Bad Day: #6 and #7

On Monday night, I met my girlfriends at jojo for BYO wine night. The husband of one friend joined us which initially I thought may have stifled the conversation somewhat given that we always seem to talk about vile matters or sex (especially about her crazy, empassioned, sex life with him) but that wasn't the case. He was just as bad as we were. Instead of remaining quiet, I shared two stories from the past year which never made it to my blog (and, be forewarned, probably for a good reason).

While on the topic of Brazilians, I went into graphic detail about how, during my last bikini wax, after realizing how much intolerable pain I was in, I asked the woman if this was her first time. No, of course not! She then proceeded to maim me while telling me how she had gotten fired from her last position. Mid-wax, I had to make her stop and I bolted. The side that was done, what was remaining at least, was completely erratic (i.e., jagged edges); the side that was incomplete, albeit wider, looked smooth and even. I was a walking, God-awful, unsightly mess. (But really, who would see it?) The worst part was later that afternoon, when I went to the bathroom, I had to cut myself out of my underwear and throw the wax remains out. Honestly, who brings scissors to the bathroom? I had to go back into the office, grab them, field "why do you need scissors in the bathroom?" questions from the guys in the office and move on.

Another time, I went into the bathroom for a "routine visit." As had happened on a few occasions before, I got locked in but this time the lock wouldn't budge. So I spent what felt like a monumental amount of time pounding on the door and calling out for help. At times, men would enter the bathroom next door and ignore me. Finally the insurance agent down the hall rescued me. When I finally got back into the office, I asked the guys, "Did anyone happen to notice that I had gone missing for the better part of an hour (slight exaggeration)?" They responded, "Yeah, we just thought you were taking an enormous dump." OMG. Next time, assume that I'm not and come look for me, pleeeeeeeese! Later that week, the same thing happened to my boss. And the same guy rescued her. After that, they changed the locks. How you may ask? By putting our crappy lock on the downstairs ladies room, that's how. Now the Ameriprise folks, and their clients, can suffer the same embarrassment and we no longer have to send out the troops.

Maybe I should become a regular contributor to FML.

Bad Day: #5

One of my clients intentionally uses sex appeal as a tool to bring in new business. As a result, she is always getting hit on and combating "unwanted" advances. My boss and I were talking about her unconventional tactics and how, conversely, we're never hit on -- which, clearly, is a good thing.

Then I remembered a nightmare of an afternoon that happened a few years ago. I was working at a client site when the short, chubby, red headed, white eyelash/eyebrowed (and married with children) VP of Sales said to me, "The guys and I were out drinking last night and we all agree, you're a MILF."

I stupidly didn't know the term at the time so I asked, "What's a MILF?"

He responded by whispering "A mother I would love to . . . " and mouthing the last word.

I could have crawled under a rug. Instead, I said, "Sheesh, wait till I tell my husband that one!" Then I bolted back to my office in their facility and sat with my hands on my keyboard completely unable to type. I'm not sure if I've ever turned brick red but I was mortified enough that it felt like my face was burning.

He came in a minute later and apologized.

When I got home that night, the hubby was unfazed. "He meant it as a compliment." As much as I understood that logically, it felt ridiculously unprofessional (to say the least). With a few years between me and that incident, I now agree that I was overreacting. I never want a client to say anything like that to me again but worse things can happen in life.

A few months ago I went out to dinner with a friend who, at the time, was dating a 50 year old woman who has grandchildren. He said to me, "At what point did I stop dating MILFs and move on to GILFs?"

I guess that's the silver lining: at least I'm not a GILF. But, when I do hit the golden age of GILF, I'm guessing it's better to be a GILF than not . . .

Bad Day: #4

Last January, I wrote three posts entitled Bad Day (i.e., #1, 2 and 3 respectively) and somehow I had forgotten this little tale -- maybe I had thankfully suppressed the horror. The memory of it arose recently when I read on a friend's Facebook "25 random things about me" note that he was a "debutante escort" in his late teens.

When I was in my mid-20s, my girlfriend Meg talked me into a girls' night out (GNO). I had zero interest in going because it was to her roommate's boyfriend's work Christmas party (yawn!) but she is extremely persuasive and I ended up reluctantly agreeing. The premise was that every year the party is boring with a capital B because none of the guys have dates so, because Andy was bringing Leanne this particular year, she was encouraged to bring all of her friends. Free meal. Free drinks. Whatever.

The night of the party, Leanne and another girl showed up at my apartment to pick me up. Note: Everyone else backed out. Note #2: Even MEG! Note #3: I didn't know either of these girls well at all. What the . . . ? Why didn't Meg call me? Why am I going out??

So we arrived on the late side at a Japanese restaurant and the description was right: It's only men at this party. Literally. We were the only three women there. We didn't even have a chance to order drinks when we were whisked off to dinner -- at separate tables. What? I can't even sit with my friends?

The minute I was seated, the man next to me asked, "Are you a professional stripper or just an escort?"

Uhhhhhh, I think you have me confused with someone else.

It turns out that the business owner a) usually hired "talent" for the night and decided not to this year, b) didn't let the clients know, c) didn't let us know and, most importantly, d) didn't allow any of the men to bring their wives. Lucky us.

Well, doesn't that make for awkward conversation at the dinner table?! To make matters worse, seated at my table were some of the company's clients. From where you may ask? Why Eastman Kodak, of course. Where I worked. Big company, yet, small enough that I saw all of them in the cafeteria the very next day. I was beyond mortified because I wasn't sure if they bought my "story" or not. To this day, I am shaken to the core just thinking about it.

Back to the party. As we were walking out the door, the business owner followed us into the coat room and asked us how much he owed us for the night. Wait? What? Leanne's friend was joining Oak Hill at the time and this dude was actually a member. She was aghast and positively refused to take his money. I simply asked, "How much are you offering?" and pocketed all the cash that he held out.

I figured that I had had a lot of crappy dates in my life; I may as well get paid for one.

Yep, the one thing missing from my list of "25 random things about me" because it requires an in-depth explanation: I was once a paid escort. Poor guys who were expecting something entertaining! The holiday party from hell.

Bad Day: #1

When we first got our cat, I packed quickly in the pre-dawn hours for a meeting in Houston. The next day when I went to put on my suit, mere moments before heading to my client’s corporate headquarters, I realized that Stinky had used it as a scratching post. It answered the “How on earth did she get up there?” question I had asked when I saw her on the top shelf of my closet but posed the “How on earth can I be seen in public without making a fool of myself?” question that I’ve been known to ask myself throughout my life.

I took scissors to my suit and cut off the million and one frayed strings hanging from it. Deep breath: everything is going to be okay. Famous last words.

That morning, we entered the boardroom where we were to present. I was the only woman in a room full of men with the exception of my key client who was the lead on this project.

I sat down at the long mahogany table, opened my binder, and in a blindingly fast instant that will forever be seared in my mind, a tampon that had somehow nested itself in my binder edge, came flying out at the speed of light, skyrocketed across the table, hit my client’s chest with a thump and landed in her lap. She didn’t even flinch. I just about died. Inexplicably no one else at the table saw a thing.

It wasn’t until we got into the car to head to dinner that she and I began to laugh so hard we could barely speak. We had suppressed it all day. My coworkers were having a field day. Who notices a pockmarked suit when there are flying tampon diversions? Thank God it made a beeline for her and she handled it so well; otherwise, I think I would have seriously considered never leaving the house again.

'Cause You Had a Bad Day

I friggin' hate it when this happens!