Me Fucking Too

This shit isn’t new.

Sexual harassment has been around as long as …well, FOREVER. There isn’t one industry that a woman doesn’t deal with this issue from men in power (and not in power).

I mean, hello.

As chick in the career world, I’ve been told not to wear makeup and dress down working at a construction company home office because I was too “pretty” and the construction workers wouldn’t be able to control themselves from ogling when they came into the office. I abided by the request only to be let go about six months later for not looking “professional” enough. Is that harassment? Maybe just discrimination – but still. I said nothing. I felt disrespected, of course, and I lost my job because of my looks?

I’ve heard men at more than one company bitch about having to provide maternity leave (for women who are carrying YOUR FUCKING SPAWN and need to recover) when I’ve written handbooks with maternity – and paternity – leave included.

Most recently, I encountered sexual harassment at a job where I thought I would stay until retirement. It was in the music business and I started as an office manager. While the company worked with big and small artists alike, the core of its personnel was about 10 full-time employees (two of which were female, including myself, and were also the lowest two paid peeps there…even though we both had manager in our title).

As my comrade Slappy would say….

Going into any business environment eyes wide open, I worked with a vast array of people, which is why I loved the company so much. It was the most non-politically correct place – corporately speaking – and I was a contributor in every way. Lunch banter included topics of a dude asking me about Jesus when I was wearing only a leopard bra, an instance when I was sent a dick pic and I was once told I would be “punched in the tits” from an executive if I pinched him for not wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day. None of it bothered me because I dished it right back. It wasn’t unnatural to ask a fellow employee how their weekend was with the response, “I got laid,” to which I started responding, “me too.” Swapping dirty jokes, tales of road mayhem and being able to freely be ourselves didn’t create a hostile work environment because we all respected each other.

Typical office equipment.

If anyone fucked with me (say the dick pic sender), I knew I had an army of fellow friends/brothers who had my back no matter what. Once, a new sales person let it be known that he was going to “fuck” me (oh and he was married with a wife and kids). He was immediately terminated when upper management found out after another employee overheard me telling someone. I felt valued no matter what my sex. We were all working our asses off together and I absolutely loved the atmosphere.

Decor often left on my desk.

As the company grew, we opened a new division and naturally, more folks were hired. One of them, the COO of the division and I became friends. Hell, we were all friends – with more of a small business family feel, even as we became a larger company. This COO, who I will fondly refer to as Piss Ant from here on out, was the person who fired the dude who wanted to “fuck” me. Piss Ant gave me airline miles to go home to Iowa and see my ailing Gma one summer. Piss Ant ranted and raved and sat in my office for hours on end and asked my opinions on everything from work to personal matters. Piss Ant was my friend.

Thanks for the miles and memories.

Piss Ant also loved power. And as he was granted more of it through his ability to land deals and bring in the big bucks to the company.  His tiny head grew bigger. And bigger. And bigger. AND BIGGER.

One day, he’d gotten back from a rather rough week on the road. He came to my office and said he needed a drink.

So we got him one.

The actual day.

He proceeded to get shit faced during the afternoon and unload dirty laundry from years past, present and what was to be his future. I listened. I gave advice. I also grew increasingly aware that this situation was about to take a wrong turn.

Uh….u-turn! U-TURN!

While sipping on moonshine at three in the afternoon (almost every office had some sort of alcohol in it – and it was nothing for folks to have a drink around quitting time), his stories got more personal. More sordid. More wistful. Wistful as in telling me I had a nice ass. As in telling me he married the wrong woman…he should have married me (his wife was at home pregnant). As in telling me I would never get married because I was too good for anyone. And, as you are all well aware, I’m no shrinking violet.

Fuck the shrink.

I immediately shut the shit down. I told him to stop fucking talking. That he would regret this later that night and especially the next day. I was being ‘cool’ – level headed, and as I went to get him some water, he followed me out of the office and pulled me into one of our dark rooms where designers could come and rehearse. It was pitch black and he slammed the door shut. He kept saying he wanted to kiss me. I kept telling him to back the fuck off and that he was going to have regret.

Once I manhandled him out of my way, I opened the door and went into the bathroom. When I came out, the note below was on my desk, folded neatly. As he sat in a chair in my office and giggled drunkenly, I responded the most flippant way that I knew how and told him he needed to go home.

Oh, you want to kiss me? In your fucking dreams.

And he did. And he called to apologize. And I told him that we all make mistakes. But I kept the note. Because I knew what happened wasn’t in the slightest bit OK.

Our working relationship recovered because I think as a woman, (and anyone else who has put up with this shit before) I HAD to move past the situation professionally. But personally, I was enraged. And confused. And conflicted. Piss Ant was my superior. Piss Ant was my friend, right? (Obviously wrong). What was I to do? Who was I to tell? What would be believed? Piss Ant was the company cash cow. What would this do to my career? Would this give me a tattletale reputation in the still small music industry Nashville?

WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?

This is what goes through minds when sexually harassed, assaulted, abused.

I stayed silent.

Piss Ant was promoted to CEO. I was promoted to the executive team and I had no problem going toe-to-toe with him and his dictator style of micro-managing. He once called me to ask what my employees were doing. When I rebuffed with a ‘what are your employees doing’ it turned into a two hour conversation about how he can run his division and I can run my department. He didn’t like that – but was always quick to apologize when he overstepped boundaries or knew conversations got heated for no reason due to himself.

He didn’t just bully me. He abused his power, he fucked with people for his own ego purposes and no one in the company was upset that he traveled 90% of the time. After I was promoted to his level as an executive, the work environment got extremely hostile and toxic for me. It felt like a personal witch hunt. Here was a man who used to show people a video I made while in an ‘80s cover band that showed a helluva lot of skin (you can’t see anything – trust me, my dad made sure of it) – to acting repulsed when he saw a photo of me modeling for a fellow employee’s jewelry line (who later became my direct report).

Said employee’s jewelry site was linked briefly (like 30 minutes) to our company Facebook when she was featured as the weekly team member. When Piss Ant clicked the link and found the above picture (that had been posted 10 months prior), he called and I immediately removed the link. You cannot tell it is me. My name is not mentioned. The company name is not mentioned but I completely understood why it needed to be unlinked. Problem solved, right?

Not so much. Three weeks later, I’m sitting in an office with Piss Ant, the president of the company, and an ultra conservative business consultant who knew (knows) nothing about the music industry and this photo is again brought to my attention. Piss Ant said an employee’s wife complained. When he told me who, I went to discuss the situation with him and he had no clue what I was fucking talking about. It was Piss Ant who had the “issue”.

One week later, the employee I had ‘modeled’ for – a member of my team – was terminated without my knowledge because they were ‘eliminating’ the position. A fucking social media position. Uh huh.

One month later, my position (which consisted of human resources, all administration, marketing, branding, production of new website, public relations, merchandising, company culture, company events, outside events, all things internal and external communication wise) was ‘eliminated’ and I was told by Piss Ant that I could now report to a new hire with 30 years of experience. The hired person was 29 years of age (who no longer is with the company – surprise – and has posted on their consulting website that they created everything I did at my tenure with the company. Classy fucking people, I tell ya). If I didn’t accept the new position offered to me (the social media position they eliminated just a month before), it would be considered a resignation on my behalf.

I was told that after almost four years with the company (who still had a former executive on a six month severance, which included healthcare and phone coverage) that they owed me nothing. As the conversation among us four executives got heated, we decided to take the night.

Well, you can imagine how that sat with me.

I was totally fine with it.

I came in the next day, knowing what was going to happen. I wasn’t going to be put into a corner, lay down and take it up the proverbial ass. When I brought the situation of sexual harassment with the note to a fellow executive, I was told to keep quiet, or I would receive no severance. The president had taken pictures of a box of wine I kept by my trashcan under my desk – again no secret that drinking took place at the office, as every single manager had either a mini fridge or a full bar in plain sight. I was told their lawyer was powerful, to take my severance, and they would send an email out to the company saying they eliminated my position and we would part ways (the email sent said I left of my own accord – again FUCK OFF).

Did you guys know I like to drink? Fucking secret’s out.

After I signed termination paperwork, tears were shed by Piss Ant as he walked me out the office front door and he said he didn’t agree with the way things went down. He didn’t agree with my leaving. He didn’t agree with the hire that was made in my place (FUCK OFF. He went to lunch with the replacement, gave the replacement the budget I had created, handed my department over, etfuckingcetera). He said he wanted to help me find another job. He said he would call. AS HE BAWLED.

I have yet to hear from him.

I can only hope that no one ever treats his daughter the way he treated me. The way he treats women. The way he treats other humans in general. But I sure as shit hope karma gets him.

Karma’s coming for you Piss Ant.

Sexual harassment isn’t new. Hostile work environments aren’t new. Men (and even women) abusing their status of power isn’t new. It’s also not going away anytime soon. But for me, this is about standing the fuck up for yourself. This is about standing up for those who can’t – or don’t – or feel unable (as I did). This is about awareness. This is about placing responsibility where it belongs. On the harassers. The predators. The abusers of power.

It’s not me. It’s YOU.

My takeaway from my horrible work experience(s), the career ruiner (what if I told? what would it do to my career in the music industry? would I be judged?), my anger (I still carry) is this –  it elevated me and gave me the gusto to tell when I was raped a month later.

I will never be silent. Ever again.

I will shout forever.

For you.

For me.

For them.

ME FUCKING TOO.

CBXB

 

 

Does Anyone Have a Caboodle Where I Can Store My Scrunchie?

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl. Not to mention I own four cats….and a chug. Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.

For real.

I still own the black one pictured above in the tangled mess of fuchsia and sorta blonde hair and the purple one below that I bean walked my ass off on my aunt Marilyn’s farm to purchase (now, I got more than a scrunchie with my loads of money from walking bean fields….I also got a tie dyed shirt, which I still own (my hoarding abilities can be discussed another time). Obviously I put my money to expert use).

Hard earned hair acccessory.

Hard earned hair accessory.

Although I saved scrunchies from years past, this does NOT mean that I condone wearing anything of the sort in public. I feel so strongly about this, I have risked jobs and friendships, saving folks from public embarrassment.

A few years ago while at an extremely new place of employment, I spotted my boss sitting at her desk with a white scrunchie in her gorgeous hair. And while I hadn’t quite figured out our working relationship boundaries yet (being that I was her assistant) I felt it my womanly duty to rip it out of her hair.

Well, actually I walked up behind her and as I slid it off of her hair I leaned in and whispered, “We don’t wear these in public. Trust me.”

Um, no.

About to be unemployed but I don’t care.

Horrified at my casual approach and sure as shit I was about to be fired, she laughed and said thank you. We’re still gal pals to this day thanks to my brazen move in the name of fashion.

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie even though I wear tiny sombreros and t-shirts announcing my crazy cat lady status.

And then there’s my old band manager I ran into at the mall one afternoon.

I expected so much more than….

Manager fail.

THIS.

While I can’t agree with his white socks and black sneaker approach, it was the teeny, tiny piece of material stuck in the layers of curls that made my skin crawl.

NOT blending in.

Scrunchie not blending in dude.

Being that I didn’t work for my buddy, I could be a little more blunt in expressing how insane it was to see a grown man wearing a scrunchie.

Someone actually procreated with you?! TWICE?!

KNOCK. THAT. SHIT. OFF.

A mere two seconds later, the scrunchie was mine and my buddy was back to being, well, my buddy.

Yep. Back to being a bonafide '80s rocker

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.

CBXB shocker!

CBXB shocker!

But I only sport these little pieces of fashion fails on two occasions.

I wear one to keep myself cool when I sleep within the confines of bedroom walls.

Night sweat no more.

Night sweats no more thanks to my ancient accessory.

Even love it when it gets stuck in my mane.

I still even love this piece of shit when it gets stuck in my mane every morning.

The other occasion in which I wear something so taboo is a deep, dark scrunchie secret.

I wear it to perfect my bun.

Which means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.

THE HORROR!

Bun magic

Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.

Nice, plump, round.

Scrunchilicious bun secret.

Hey-oh. But why would I ever let anyone in on my bun magic?

But you can bet your ass I ever let anyone in on my bun magic…except all of you.

So there I am, going along happily in life with my stealthy scrunchie use until…

I LOST THE BLACK ONE.

Visiting Iowa, I was certain that I left it in my sister’s guest bedroom. And quickly resigned to the fact that I’d never see this beloved piece of my hair history again due to the fact that she has three and a half-year old twins.

Noooooooooooooo!

Goodbye my love.

What will keep me cool at night?!

How will a bun ever be the same?!

But then I remembered I still had a purple scrunchie from 4th grade.

Be still my beating heart.

Be still my beating heart.

As I went to sleep that evening, reaching for the limp pile of aged elastic and who-knows-how-many-germs-its infested-with-material, I heard a snap.

S-N-A-P.

Noooooooo!

Noooooooo!

My purple piece of shit went to scrunchie heaven, as the decades old elastic finally died (most likely committing suicide).

Finding myself empty-handed, I did the only thing I could think of to console myself.

I headed to Claire’s Boutique – a store I haven’t stepped foot in since I was a gal on the hunt for prom accessories in high school.  Upon entering the overstuffed store, a sweet girl who was maybe 15 greeted me and instantly looked baffled when I told her I was in dire need of a scrunchie.

“A what?” she asked.

“A scrunchie. You know, a hair tie with material around it,” I exasperatingly explained as I felt a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek.

Feeling 101 years old (and thinking the store music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my oldness), I followed her back to the clearance section where she announced…

“This stuff has been here since before I started working here two years ago. Maybe you’ll find something to help you out.”

Um, what the fuck 14-year-old?!

Um, what the fuck 15-year-old?!

The new take on scrunchies are pieces of fake fur wrapped around elastic that are about as durable as an earthworm on a dry day, which would be why they were on clearance for 99 cents.

I mean, seriously?

I mean, seriously?

Giving up on Claire’s, I headed to the mall where my fashion world was rocked so hard, my head still hurts. While perusing the endless goodness at Nordstrom, I saw a rack of scrunchies in the accessory department.

Fucking scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What has this world come to?

Search to replace. Nordstrom FAIL. FAIL. FAIL! Especially with silk scrunchies. Old people lunch tables in nursing homes is hte only place this is acceptable.

These are only acceptable on white hair around a nursing home lunch table, mmmkay?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

Scrunchie sadness combined with the hilarity of an upscale department store selling them in silk.

Knowing that I would never again sleep at night without waking up to a crease in my typically straight ‘do and also knowing my bun days were over, I tried mending my broken haired heart.

But then…the black scrunchie found its way back from Iowa into my loving arms.

BUT WAIT! My sister found it. And is my hero.

Miracles.Do.Happen.

All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Now where’s my Caboodle?

CBXB

CBXB!

Weekend Winks – Like a Boss

Sometimes the end to a loooooooong work week requires day drinking on Friday. Like this past one, where I met up with Camo and Dada CBXB well before 5pm at our favorite watering hole, Dalts.

Wasn't even 5:30 yet.

Pretty as pictures before happy hour started.

But we quickly recovered in the beauty department.

Much better.

Not quite as special looking two minutes later.

Being that I’m always down for an extended celebration, my sister sent some fingerless Iowa Hawkeye gloves for a belated birthday gift that made me start to crave the tailgating season (which starts in t-minus five months).

Ready for tailgating season.

Perfect tailgating practice makes for perfect tailgates.

While I was busy lounging in winter gear at the bar, the Iowa twins were kicking back and unwinding after a long day of play.

Chillaxin.

Chillaxin.

Due to the fact that our family doesn’t use traditional monikers (shocking, I know) for extended relatives (Grandma is Gigi, Grandpa is Cray Cray, Auntie CBXB is Aunt Juju) we went bananas seeing the twins in giddy ups that appeared to be custom-made.

Cray Cray for their Cray Cray, who they loving refer gpa.

Cray cray for their Cray Cray.

When it comes down to snack time, these peeps know how to do it up right. What to do with left over Easter candy? Why you make a Peep s’mores, of course.

Peep s'mores

Delicate deliciousness for Prince B.

 Marshmallow mania.

Not so delicate marshmallow mania for Princess B.

Dada CBXB decided to splurge on some new living room attire, in which my expertise was needed. Naturally, I suggested he go with an animal print but he went with boring old brown instead.

Furniture shopping with

Trying to put flair in the furniture shopping.

Speaking of flair, I have a new office that was in dire need of being CBXBfied. So, trying to stay true to my subtle self, Camo helped haul and hang accessories that made me feel right at home.

What office is complete without zebra print chairs?

What office is complete without zebra print chairs?

Of course there is a Hawkeye nook.

Of course there is a Hawkeye nook.

Saturday Work Day

Like a boss.

Since I stole art from my mini manse for my office meant I had a bare wall (THE HORROR) to deal with, which I quickly remedied.

Stole from home, so had juje the dressing room walls back up.

Eeeew gross.

After about four hours of arranging, I executed my new design in my dressing room (you know, what us single gals do with extra  bedrooms).

I hate skulls, the color pink and sparkles, obviously.

I hate skulls, the color pink and sparkles, obviously.

While I was slaving away doing loads of laundry and redecorating small spaces, Ted, Rocky and Elsa Pants were a huge help while waiting for new sheets to be put on the bed.

Lots of laundry help.

Paw patrol.

Sweetest scene of the weekend was seeing Ted’s shadow, Elsa Pants follow him any and everywhere.

Ted and his shadow, Elsa Pants.

The Bear cannot escape but secretly loves it.

Speaking of cats, this crazy feline lady cannot wait to take in the moving Keanu this weekend. Guess what my household of pussies will be this year for Halloween?

Halloween outfit decided.

Gangsta pussies.

While the work week has begun, I can most certainly say this is what I will be having for happy hour this evening.

Today feels like that kind of Monday.

Care to join?

Here’s hoping you’re already owning your week like a boss.

Cheers!

CBXB!

How to Love a Scrunchie

Yes, that kind of scrunchie.

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl. Not to mention I own two cats....

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl.
Not to mention I own two cats….

Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.

For real.

I still own the black one pictured above in the tangled mess of fuchsia and sorta blonde hair and the purple one below that I bean walked my ass off on my aunt Marilyn’s farm to purchase (now, I got more than a scrunchie with my loads of money from walking bean fields….I also got a tie dyed shirt, which I still own (my hoarding abilities can be discussed another time). Obviously I put my money to expert use).

Hard earned hair acccessory.

Hard earned hair accessory.

Although I saved scrunchies from years past, this does NOT mean that I condone wearing anything of the sort in public. I feel so strongly about this, I have risked jobs and friendships, saving folks from public embarrassment.

A few years ago while at an extremely new place of employment, I spotted my boss sitting at her desk with a white scrunchie in her gorgeous hair. And while I hadn’t quite figured out our working relationship boundaries yet (being that I was her assistant) I felt it my womanly duty to rip it out of her hair.

Well, actually I walked up behind her and as I slid it off of her hair I leaned in and whispered, “We don’t wear these in public. Trust me.”

Um, no.

About to be unemployed but I don’t care.

Horrified at my casual approach and sure as shit I was about to be fired, she laughed and said thank you. We’re still gal pals to this day thanks to my brazen move in the name of fashion.

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie even though I wear tiny sombreros and t-shirts announcing my crazy cat lady status.

And then there’s my old band manager I ran into at the mall one afternoon.

I expected so much more than….

Manager fail.

THIS.

While I can’t agree with his white socks and black sneaker approach, it was the teeny, tiny piece of material stuck in the layers of curls that made my skin crawl.

NOT blending in.

Scrunchie not blending in dude.

Being that I didn’t work for my buddy, I could be a little more blunt in expressing how insane it was to see a grown man wearing a scrunchie.

Someone actually procreated with you?! TWICE?!

Someone actually procreated with you?!
TWICE?!

A mere two seconds later, the scrunchie was mine and my buddy was back to being, well, my buddy.

Yep. Back to being a bonafide '80s rocker

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.

CBXB shocker!

CBXB shocker!

But I only sport these little pieces of fashion fails on two occasions.

I wear one to keep myself cool when I sleep within the confines of bedroom walls.

Night sweat no more.

Night sweats no more thanks to my ancient accessory.

Even love it when it gets stuck in my mane.

I still even love this piece of shit when it gets stuck in my mane every morning.

The other occasion in which I wear something so taboo is a deep, dark scrunchie secret.

I wear it to perfect my bun.

Which means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.

THE HORROR!

Bun magic

Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.

Nice, plump, round.

Scrunchilicious bun secret.

Hey-oh. But why would I ever let anyone in on my bun magic?

But you can bet your ass I ever let anyone in on my bun magic…except all of you.

So there I am, going along happily in life with my stealthy scrunchie use until…

I LOST THE BLACK ONE.

Visiting Iowa, I was certain that I left it in my sister’s guest bedroom. And quickly resigned to the fact that I’d never see this beloved piece of my hair history again due to the fact that she has two and a half-year old twins.

Noooooooooooooo!

Goodbye my love.

What will keep me cool at night?!

How will a bun ever be the same?!

But then I remembered I still had a purple scrunchie from 4th grade.

I think I found it in my Caboodle.

Be still my beating heart.

Be still my beating heart.

As I went to sleep that evening, reaching for the limp pile of aged elastic and who-knows-how-many-germs-its infested-with-material, I heard a snap.

S-N-A-P.

Noooooooo!

Noooooooo!

My purple piece of shit went to scrunchie heaven, as the decades old elastic finally died (most likely committing suicide).

Finding myself empty-handed, I did the only thing I could think of to console myself.

I headed to Claire’s Boutique – a store I haven’t stepped foot in since I was a gal on the hunt for prom accessories in high school.  Upon entering the overstuffed store, a sweet girl who was maybe 15 greeted me and instantly looked baffled when I told her I was in dire need of a scrunchie.

“A what?” she asked.

“A scrunchie. You know, a hair tie with material around it,” I exasperatingly explained as I felt a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek.

Feeling 101 years old (and thinking the store music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my oldness), I followed her back to the clearance section where she announced…

“This stuff has been here since before I started working here two years ago. Maybe you’ll find something to help you out.”

Um, what the fuck 14-year-old?!

Um, what the fuck 15-year-old?!

The new take on scrunchies are pieces of fake fur wrapped around elastic that are about as durable as an earthworm on a dry day, which would be why they were on clearance for 99 cents.

I mean, seriously?

I mean, seriously?

Giving up on Claire’s, I headed to the mall where my fashion world was rocked so hard, my head still hurts. While perusing the endless goodness at Nordstrom, I saw a rack of scrunchies in the accessory department.

Fucking scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What has this world come to?

Search to replace. Nordstrom FAIL. FAIL. FAIL! Especially with silk scrunchies. Old people lunch tables in nursing homes is hte only place this is acceptable.

These are only acceptable on white hair around a nursing home lunch table, mmmkay?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

Scrunchie sadness combined with the hilarity of an upscale department store selling them in silk.

Knowing that I would never again sleep at night without waking up to a crease in my typically straight ‘do and also knowing my bun days were over, I tried mending my broken haired heart.

But then…the black scrunchie found its way back from Iowa into my loving arms.

BUT WAIT! My sister found it. And is my hero.

Miracles.Do.Happen.

All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Stop judging me.

CBXB

CBXB!

Ass Kissing Like a Boss

Most of my working adult life has been spent kissing ass (which, when it boils down to it unless you work for yourself, comes with career territory), as I’ve found myself being a personal assistant (job description: therapist, mom, chauffeur, wife that goes home at night, nurse, pet wrangler, girl Friday, psychoanalyst, chef, medical doctor, maid, laundress, child care provider) more than once.

Being that I live in Nashville, I once scored a job as a member of an “up and coming country music artist’s” management team (translation: personal assistant).

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

Getting shit on. Literally. All part of personal assisting.

This up and comer had more money than God. Like hundreds of millions of dollars to live on and wipe her ass with, allowing her to not work a day in her life. Ever. So what’s a gal with all of that money and limited talent to do? Be a country singer -DUH!

My first day on the job, I was supposed to fetch lunch for this budding superstar. My list said chicken broth and Sprite. Surely this was supposed to read chicken noodle soup and Sprite, yes? Nope. I sat there and watched a grown woman with the body of a 4th grader slurp chicken broth for lunch – you know, to keep that girlish figure.

That being said, I should have known better when I was requested to bird sit (yes, you read that right) her three fine feathered friends and she told me to help myself to anything in the fridge. But when I ran to see what kind of name brand goods a rich up and comer ate, I was sadly disappointed to see that A) I would be starving over the weekend and B) it was all food for the birds except for mustard, Jell-O cups and eggs.

Help yourself to my bird food. Literally. Her birds' food.

Help yourself to my bird food.

Of course, being that this is Music City and I worked for a mover and shaker, I experienced all kinds of fun events. Like the Country Music Festival held in Nashville every June. Before we headed there for her first appearance, she said to my colleague, “Better not tell anyone you work for me or you might get mobbed.”

Tens of tens

Clearly I feared for my safety as she performed.

Other events I was able to experience included red carpet moments for her gigantic showcases. One time, as I was laying out her very high-end, $28,000 designer dress out for a show she ran in after a facial and screamed, “MY FACE IS RED!” I glanced up at her and agreed by saying, “Your face is red,” as she’d just had her mug rubbed, poked and prodded. Her response? “Eat shit and die.” I’m surprised I have any tongue left after all of the biting I had to do in order to keep a paycheck.

Your face matches the empty carpet.

Did I mention that your face matches the empty carpet?

I also got to be a personal stylist when we were getting ready for “big” magazine shoots (you know for a free city publication).  While helping her skeletal frame in and out of outfits, touching up her lip gloss, assuring her that her hair was just big enough but not too big I often got to hold her beautiful diamond jewelry between shots.

Sweating

Who wouldn’t spend $56,000 on a toucan ring? WHO?

This lovely creature of a woman also purchased a puppy for her manager on Valentine’s Day. Because nothing says “I love you” like a dog you (i.e. the assistant) get to take care of. Forever. A puppy was beyond an appropriate gift for a guy who travels three weeks per month. Perfection. So you all know that this goddamn dog became my pet, right?

Mells

The bane of my existence, pain-in-the-ass, little love of my work life.

As we all know I’m much more of a cat lady, although I couldn’t help but fall in love with that flipping happy face.  Which ended up being a good thing as the puppy single-handedly destroyed my office one night, managed to eat a bag full of mini Snickers over lunch one day therefore shitting gold for three weeks (after I was assured by the vet she wouldn’t die), chewed through the hose on my personal washing machine when I took her to my house and managed to eat through every single can of a 12 pack of Sprite, spraying the sugary liquid from floor to ceiling. FUN TIMES.

Such a good listener

Sit. Stay. I’m magic with dogs.

While wrestling with the dog became part of my daily duties, I also got the pleasure of carting this woman to and from very important appointments (mani, pedi, massage, hair appointments).  And what better way to use my double degree from a fine university than to balance her three pet birds on my body while driving through the streets of Nashville (you know, to socialize them)?

Goddamn Bird I ended up loving...ugh.

No Polly, I don’t want a mother fucking cracker. I want you to keep your crest from obstructing my view of traffic.

Amazing what one will do for a paycheck, isn’t it? While I happily, thankfully, fortunately, get down on my hands and knees and praise Jesus every day that I don’t work for this woman anymore, here’s how I always wanted to respond to her requests….

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking

No reading between the lines needed for what I was thinking most all of the time.

Safe to say I don’t miss her! One bit.

The dog…that’s a different story.

CBXB

CBXB!