And with that last post (see below), I have a sad announcement to make.

After much hemming and hawing, I’m shutting down the House of Ill Repute.

This wasn’t an easy decision to make, ya’ll, but between school, my new job, managing my ever increasing debt load (damn Best Buy - damn them to hell!) and trying to wipe my ass and read a magazine at the same time without getting confused and wiping my ass with the magazine (it happens more often than I care to admit), I simply don’t have time to keep this place up and runnin’ anymore.

I’ve also learned a lot of lessons over the past year.  I’ve made a million mistakes on this blog, and before I go, I’d like to share with you a few of the things I’ve learned…

1.  ALWAYS REMAIN ANONYMOUS.  I should NEVER have opened my big fucking mouth and started telling people about my blog.  It’s not that I didn’t trust them - it’s that I immediately started self-editing.  I began to worry about what people would think.  Nothing strangles one’s muse faster than self-editing.  In order to be at one’s absolute creative peak, one must be completely free to say EVERYTHING that one thinks and feels.  Unfortunately, I put myself in a box where I couldn’t do that.  I had to worry about being politically correct (at least to a point) and about hurting feelings and I began telling little white lies in my postings to keep certain readers happy because I knew I’d get an e-mail about it otherwise.

2.  DON’T MAKE PROMISES.  EVER.  Your readers depend on you.  Even if you have a small readership, you’ll find that they’re very loyal and look forward to reading what you write and seeing what you post.  So don’t promise them that you’re going to post something and then not post it (like Sundy services - sorry, ya’ll - you’ll see why in a minute).  Just post.  Don’t tell folks when you’ll post again or what you’re gonna post - just post.

3.  DON’T TRY TO TOP YOURSELF.  How in the hell did Lewis Grizzard, Dave Barry and Carl Hiassen do it, day after day after day?  Obviously, they, along with Will Rogers, were geniuses - brilliant fucking men.  Every day, they got up, went to their typewriters or keyboards and managed to crank out something so gawdamned funny or heart-wrenching or beautiful - but usually hilarious - that every single column was a work of art.  But how did they do it EVERY FUCKING DAY?????  How was each day’s column better than the last?  How did these icons of humor (two of them Southern by birth, three of them who wrote for Southern papers, and one of them who was raised in Missouri, by God) top themselves time and time again?  I finally figured out that I’m no Lewis Grizzard - hell, nobody is and never will be.  I’m done tryin’.  It’s the reason I gave up on Sundy services - how can I be funnier than I was last Sunday?  I’d worry about it all week.

Speaking of promises, a couple of folks (meaning two, last time I checked, one of which was me) bought stuff from the Store of Ill Repute, so I’ll take that and add enough to make a decent contribution to the Fibromyalgia charity in honor of Moonbeam.

4.  DON’T MAKE IT A CHORE.  That’s what it became, ya’ll.  Another item on my “to-do” list every day.  Something that had to be done before I could crash.  And when I didn’t post something, I’d feel guilty, as if I had failed to meet a goal or accomplish something I was supposed to do.  Like the Beastie Boys said, “Let it flow/Let yourself go/Slow and low/That is the tempo.”  Post when you want and don’t post when you want.  Don’t set up the expectation that you’ll post every day when you won’t.

There.  That’s what I learned.  I’m not saying I’ll never blog again, but if I do, I’ll follow my own rules.  My domain name expires in the middle of July, so I’ll leave the blog up until then.

I once read an interview with David Byrne in which he said that he never says good-bye to people on the phone.  He said he liked the idea of people getting used to him just not being there.

So….

I finally did it.  I left him.  And her.

Mister and Missus are in the rearview mirror.

It was actually a tough decision to make, and in the end, all went well.  We left each other on good terms and as friends.  I was an adult.  A professional.  I didn’t tell anybody to kiss my fat, white ass.  They didn’t tell me to get the fuck out and never come back.

So, tomorrow morning, I start my new job.  Although I couldn’t come up with the money to buy it, I’ve got the next best thing…

…I’m gonna be the front desk clerk at the Clermont Motor Hotel on Ponce de Leon Avenue in Midtown Atlanta!

I auditioned to be one of the strippers, but they told me no one wanted to see me crush beer cans with my man boobs, and I told them they could go get fucked and they said that based on my audition, I could probably bring a little class to the joint as the front desk clerk.

I then told them I couldn’t possibly do it for less than $150,000 a year, because I had to keep up the lifestyle and drinking habit to which I have become accustomed.  They then asked if I minded getting paid in Confederate money.

Now, those fuckers thought they was pullin’ a fast one, but I told ‘em I needed to go outside and think about it for a minute, so I walked outside and sat down with some homeless people, drank some Night Train with ‘em, then got on my Crackberry and looked up the current exchange rate for Confederate dollars versus United States of America dollars and discovered that One Confederates States of America Dollar is currently equal to approximately 4,521 United States of America Dollars (and about a bajillion pesos), so I went inside and said I’d take the job.

Those dumb assholes actually think somebody still wants U.S. money.

Idiots.

Of course, I cain’t pay none of my bills to Yankee creditors with Confederate money, but the liquor store down the street accepts it, and there’s a place around the corner where I can exchange it for WIC vouchers, and if I buy a case of baby formula, I get a free carton of cigarettes, so I’m all set.

Also, Willy Ray, the crack dealer that works the lobby of the Clermont, said he’d work out an exchange deal with me, and as everybody knows, even mortgage companies these days are happy to be paid in crack rock.

So, starting tomorrow morning, I’m filthy-fucking rich.

The owners of the Clermont axed me if I minded dealin’ with society’s less desirables - you know, crack ho’s, homeless people, folks just out of the pen, other folks who got kicked out of Grady after their 72 hours of observation was over, and I said, “Why?  Is my high school havin’ a reunion up in this motherfucker?”

They also axed me if I knew what to do in case of a fire on the top floor, ’cause apparently that’s where they keep all the bootlegged booze that they ain’t paid tax on.  I shrugged and said, “The roof is on fire.  We don’t need no roof, let the motherfucker burn.  Burn, motherfucker, burn.”

And that was the end of the interview.  I’m now safety certified and everything.

So, wish me luck, ya’ll.  I’m real excited.

It’s Sunday night.  My mood darkens with the sun’s inevitable decline.  I can set clocks by it - the accuracy of my Sunday night mood change is on par with that of an atomic clock.  Tomorrow is Monday.  Soon, I’ll be required to return my rental glass slippers to the store at the mall, and my carriage will become a rotting watermelon (I’m still in the South, ya’ll) and fortified by Diet Mountain Dew, a bloodstream full of anti-depressants and mood elevators, I’ll climb into Miss Celie (and do my bidness) and, searching for  fortification from inspirational songs like “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap,” “Ciao, Baby,” “Tie Your Mother Down,” and “The Pina Colada Song,” I’ll make my drive to work.

Later tonight, I will tie myself into the middle-aged gay lotus position - that’s curled up in my chair with a half-gallon of Blue Bell ice cream - and begin to repeat my positive reinforcement mantra…

…I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

At some point, I’ll see something shiny, and before I know it, my mantra will change…

…I’m delusional.  I don’t want to wake up tomorrow.  God, please give me encephalitis.  Or elphantitis.  Or flesh-eating fungus.  Or let a Marta bus run a red-light and knock the shit out me (I promise I’ll wear clean underwear) and send me to the hospital where I can stay in a coma for awhile and when I wake up, Saint Gradon the Bigot will have sued the fuck out of Marta and won a multi-million dollar settlement and I’ll never have to work again and we’ll live happily ever after.  And even if Marta doesn’t settle, at least I’ll have an excuse to get some sleep.

I expect tomorrow to be particularly shitty, and wanted… no, needed, to share this with all of you.

*****

Mister and I made up over the iPod brouhaha last Tuesday and at that time, I told him I was completely exhausted from work, school and life in general and that I had originally scheduled Wednesday off, but considering how busy we are, I had changed the calendar to reflect only Thursday and Friday off.

Mister responded that we’d see how things went, and that if everything went okay, I could finish up a few things and take Wednesday afternoon off, too.

Great.  Cool.  Groovy.

Wednesday morning came, and I was busy finishing up last minute things, swearing to myself and Saint Gradon the Bigot that I wouldn’t answer my crackberry NO MATTER WHAT while I was off.  I completed all of my assigned tasks, then walked into Missus’ office to see if she needed anything before I left.

“Oh, you’re leaving?”

“Mister said I could, if I had everything done,” I replied, “but if you need me to do something, I’ll be happy to take care of it for you.”

She sighed with frustration.  “I haven’t even had a chance to look at the stuff on my desk, so I don’t know, but if there’s anything I can give it to M.”

“Are you sure?  I really don’t mind,” I said, trying to make sure that everyone was happy, or at least as happy as I had the power to make them.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Missus said.

I then checked with our baby attorney, E., to see if he needed anything.  He responded with a grunt and a snort, as “Real Men” are wont to do, and I took that to “No” (”Oh, Stewardess - I speak Neanderthal.”).

Lastly, I went into Mister’s corner lair.  “Okay, Mister, all my work is done,” I reported.

“No.  It’s not,” he curtly explained.  I quickly ran over the “to-do” list sitting on my desk and in my mind could see all the check marks neatly ticked next to each item.  I quietly waited for further explanation.

“Just because you’ve finished whatever’s on your desk, doesn’t ever mean your work is done,” Mister expounded.  He spread his hands over the mounds of dead trees placed in neat, white stacks on his desk.  “What about the such-and-such lease?  I still need to review it and get corrections made to it and get it back out.”

I failed to see how this was “my” work, but wanting to leave, I kept my mouth shut.

“And then there’s the so-and-so stuff that I still need to review and get back out, but I guess C. can make those corrections,” Mister said.

I thought this was a wonderful idea, since this is part of what C. does - she types and she does so very well.

“And then what about this-and-that?  We have to have those out by Friday,” Mister told me.

“Mister,” I said, trying to be patient, “I was already scheduled off tomorrow and Friday, so I’m not sure what you wanted me to do about this-and-that.”

“I don’t want you to think that just because you’re leaving that your work is done.”  Mister’s face was really red.

I searched my central cortex for a proper response and finally found one.

“Okay.”

“And every time you, Missus or E. leaves early or is on vacation, it invariably falls to me to pick up your shit and deal with it.  As soon as you leave, there will be some emergency you won’t be here to deal with, and I’ll have to stop doing my work to deal with it.

“And every time you leave early, Missus and E. give me shit about it.  Are you absolutely sure they don’t need anything?”

“I asked them, but I’ll ask them again,” I said, trying to do everything I could to placate him.

“Because Missus gets really upset about it and always comes in here and asks me why I let you leave when we’re all so busy.  And we are all busy.  I’m stressed out, Missus is stressed out and E.’s stressed out, so there’s no reason for you not to be working at full capacity.”

“Mister,” I said, “I’m billing eight to nine hours a day.  It’s May 14th, and I’ve billed just under 80 hours for the month.”

“You have?  Good.  Because we’re all stressed out, and there’s plenty of work to do, and I don’t want you to think that just because you’ve finished what’s on your desk that all the work is done.”

I wracked my brain, trying to figure out what the fuck he was trying to say and what he was obviously getting so pissed off about.  I was pretty sure I hadn’t done anything wrong.  I hadn’t snuck in with a radio, CD player or any other sort of contraband, and I hadn’t done anything like cry or be sensitive, so I was at a loss.

“Do you want me to cancel my time off, Mister?” I asked.

“No, I just want you to make sure that Missus and E. are taken care of before you leave and that you don’t think all the work is done just because you’re leaving.”

“Oh.  Okay.  I will, and I, uh, don’t.”

I left Mister’s corner lair, completely fucking perplexed.  What the fuck just happened?  Didn’t he offer me the afternoon off?  Is there some sort of hole in the time-space continuum in this fucking office that I keep stepping through where in one dimension, sanity reigns and in the other, I should fear the Jabberwocky?  Did Marlboro start putting peyote in its light cigarettes?  Is this some existential bullshit like “Lost?”  Am I dead and this is hell?  If so, where’s my fucking tropical island, and why do I have to be stuck with these nutballs?

I walked back into Missus’ office to make doubly-sure that she didn’t need me to do anything for her.  “Missus, I have a lunch appointment with an estate attorney, but I’ll be more than happy to come back after that and work the rest of the day, if you’d like me to.  I’m more than happy to do whatever you’d like for me to do.”

She assured me that I was not needed, so I left to meet my estate attorney.

Later that afternoon, as I sat in my living room enjoying a margarita and flipping through the latest issue of BusinessWeek (I’m a nerd - get over it), I got an urgent e-mail on my crackberry.  Mister couldn’t find a particular document on the network, he told me in ALL CAPS, and needed it immediately.

He neglected to tell me which particuarly document he needed, so I sent him three - all of the ones possibly applicable to the situation at hand, with a note to call me if he needed anything else, because it’s the fastest way to reach me.

My phone rang, and it was Mister.  “This isn’t what I wanted.  I want the recorded plat.”

“I’m not sure which recorded plat you want, Mister, so I went you all of them.  But you’ll note that two of them are identical, just filed in different counties,” I explained.

“No, these aren’t what I want.  I want the recorded plat.”

“Those are all of the plats on the title commitment,” I explained, meaning there simply were no other plats.  Period.

“Look,” he says, royally fucking pissed off at me now.  “I’m not going to do this.  I told you what I wanted, and you obviously can’t send it… oh, here it is.  Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  Let me know if you need anything else.”

God, just a little Marta bus.  Please?

*****

Bob Geldof became famous for three reasons:  1) his performance as Pink Floyd in “The Wall;” 2) his humanitarian efforts; and 3) his membership in a band that only ever had one real hit - The Boomtown Rats.

Their one hit was called, “I Don’t Like Mondays” and every fucking 80’s station in America and on satellite radio plays it every fucking Monday.  Every.  But that doesn’t make it a bad song.  It’s really a horribly sad song, about a school shooting way, way, way before Columbine.  The following is from songfacts.com…

This is about Brenda Spencer, a 16-year-old San Diego high school student who lived across from an elementary school. On Monday, January 29, 1979, she opened fire on the school with a rifle, killing 2 adults (including the principal) and injuring 9 kids before going back to her home. Police surrounded her home and waited for 7 hours until she gave herself up. In that time, she spoke with a reporter on the phone. When asked why she did it, she replied, “I just started shooting, that’s it. I just did it for the fun of it. I just don’t like Mondays. I just did it because it’s a way to cheer the day up. Nobody likes Mondays.”

Although I will always love this song for its musicality, I must admit I adored this song far more when I didn’t know the back story.

Tomorrow, when I’m sure to hear the song, I’m not going to think of Brenda Spencer’s crazy ass.  I’m gonna think of Pink Floyd, and maybe I’ll shave off my eye brows and nipples, and then maybe Queen Elizabeth will beknight me, and then I can just be Dame Maxine LeGay and get a gig acting like the rest of the Dames do or just go to fancy cocktail parties or do whatever other dames do with their days and any case not worry about any of this shit any more.

It’s not like I’m using my nipples for anything, anyway.

Ya’ll, I’m still getting back into the swing of things, and Saint Gradon the Bigot (it’s his new name, like St. Francis of Assisi) took the camera to Mississippi last weekend and I forgot to recharge the batteries and I need a new wig and just haven’t had time, with all my shopping for Emmanuel Lewis and everything.

I’ll figure out something special for Memorial Day Weekend.

Besides, I need some cash.

Kisses,
The Reverend Mother Maxine LeGay

Saint Gradon loves to watch the news.  I don’t know why, since all it does is piss him off - I guess he likes being pissed off.  Which should be easy, since he lives with me.

Anyway, this morning, he was watching the news while I was upstairs in the “library” and I heard him start laughing.

I immediately knew that someone was dead.  Or at least terribly injured.  Probably a small child.

I finished up my paperwork and went downstairs to ask Gradon what was going on.

“We gotta new newsgirl on the Sunday morning news,” he grinned over a cup of coffee.

“Uh-huh?  And?”

“And we had us an incident down on Memorial Drive at the Aloha Motor Inn last night,” he replied, still grinning.

“Uh-huh?  And?”

“And Anissa, the newsgirl said, “What had be done happened was that the po-lice was called up in here after a report of a shooting, but they got here and found a guy who’d been beaten, then they figured out he mighta been stabbed.”

I shook my head, lost in the story line.

“So, he wasn’t shot?”

“Nope.”

“And they thought he’d been beaten, but he hadn’t?”

“Nope.”

“But they figured out he was stabbed.”

“Yep.”

Saint “Archie Bunker” Gradon nodded.  “Yep.  I don’t know why they went through all that when they coulda just said “Nigga down.”

Yeah, he’s a complete bigot, but he’s my bigot.

(By the way, the lovely photo at the top is so NOT the Aloha Motor Inn on Memorial Drive in Decatur, Georgia.  I couldn’t find a picture of that particular shithole up on the Google, so I found this pretty one instead.)

Kisses,
Maxine

First, Fart Blossoms, thank you ever so much for letting me know how much I was missed.  It means the world to this old bitch.

And thanks for lettin’ me know where my doo-rag at.

So, on to other, more important things.

Saint Gradon surprised me for my birthday by taking me shopping for a new wardrobe - no, not the lion, the witch and the… kind, but the shit you wear.  As ya’ll know, mama’s Mexican diet pills are AMAZING, and Maxine is now smaller than she’s been since grade school.

There’s just one problem.

I’m now so small that I have to shop in the boys’ department.  Yep - I’m a boys’ 16-18.

And we weren’t too welcome in the boys’ departments of the local Macy’s and Bloomies, although Saint Gradon and I are both platinum card holders at both establishments.

You do the math - two middle-aged fags with great taste, wandering the the boys’ department, picking out things, holding them up to the short one and saying, “How do you like this?”

Those old, frosty retail bitches just sniffed and acted as if we were shopping for our next victim, so I casually explained to one of them that I was Emmanuel Lewis’ personal assistant (he lives in the A-T-L) and he’d sent me out for a few things.  I then explained the reason that I was his personal assistant was that he and I are the same size and since he gets mobbed everywhere he goes with people yelling, “Webster!  Webster!  Webster!” I can shop for him on the down-low. 

This also explained why I needed to try everything on.

No, I can’t get you his autograph, bitch.

And the reason I was drunk was because Emmanuel Lewis has a bit of a drinking problem, so I have to pick things out that he’ll like when he’s plastered, or he’ll throw things at me and beat on me and make me pick up his dogs’ poo without a plastic baggy and did she have a swizzle stick?  No?  Okay.

Saint Gradon had disappeared at this point, although I can’t imagine why.

I then asked the saleslady if she had any little boys clothing that was a little roomier on one side than the other to allow for proper fitting of a shoulder holster, since Mr. Lewis has a concealed weapons permit and packs heat under his shirt.

“Uhm, no.”

“Hmm,” I responded.  “Pity.”

I also said I was surprised, with all the rappers in the A-T-L.  I figured they’d have a whole line of boys’ clothing specially made for gangsta rap and could she hold my cocktail while I tried on these Ralph Lauren shorts?

“Uhm, no.”

I squinted.  “Don’t make me call Mister Lewis.  He’ll be angry.  And you won’t like him when he’s angry.”

She held my cocktail.

The shorts were too big, so I left the store to find Saint Gradon hiding at The Pottery Barn.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” he said without looking at me.

“Best.  Birthday.  Ever.”

I swear, if he rolls his eyes around in his head any more, they’re gonna become unattached.

Kisses,
Maxine

…makes Maxine a dull girl.

And a bad blogger.

Mea culpa, my Fart Blossoms, but I’m back, and I’m much better now.

Where do I start?

Let’s start from the very begginning, since Julie Andrews says it’s a very good place to start, and she seems to know a lotta shit (see spoonful of of sugar).

School kicked my ass this term.  Really.  I took my last final yesterday morning, and by the time I was done, I didn’t care what my final score was because I was just so sick of it.

Work has been, let’s say, less than pleasurable.

Okay, I’ll call a spade a spade.  It’s been a little slice of shit pizza, easy on the sauce, extra shit, please.

But I’ll get into all that in a minute.

First, I want to apologize to all of the Fart Blossoms who kept having to stare at that smoking bitch worried about the effect of jackhammers on her unborn baby.  I kept meaning to find 10 minutes to put something else up, but I just didn’t have 10 minutes.

Now.  Go grab some coffee and settle in.  Over the next few posts, I’ll catch everyone up on everything.  Go on.  I’ll wait for ya.

We’ll start with a little true story about a fine young woman named Soulja Gurl…

THIS is why I pay $4.00 a gallon for gas…

Yes, that IS the train I take back and forth to work.  Or rather, it would be.

Her mother said, “Not MY baby!”  Then, she was shown the video.

Then, her mother said she was bipolar.

I’m bipolar.  Should I rap?  Should I air-slap? 

Where my do-rag at?

Kisses,
Maxine

It is no secret that I love my iPod.

Actually, I love all my iPods.  I have backups, just in case.

When I bought Miss Celie, I wasn’t concerned about the color or any of that shit, but wanted to make sure that it had a jack for my iPod so that I could listen to Foghat and Blondie on my way to work.

I love to listen to it on Saturday mornings while I surf the Internet or do homework or read the rare book not related to school.

We have a boombox so we can listen to it by our pool.

We have a little player in the master bedroom.

And since my first week at the law firm for which I work, I’ve had an iPod playing apparatus in my office.  Until recently, I couldn’t imagine making it through the day without hearing Led Zeppelin or Madonna or Dwight Yoakam or Patsy Cline or the Violent Femmes tweeting around my office all day.

Now, I don’t have to imagine it.  My office is as quiet as a morgue.  I can hear the building’s HVAC system kick on and off somewhere 44 floors below; I can hear every word said in every corner of every other office in my firm; every printer whirr; every gasp of the coffee maker; every slam of a drawer; and every sigh of despair.

I miss my Evita soundtrack.  I miss Bill Withers and Dusty Springfield.

Let me tell you how it all went down.

*****

It was a Friday morning, and the office mood seemed to be good.  I’d had a shrink appointment at the U.S.V.A. (did you remember the arm motions?), and fortified with mood elevators, Starbucks and the knowledge that in 8 hours I’d be on my way home, I was happy.  Plus, that dumbass with the dreadlocks had been kicked off “American Idol” that week, so there was an extra spring in my step.

I was in my office, on the phone with a friend who works for one of our largest clients, inquiring about her father who the night before had been moved from a hospital to a rehab facility in Jacksonville, Florida. 

My male boss, Mister, stepped into my office and started talking to me, then seeing I was on the phone, retreated to his lair on the corner of the building.  I finished my conversation, then walked down to his office.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“How do you do that?”

I scrunched my face, thinking of the empty coffee cup hanging flaccidly at my side, wondering what the hell he was talking about.  “How do I do what?”

“How do you talk on the phone with your music on?”

I just stood there.  I, of course, being me, wanted to say, “Oh, it’s easy.  I turn it on, then I pick up the phone, dial a number, then speak.  Would you like me to show you how?”

Instead, I just blinked, wishing I’d had the forethought to get coffee before entering Mister’s corner lair.

“Because, I really have an issue with this,” he continued.

I held out my hand.  “Wait, Mister.  Let’s not do this.  I haven’t even had coffee yet.  This isn’t a big deal.  I…”

“I think it is,” he interrupted.  “I don’t want our clients…”

“I wasn’t on the phone with a client,” I interrupted in return.

“I don’t want our clients to think you work in a bar.”

I breathed deeply.  “Mister, I can’t believe that after a year and a half, you think I don’t have the requisite professionalism to turn off or down my iPod when I’m on the phone with a client.  I was on the phone with Dana, inquiring about her father.”

“Still, I think it’s inappropriate,” he replied.

I looked at the industrial office carpet and the empty coffee cup in my hand and made what I considered to be a managerial decision:

a).  I could escalate this matter into a screaming match, and further delay my coffee, or

b).  I could acquiesce and hurry my caffeine fix.

“Okay,” I said.

I really needed that coffee, even though I’d already stopped at Starbuck’s, it just wasn’t enough to get me through a screaming match with my boss over an iPod.  Pick your battles, ya’ know?

He nodded curtly, acknowledging his win.  “Where are we with the binders?”

“It looks like C. got almost everything done before she left last night,” I replied, “so all we have to do is put them together.”

He looked at me as if I was the dumbest lump on a log he’d ever seen.  “Why didn’t you send them out to be copied?”

“Because it was only 5 copies of 20 documents, which we could easily do in-house.  I prepared the graphics and discs, so it seemed more economical to do it here than send it out to a service.”

“I thought you were going to create one binder, then send it out to be copied,” he said.

“No, sir.  We did all of them here.”

Mister lost it.  He ranted and railed about the cost to the client.  He told me what an ineffective use of time it was.  What a waste of resources.

I stood there and waited for him to finish, then said, “Mister, I understand that these binders are standing between our client and $40 million in financing.  If that’s the case, I wanted these binders to look like $40 million.  I’m sorry, I thought I was doing the right thing.  Next time, I’ll ask you how you want them done, and make sure that’s what we do.”

Mister bitched and moaned for a little longer, then let me go to the coffee pot.

Once back in my office, I turned off my iPod, unplugged the player and packed it into a Target back (recycle and re-use, Fart Blossoms) and the silence was deafening.

Later in the day, I walked into the office of my female boss, Missus, for something or other, and she asked if I was okay.

“Oh, Mister and I got off on the wrong foot this morning over my iPod, but it’s not a big deal.  I’m taking my little stereo home and that should alleviate the problem - keep everything copacetic,” I responded.

She sighed with exasperation.  “You are being over-sensitive again.  He was kidding, Maxine.”

My head popped as if I’d been slapped.  “No, ma’am, I assure you he was not.  But, really, it’s no big deal.  I’m just gonna take it home and then the problem is solved for everyone.”

“You’ve got to stop taking everything so personally.” 

I blinked several times.  “Oh.  Okay.  I’ll put that on my to-do list.”

At 4:40 that afternoon, I heard C. showing Mister the binders.  She was proud of them, and had reason to be - they looked like $40 million - full color process, the client’s logo in full color on the cover - they truly rocked.  Then I heard Mister bellow for me to join them.

“C., tell Maxine what you just told me.”

C. stared at him as if she’s just opened a huge can of worms and had no idea what to do with them.

“Tell him,” Mister repeated.

C. looked at Mister and then at me and then back at Mister, so Mister took the lead.

“C. was here until 10:30 last night printing everything for these binders.  So, just like I said, we spent way too much money producing these.  We should have made one binder and sent it out.  I don’t know why you didn’t do that.  I thought that’s what you were going to do…”

After that, all I heard was Charlie Brown’s teacher.  “Wah-waa-waa-wah-waa-wah-waa-waaaaaaaah.”

I turned around, went into my office, picked up my purse and the Target bag with my iPod player in it and walked back through the room where Mister and C. were still standing.  I thanked C. for helping with the binders, then walked out 10 minutes early.

That’s when the shit really hit the fan.

I wasn’t there for this part, but according to reliable third parties, Mister ranted and railed and told the other employees of the firm that he wasn’t going to take my shit and that he didn’t have to take my shit and that I was insubordinate and overly sensitive and spent too much time and money on the binders and that he was so upset over everything that he just had to leave for the day.

*****

Amazingly (at least to me), I went back to work Monday morning.  It was quiet.  It tried not to pay attention.

Then I tried to hum.

Then I sang to myself.

Then I made up songs.

Then I gave up and sat in the silence, concentrating on the sound of my fingers on the keyboard.

Someday, when I’m running my own camp, I’m going to have the back wall of my office covered in mirrors and shelves and bottles of liquor, and I’m going to have a 2,000 watt Bose stereo system installed so that I have to take client calls out on the sidewalk and explain to them, “Sorry, but my office is like working in a bar.”

By God.

Kisses,
Maxine

Need we say more?

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