If I Started Stripping

Wowee, I hate my job today. To make up for some disappointing mid-year results, the Higher Ups in my company decided to have a little contest in an effort to boost our numbers. Long story short, the despicable fake salesy alternate personalities that some "higher members of staff" employ to talk to the rest of us wee folks is on overload. It’s borderline slutty. It’s like how strippers pretend they give a shit about your life so that you’ll pay for their rent or their nails or “school.”

One of said "higher members of staff" in particular is usually a hideous breed of soul-less asshole. In the several years he’s worked here, no one is really sure who he is in terms of personality, values, friends- -not that we all need to be best friends (or care), but there’s a general level of knowledge you gain about people just by the inevitable diffusion of working 9 hours a day in the wholly non-private discomfort of adjacent cubicles.

Anyway, this one is really an artist in the way he is able to manipulate perceived kindness for self-serving purposes. I mean, I’ve never heard a person consistently ask “how are you today?” in a way that is quintessentially rhetorical (and you are reassured of this fact when he interrupts your response with a new line of discussion that is of more interest)...so, you can imagine the confusion of all of us now that he’s Mary Fucking Poppins today- -skipping around the office, buying lunch and smiling. We’re all speculating why his mood has taken a bi-polar 180, and so far, “kicked a child” is the most convincing theory.

At the height of my disgust, I started entertaining (*cough* fantasizing) about events transpiring and me subsequently collecting unemployment. Sure, waving my middle fingers and smiling like a newly crowned Miss America as I was escorted out of the office would be great, but it’s the unceremonious $400/week aftermath that’s a bit desolate and uninviting.
My co-worker, "Jesse" suggested moonlighting at a local strip club to supplement the $400/week unemployment check (oh, dare to dream)- -to which I reminded him how I’m not really in “get naked in front of strangers for money” shape. Something about sitting on my ass 10 hours a day for the last 3 years that just hasn’t yielded any constructive physical improvements.





Then we started musing about what that would be like, in the event that a strip club owner had enough zest for humor that he would actually employ me, and we think it would go something like this: “Ladies and gentlemen, get your dollars ready for Emily….she is…..really nice. She’s also quite funny….Did I say “good personality” yet?” Maybe once, "assail your eyes" would accidentally slip out.

To help me with my janky nail middle finger salute, I've enlisted the help of Ms. Spears. She'll do just fine.

People who are too nice

Wait…before that. I actually just heard the phrase, “Oh, I love Anne Geddes” from a co-worker(?!?!?!?!?).





Moving on.

When I moved from Maine I had to leave the comforts of my small town bank (the kind where they will call you if your account is nearing being overdrawn, or if you’re depositing a non-round number- -the cashier is apt to throw in a few pennies from their own pocket. It’s the bank where I got my first small car loan- -and I was able to get this at 21 because the branch manager went to high school with my mother and “oh, why not?" It’s the kind of place that Wilford Brimley would endorse in a commercial; a magical and helpful institution of goodness) and switch to a larger, more evil institution.



This bank doesn’t let you forget for a minute that your patronage is ultimately insignificant, your concerns (large or small) are inconsequential, and that in addition to raping your bank account little by little every month- -they may also try to sneak into your home and rape you while you sleep at night. After months, and probably thousands of dollars paid in overdraft fees and god-knows-what-else- -after debating hiding my money under the mattress and in carefully dug holes in the back yard- -I decided to switch to what felt like a “more local” bank. Not precious and loving like my hometown bank, but seemingly a step up. The first day I walked into the bank, there was a woman seated neatly at a desk who welcomed me. “Well, that’s nice,” I thought. Her friendly greeting was the tiny uplift I needed in my day.


The next time I went to the bank, the same woman greeted, “Hi! How are you today?” Sigh. Oh, that’s nice. She’s nice.

Shortly after that, I entered the bank and she greeted, per usual. I smiled back. I thought to myself, “that’s nice.” Then I assumed my position in the line. After a minute or two of waiting, she chimed in from the corner of the bank, “Thanks for your patience, Folks; we’ll be right with you.” I freshly appreciated the acknowledgment that I was slightly inconvenienced by having to wait in a line.

Let’s go ahead and fast forward several months of going to this bank with regularity.

I walk in and what formerly seemed like a polite and friendly acknowledgment, is now wholeheartedly evocative of the inane squawking from a parrot that only knows two phrases. I must have been in a fog the first several times, because now I’ve caught on that when she greets you, she’s not even looking at you when she says it- -she’s actually looking through you. She’s an automated person. She’s a Walmart greeter with better pay and benefits and a better door at which to greet people. Every time she greets me I hear, “Polly want a cracker?”



Once the first greeting has been robotically reverberated in your direction, you get in line and wait for the other phrase she’s been programmed to say… “Thanks for your patience, Folks, we’ll be right with you.” It’s like, “REALLY?!?! Thank you! I’m the one who just voluntarily got in this fucking line! I know what a line is all about- -it’s about fucking waiting. I’ve prepared myself for the waiting aspect of this line all ready!” Then as more people saunter in on their lunch hour, you hear the greeting TEN…THOUSAND…FUCKING….TIMES. It’s like the admin with the shrilly voice from the movie “Office Space” that only udders one phrase, except it’s not funny when it’s real and you’re living it.

Then the line gets longer, and for the entirety of your wait, the parrot lady is continuously thanking you for your patience. It becomes more like a taunt. Like, “I’m killing you. I’m killing you with my kindness. Do you feel me pushing your buttons? Pushing…..pushing. You can’t get mad, I’m too nice.”
It’s worse when the line suddenly gets too long, and she gets up from the desk to help. This is the absolute worst thing. The extent of her Teller niceness supercedes the “going out of your way” niceness that a Special Education Teacher may have. It evokes shudders and dry heaves. She thanks you for every step of your transaction. She thanks you for existing. She thanks you for going through the motions of normal respiration. “Thank you for waiting (original.thanks.).” “What can we do for you today?.......Oh, I would be HAPPY to do that for you today?” “Speaking of, how are you today?” “Oh, thank you for signing that check.” “Your signature is lovely.” “Thank you for waiting while I punch these numbers into the computer.” It’s a running verbal catalog of everything that is taking place, real time, but in the form of a “thank you.”

Worse still, she has a lazy eye. So, as she’s being nice and you’re internally seething at how ingenuine it feels, you feel BAD that you feel this way….because she has a lazy eye. It makes that bitchy internal voice cajole, “Oh great….get mad at someone with a disability. Real nice. You’re a terrible person.”

Everything about this woman reminds me of the desperate compliments delivered by someone with no friends who wants very much to be accepted, even by perfect strangers. She was likely that girl in high school- -the invisible one who was so painfully nice that people didn’t trust her. Being THAT nice just doesn’t exist anymore- -not in that flagrant sense where it’s inescapable and forced on you. It just gives you an uneasy feeling. It makes you think, “What the hell does this woman do when she goes home for the evening? Is she killing the neighborhood cats? Is she really into hardcore German feces porn?” The mind employs endless hobbies and pastimes for this person whose sincerity is perceived as creepy.

The punchline? The punchline is that this woman frustrates me to no end, and now I’ve written this, and now I feel bad for writing it…..BECAUSE SHE’S SO NICE (the lazy eye is just an added dig). And there you have it. She wins and I am a PMSy bitch. Even the Russian judge gives that one a 9.

“You know you might be PMSing when you start playing head games with your dogs”

It is in my opinion that women have a subconscious affinity for head games. We can’t help it. There is something in our genetic make up (okay, we know what it is; it’s estrogen) that makes us ask open-ended questions, even though there is only one right answer and, in all honesty, we most definitely know this answer when we pose the question. It’s a pass/fail test that is designed to set the taker up for failure nearly every time. Poor men. I mean, at least lesbians have a fighting chance because they are wired similarly- -but men don’t even see this psycho/psychological onslaught coming. I once heard a married man say, “I can be right or I can be happy” which I thought was hilarious and true, but also sort of sad…...have I said “true” yet? I have to say, I appreciate the simplicity of men, and I commend lesbians. I couldn’t deal with me as a partner, this I’m sure of.

Anyway, my natural headgameyness (I’m insisting that’s a word) paired with PMS yielded some really singular results yesterday. I decided to be a good ‘dog mom’ and take my two dogs for a ride as I ran a few errands. Now, to paint a picture- -I have two very different dogs. I have Xavier, who is 8 years old and wise and sweet and obedient with a soul a mile wide. Then I have X.E. who is 3 and……well, let’s just say she’s “special.” Towards the end of my errand trip yesterday, X.E. opted to shit in the back seat of the car. For those of you who haven’t ever had the privilege of being in a small enclosed space, in city traffic, with a steaming pile of shit, let me just say that I make no apologies for my grievance- -even fucking Jesus wouldn’t have been immune to the likes of this kind of agitation, so I make no apologies.
I like to think that X.E. knows better, but this is a dog who licks windows and thinks her reflection in my foyer mirror is another dog. It’s an added thorn to have proverbial egg on your face for overestimating that your housebroken, 3 year old dog won’t shit in the car. Silly me. So, I pulled over as soon as I was able (into a Mexican Restaurant parking lot) and broke out the poop bags that are kept in the trunk and usually designated for outdoor shitting. So then for about five minutes, the people with the fine pleasure of dining window side of Muchas Gracias Mexican Grill & Cantina (I'm not kidding; I can't even make up stuff that good) had the rare privilege of watching me clean feces out of my car while I swore and carried on like a crazy person. I know it made my night better knowing that Darwin’s forgotten creatures eating their $6 entrées pitifully mused, “Wow, it sucks to be her.”

I drove home, still not excited about the events that had just transpired. Plus, even though I had gotten rid of the poo with expert timeliness, the whole car was still ripe with X.E.’s unholy wrongdoing. I felt the need to remind X.E. what a bad girl she was for the entire ride home; meanwhile she greeted my reprimand with a dead stare and some sporadic window-licking. I felt really frustrated that she didn’t seem to be understanding the scope of my anger and aggravation, so when we arrived back at the house, I hysterically blurted out, “Well, X.E., you get to go in your crate while Xavier and I watch a movie!” Sadder still, I felt vindicated for about ten minutes until I realized that I was laying in a bed with a stinky 8 year old dog watching a movie- -like that should be some sort of triumph. “I showed her.”