Monthly Archives: June 2016

A tragic tale of self-employment

I started working for myself this past March. Despite the abysmal pay and lack of traditional employer benefits, it’s the flyest gig ever. I may not get health insurance or paid vacation days, but my boss sure is understanding. She’s like Ja Rule’s dream girl, a certified down ass bitch. Because she’s myself, and I treat me like my number one.

I am at once the best employer and best employee that ever existed. The synergy between me and myself is outrageous. We are so, so synergetic. That means we’ve synchronized our energies. (We’ve also synchronized our cycles—a convenient side effect of being the same lady.)

For instance, let’s say I want to take a long lunch break. Maybe I want to go on a half-hour bike ride to the rock gym, climb a while, go to Wendy’s for a baked potato and a frosty, and bike the half hour back to the office. My boss is 100% cool with it, because she also wants me to spend the majority of the workday playing and eating.

Or perhaps I want to take a little rest on the office couch and cruise Craigslist for kayaks and kittens—two things I have no intention of actually buying.* My boss encourages it! She too enjoys perusing the catalog of kayaks and kittens available along the Eastern seaboard.

Our company is the best employer in the country. Dogs are allowed, pajama casual dress is worn, and snack breaks are mandated every seven minutes.

IMG_5647

All right, that’s enough. You get it. I LIKE WORKING FOR MESELF.

I gots a little office in the downstairs of the Weight Watchers center where my mom works. It’s huge and cement and empty, but my space is cordoned off with a bunch of hanged-up sheer curtains. It’s kind of like being inside of a shower all the time. I have a couch and a mini-fridge and a desk Curtis bought me for Christmas where I do freelance work.

I don’t have any coworkers—a sad reality of working for yourself, since coworkers are good—but I at least have my mom upstairs. She’s even better than a coworker because she grew me and gave birth to me and is thus required to love me unconditionally and sometimes buy me lunch and drive me to work.

If I walk outside through my downstairs exit, my mom’s office windows are right above mine. Now that the weather’s nice, I’ll sometimes go outside to peel oranges. If I feel like having a chat, all I have to do is chuck a couple of orange peels at my mom’s window and wait for her to open up. She gets pissed but only because she thinks it’s a bird flying into the glass. And boy, nothing gets my mom madder than a bird’s death. That’s one of my most vivid memories as a child—my mom losing it whenever a bird flew into her car’s windshield.

“GODDAMMIT BIRD SHIT I KILLED YOU GODDAMMIT MOTHERFUCKER I DIDN’T MEAN TO BASTARD ASS UNLCEFUCKER GODDAMMIT TO HELL.”

She likes birds.

Anyway, two weeks ago I went outside and felt like having a chat. I didn’t have any orange peels but I needed something to throw at my mom’s window. They always use pebbles in the movies but that seems dangerous. The only thing my mom hates worse than an innocent bird’s death is the prospect of getting showered with shards of broken glass because a rock smashed through her office window. So in lieu of rocks, I decided to throw pieces of mulch.

This may be news to you, as it was to me, but individual pieces of mulch are hella hard to throw. It’s almost impossible. They’re not at all aerodynamic and they don’t have enough heft for heaving purposes. They suck. It’s like trying to throw, I don’t know, a single corn husk. A wadded piece of dry toilet paper. The top to a tube of chapstick. Anything light and stupid, you name it.

So I threw pieces of mulch at her window and none of them would reach. They’d get really close but they’d never quite make it. I could have given up—could have walked 100 feet and just gone to her office, or I could have called or texted or emailed her—but I didn’t want to. I wanted to throw a piece of goddamn mulch at her window and have a chat.

IMG_5844

I tried a million different ways. Overhand, underhand, super forceful, less forceful (in case the force was too much and was actually slowing down the mulch’s velocity—logic that makes no sense to anyone except me). I tried curving it left, curving it right. It’d come within inches of her window but would never reach. (Know that this was all done in sight of many, many motorists—the Weight Watchers building is on the corner of a busy intersection.)

After four minutes of trying every mulch-throwing technique I could think of, I still wasn’t ready to give up. I picked up a new piece of mulch and gave it my most powerful hurl yet. So powerful I probably would have thrown out my shoulder had I not instead violently twisted my ankle and crashed to the ground in a cloud of dirt and mulch.

I sprained my ankle and, worst of all, the mulch didn’t even make it to the window.

There are two lessons to be learned from this:

  1. If you want to get a person’s attention by throwing something at their window, DO NOT USE MULCH. It simply don’t work. Go for orange peels or, if you’re brave, a pebble. An apple core or banana would likely work too.
  2. If I ever offer you a job, do not take it. I am a stupid boss.

P.S. My mom did hear pieces of mulch hitting below the window, I’ve just desensitized her to it. I consider this my most shameful accomplishment.

P.P.S. I went outside to get a picture of the mulch for this post and couldn’t resist throwing a piece at the window again. I got it on the first try.

*I did buy a kayak. I couldn’t help myself, and I don’t even like kayaking that much.

 

 

Advertisements

I went to a summer camp for models

I once tried to be a model.

Here is me, trying to be a model.

Here’s me, trying to be a model.

It’s kind of a shameful thing to admit. If I had actually become a model, that’d be one thing—not shameful a-tall. But since I did not become one, and instead failed fully in its pursuit, that’s another thing.

Even if you didn’t know, now you know. I’m telling you because I wrote about it for a website called xoJane. You can read it here. Or, if you’d prefer, you can read a less-censored version below.

In 2007 a mofo approached me in a mall in Florida and asked if I’d consider being a model. His name was Keith. (I used “Kevin” for xoJane because that’s a sneaky trick of the journalism trade. I used a pseudonym for myself too, another sneaky trick.) Keith looked like a mouse if mice were amphibious and untrustworthy. He scouted for Elite, the same agency America’s Next Top Model winners used to sign with.

I met with some Elite people, they told me I was too chunk, so I lost some weight and went to a camp for models in New York City that summer.

Here is a list to describe that experience.

  • They brought us to a burger restaurant to prove that models were allowed to eat but then ONLY SERVED SLIDERS. Funk outta here with sliders, what’s a girl like me supposed to do with a slider?! I was the only one that went back for thirds which means I ate approximately one-eighth of a traditional hamburglar.
  • They made me do yoga for the first time in my life and they filmed it. I’ve dedicated the past three years to learning how to bend over and touch my toes with straight legs, to give you an idea of how flexible I am not.
  • Karlie Kloss gave us a runway walking demonstration. I felt like an old, ugly behemoth next to that nilla wafer. For real she waify as hell, I don’t reckon humans are even meant to be that waiflike. Hold on I just Googled it and waif actually means a homeless, helpless person. Isn’t waifiness supposed to be an enviable lady trait? What the heck. I like homes and being helped both.
  • A nutritionist came in and told us to drink lukewarm water in the morning cause it gets shit moving. She weren’t all that genuine a person but I’ll be damned if she didn’t preach gospel. Try drinking 16 oz lukewarm water in the A.M. and tell me that don’t get your pooptubes straight crackin.
  • I had a test photo shoot and they put me in eyebrows and a dress and hurt me real bad. Had to kneel on a wooden floor for about an hour. My knees weren’t meant for kneeling, that’s just not what they do.
  • I walked around Central Park with 10-15 other girls while we all wore teeny tiny T-shirts. There’s no use in pretending I wasn’t the biggest of the bunch because I was. THAT SHIRT BARELY COVERED MY STICK-OUT RIB. Barely but.
  • I starved myself in preparation for my test photo shoot (Keith made me) and after it was done I ate: 1) One full chicken 2) One pound of shoestring fries 3) A molten chocolate lava cake. I didn’t realize we weren’t getting our Kardinal Offishall measurements done until the next morning. Kardinal Offishall is a rapper who had a hit with Akon but I just used his name in place of the word “official.” Measurements are body measurements for boobs and butts etc., which Elite agents live and ride and die by.
  • That next morning (after photo shoot + full chicken, before measurements), I was still on a rampage and demanded my first donut in months. The sprinkled donut I got was garbage and my saint of a sister went back and returned it for me not because I was a diva but because I couldn’t face the Dunkin Donuts employee. NYC DD employees are Steve Austin, so stone cold.

I gave up on the modeling career because my bones were too big. A lady named Karen knocked on my right hip and said “Nah ain’t gonna work, we prefer the type of hips that make childbirth more painful and difficult.” I said “That’s wassup” and now I’m not a model.

Also, if I’m keeping it real, I look like a tired cadaver in most photos and I’m prematurely wrinkled and overall I don’t have that charming/likable/outgoing a personality. These traits do not befit a model.

It took me nearly 10 years to share this story. (That means I’m 27 now, which means my birthday has come and gone. Please leave your wishes of good birthday fortune in the comments section below).