sometimes like, “You know, I noticed last time I was at your house that you didn’t have a proper shade on that lamp in the corner of the back den…”

Oh THAT you noticed Mom? That is what you noticed huh?

The older I get the more I start to assess what kind of mother I will be. Will I be forgetting my children’s jobs as well? Or their allergies? My mom only had two of us, but you would think she was like the Duggan 18 (19 now, saw it on the Today show, for the love of Whopper Juniors will those people start reading a damn book at night or something?).

She will always ask, “Now is it you or your brother who doesn’t like my cheese broccoli?” Mom you had TWO children, not twelve, let’s keep it straight here, you are not solving the mystery of the sphinx.

I would like to think, that as much as I will carry on some her qualities, I would also like to invent a few of my own. I want to be the kind of mom who sips wine while she breast feeds. Wears lipstick so that her kids know that can’t be kissed goodnight. The kind of mom who is only seen in passing before the nanny shows up.

I kid, I kid. (Don’t send me hate mail).

Truthfully I want to be the kind of Mom whose rewards her kids when they are SILENT during a subway ride…or a car ride…or any kind of ride really. One who knows that hummus and carrots will never match up to spicy tuna maki rolls as appetizers. And the kind of Mom who shows up an hour early to her child’s tennis match because her new GPS is just that good.

So maybe I wont remember my children’s job titles and maybe I wont even remember their allergies (please no more Pina Colada mishaps)…but I will remember that they have a Grandmother who knows EXACTLY where their house is to come visit.