The CCO

Working from home has been an adjustment, but I can honestly say that I really enjoy it.  I have a three second commute, I wear yoga pants almost exclusively, and I really think I get more done.

All that being said, there is one downside for an extrovert like me- there is very little social interaction.  I am used to being around coworkers, and, with my last job at least, pretty funny coworkers.  To fill the void, I have started relying on my new coworkers for entertainment and camaraderie.  I'm talking about Itsy and Saber, our two cats.

Look, I know this sounds weird and like I'm becoming a cat lady, but you have to believe me, they are so cute and hilarious!  Itsy is a tuxedo rescue, and she is a little more reserved.  Basically, she doesn't like anyone but me and sometimes Brad, which is a lot of responsibility.  She was our first pet, and now hates her life because she can't understand why she wasn't enough for us.  So, when the dogs are outside and there are no other humans around, she takes full advantage of cuddling with me.

Saber is an exotic Snow Leopard Bengal.  He looks just like a snow leopard- he's only four generations away from an actual snow leopard.  He can fetch!  Before you think that we spent $4,000 on him, he was also a stray; we just got a very exotic stray.

So, while Itsy has the cuddling down, Saber- oh boy!  The funny things he does!  Like, this one time, he sat on my computer!  Ahahahaha!  And this other time, he ran to the window when I opened it and then laid on the sill- for like 20 minutes!

I have been sending Brad pictures of these high jinx with captions like "King of the Jungle" and "Cuddle Monster," and- my personal favorite- "The CCO (Chief Cat Officer)."  Itsy is the CPO (Chief Purr Officer).  For some reason, Brad is not as amused as I am with these hilarious pictures.

Don't get me wrong, my day isn't all cat pictures and cuddling, I do a lot of work- really I do.  Just think of it as water cooler time.  Don't judge me.  I know you watch at least one YouTube video on your phone every single day, so don't pretend like you're all nose to the grindstone from 8:00 to 5:00.

If you were around this hilarious cuteness 40 hours a week, you too would begin to feel the need to document via smartphone.  I recognized that this is probably not that normal...so I have started to incorporate the dogs into the photo shoots.  Molly and Jake are now the co-CDOs.

They're hilarious too!  OMG, the other day, Molly was sleeping and she had all her little paws curled up and it was just so cute!

...I'm also working on getting out of the house more.

Saber- the original CCO Picture.  He's sitting on my computer!  SO hilarious!

The CCO and CPO on the one of the CDO's beds.  OMG!  SO HILARIOUS!  Right?!

Molly, sleeping with her little legs all curled up like a mouse!  AHAHAHAHA!

Saber, taking over Jake's bed and forcing him to cuddle with Molly.  Now really, come on, that's HILARIOUS!

I mean, come on.   You are laughing at this, I know you are! You are!


Sigh.

Dear BJ Novak, Thank you for reading my blog

Dear BJ Novak,

About two weeks ago you were in town signing your new hilarious book, "One More Thing," and we met.  To be fair, you met a lot of other people that night too, when you were also signing their books, but what made me unique was the fact that I gave you a card for my blog and now you're reading it! 

(Side note: These cards may or may not have been purchased for the explicit purpose of giving one to BJ Novak at his book signing.  I may or may not have 499 of them left to give out.  Why would you buy 10 for $10 when you can buy 500 for $14.99?  Yes please, upgrade!) 

I meant to post this post thanking you for reading the blog immediately, but right after the book signing I was pretty tired.  Then I decided that really I should give you enough time to peruse the blog like a normal person so you could decide if you liked it or not on its own merit; not on the fact that you were getting a personal shout out for reading it.  

Then work got really busy, and I was out of town for a few days, but anyway, I digress.  The important thing is that you're here now and that you obviously love the blog or you wouldn't have come back. 

Now we can begin our collaboration.  Hooray!

First, I think we're going to work really well together because I can relate to you and to the life I imagine you have, based on no facts and only my imagination.  

You have achieved the exact level of fame to which I aspire.  Which is to say, that most people have no idea or just a vague idea of who you are.  Please don't be offended by this.  Moderate fame is the best kind.  You can still probably go get a beer without being overcome by paparazzi, but you've been in A list movies and were nominated for an Emmy!  Fantastic! 

Also, you'll probably get more famous now that your amazing book, "One More Thing," is out.  Plus, you've still got the whole paperback circuit to go, so there's lots more publicity for this thing.

I really don't know if we're going to be great writing partners yet, but I imagine we're going to find each other incredibly funny, and will enjoy bouncing ideas off of each other.  In fact, if you're working on anything and want me to take a look, just let me know.  You know, just shoot it over.  I'll be waiting.

Look, I know we just met, and when we did you were signing something for me and then I awkwardly thrust a sweaty, half crumpled Vistaprint card at you (thank you for taking it by the way, that was very nice), but I really think there's some synergy here.

I realize that right now, I have everything to gain from this relationship, and you are basically extending your good graces for a total unknown.  But, someday Ryan, I mean BJ, after your extremely well written and witty commentary on our generation, "One More Thing," is in its 25th edition; when you have introduced me to Lena Dunham, Steve Carell, Quentin Tarantino, Ira Glass and Tom Hanks and they are all my friends too; when I have my own book tour for my hilarious and equally poignant and witty commentary on our shared generation, you will look at me and be so glad you took that card.  

I don't exactly know why yet, and I don't exactly know how, but I do know without a doubt, you will be very glad you got that card.  That card that changed your life.

And if not, whatever dude.  I don't need you anyway.  


Next week's post:  Dear Mindy Kahling, You are so pretty and funny!  That's probably why everyone likes you way more than BJ Novak!

Dude! Use your phone for that!

The following is 100% true; however, names of people and places have been changed.

A while back when I was on the job hunt, I was asked to go on a ride-along interview.  In sales, a ride-along is when you basically shadow someone who is currently doing the job for which you are interviewing so that you can decide if you can "see yourself" doing the job every day.  It's also a chance for them to weed out the weirdos by spending an extended period of time with you.  Anywho, I agreed to go on this ride-along. 

My perspective territory was vacant, obviously, so another rep, Jared, set a few appointments in "my" territory, and flew down to run them.  On the ride-along day, I met him at our first appointment, and it went really well.  He was obviously very knowledgable about the products and services, and gave a good impression to both the client and me.

After that, we went to our second appointment.  Unlike at the first appointment where we used the client's computer to demonstrate the web-based product, this second client had a projector for Jared to plug into his computer.  Jared's screen was then projected onto a giant screen in this tiny room filled intimately with Jared, the client and me.

The demonstration was going well.  Jared had the website pulled up and was going through the features and benefits.  I was paying attention, taking some notes, la la, no biggie.  Then, my eyes wandered up to the top right corner of the screen where the Google search bar lives.

If you're on your computer right now, you'll see what I mean.  It's that blank bar that says "Google" in gray letters.  Only, it wasn't blank and it didn't say "Google."

Instead, in fairly large type, due to the fact that it was blown up on a projector screen, were the words: 

"South Dallas Gentlemen's Club"

It took a tick for my brain to catch up to my eyeballs, and then HOLY SHIT!  DOES THAT SAY WHAT I THINK IT SAYS?  YES!  YES IT DOES!?!

I immediately began to internally freak out and melt down.  Was I the only one to see this???  Did Jared see it?  Did the client see it?  Surely they did.  Right?  

But neither one of them were acting like they had.  The fact that Jared was calmly going through his presentation made me believe that he hadn't seen it.  If it were me, and something terrible like that were in the search bar, I would fake a coughing spasm and "accidentally" pull the plug out of the computer, or just slam the computer lid down and act like I didn't know why I had just done that.  Anything!

The client, a lovely man who I would later learn was originally from Armenia, was also acting like nothing was out of the ordinary.  He wasn't treating Jared any differently than he had at the start of the demo, and was actively engaged and asking questions.

Then, Jared turned to me.  "Stella, would you mind driving for a minute?  I just want to walk up here and make a few points."  "Uh, sure," I said.

So then, I took the mouse, as Jared stood up to point at things while the words "South Dallas Gentlemen's Club" loomed literally inches from his eyeballs.

Now that I was in control, what should I do?  If I casually tried to scroll over it to delete it, I would have to highlight it to do that and I would risk actually clicking on it causing Google to search.  Plus, they were looking at my mouse when Jared told me where to point, so there was no way they wouldn't watch me do the whole thing.  

I thought about faking the coughing fit, but that clearly was a bad idea because then I'd have to simultaneously find, highlight and delete, without clicking, while having a coughing fit.

When Jared took back over, I returned to my seat to stare and contemplate.  Every now and then I would look away and then look back, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming and that it was still there.  It was.  It was there the whole time.  For one hour.

This definitely changed my mind about Jared.  Not that I care if someone goes to a strip club.  Whatever, you're a grown ass man, do what you want on your own time, but seriously, you used your work computer to Google strip clubs?

Plus, he was only in town for one night.  So that meant he had to land, find a WiFi connection and search for strip clubs- that were conveniently located- so that he could go there, by himself, on a random Wednesday night, on a work trip.  It was a lot of effort, executed very poorly, to do something pretty creepy.

For the rest of the call, I tuned in and out thinking about what I should do when this was over.  Should I say something to him, should I say something to my prospective boss?   What would that accomplish though?  He'd probably get fired, or at least reprimanded, and in the course of the day I had decided that I did not want this job anyway, so what did I care?  No need in getting this perv canned and having that on my conscience.  

Also, if he's Googing Gentlemen's Clubs at work, no doubt there was other incriminating evidence that would sooner or later come to light.  Or maybe the Armenian would say something later.  Maybe he was too embarrassed to say anything during the call.  Either way, they could can him then. 

Was it the right choice?  The feminist choice?  I don't know, but it was the choice I chose, and it gave me relief.  Once I made it, the entire situation because hilarious and I couldn't wait to get out of there so that I could share this miracle with everyone I knew.

After the meeting was over, in the elevator he said "Well, too bad I have to catch a flight or I'd buy you a drink." 

In my head I thought, "At a strip club!" and busted out laughing.  Which was awkward because then I was just laughing at him.

"Oh, uh, sorry," I said.  "It's funny because, I don't drink." Which wasn't that funny, but was all I could come up with.  

Then the elevator opened and Jared the Creepo and I parted ways;  me with a greater appreciation for clearing Google search history and he with fewer dollar bills and probably a mild skin rash.

Truly Outrageous

Let's discuss Jem and the Holograms.  If you're unfamiliar with Jem, I implore you to take a moment to watch this YouTube video (and hopefully explore others on your own).  If you are familiar, of course you will watch.  Jem Intro

The intro does a good job of hitting the highlights, but let us dive a bit deeper into the mystery that is Jem.

Jem ran from 1985-1988, and was wildly popular, at least with Pippy and me.  The story centers around Jem, a fabulous rock 'n roll diva with pink hair and a kind heart.  What you quickly learn, is that Jem is actually Jerrica Benton (no relation), a mild mannered record executive and owner of "Starlight Music."  Jerrica is blonde, that's how you know the difference.

The way Jerrica turns into Jem is through the help of a giant hologram-making machine named Synergy.  Jerrica's genius father (who is dead) made Synergy for Jem and her sister, Kimber, but really only Jerrica gets to use her.  

All Jerrica has to do is press her hot pink star earrings and say "It's showtime Synergy!" and she turns into Jem.  She now has pink hair and is the lead singer of the Holograms. (Kimber is part of the Holograms too, but is constantly pissed that Jem gets all the attention.  Which is a fair complaint.)

Jerrica also fosters 12 kids, known collectively as The Starlight Kids.  We don't really know why she does this, but we assume it is because she is the greatest person on earth.  The best part about the Starlight Kids is that instead of drawing children, the animators just drew shorter adults, which is perfect.

Every episode Jem's efforts at good doing and awesome singing are tested by another, rival, band (you'll remember them from the intro), The Misfits.  They are the arch nemesi of The Holograms, and you know they are bad because they have much worse make-up.  They claim their songs are better, but we know the truth.

Okay, so you're with me so far, right?  Everything makes perfect 80's sense.  You've got two rival bands, a lead singer whose persona is really a hologram, foster children.  No biggie.

Enter Rio Pacheco.  Rio is Jerrica's boyfriend, and he has purplish hair.  The thing is, Rio is dating Jerrica AND Jem, and he doesn't know they are the same person!

He's always hitting on Jem and making out with her, and then he'll go over to Starlight Records and make out with Jerrica.  This obviously makes him a scumbag, but here's the deal, Jerrica/Jem knows she is the same person, so she is basically condoning her boyfriend cheating on her...with herself.

Why does she allow this?  Jem/Jerrica- you are an international pop icon/record producer!  You deserve better!

Every episode she tries to tell Rio that Jem and Jerrica are one and the same (Lord knows how that would go over), but something always happens.  Like one of the Misfits pushes a gargoyle from the top of a church onto their heads (they get away) or there's an avalanche (they get away) or a flash flood (they get away).  So, frustratingly, the secret is never revealed.

Then there's a final song by Jem, and the theme of the episode (usually something about saving poor people or the planet) is driven home.  Then Jerrica just goes on about her life knowing that Rio is a cheating doucher.  Why?  Why?

Sigh.  That is the mystery of Jem.  I'll tell you what though, it doesn't matter.  Jem is pretty much the best thing that ever happened to Saturday morning.  They just don't make 'em like that anymore.  The closest thing to hit the airwaves was Hannah Montana, and that was a poor excuse for confusing plot lines for children.

Jem was truly outrageous.  Truly, truly, truly it was.

Old Enough for a "Fargo" Poster

Cherry was in town last weekend, and we were casually reminiscing about college days.  We were talking about how it doesn't seem like that long ago, and how we really don't feel that much older.  Then she dropped the bomb.

"You know," she said, "we're older now than the Buena Vista Moms were when we babysat for them."  This was shocking.

"The Buena Vista Moms" collectively refers to a group of families that Cherry, our friend, Ava, and I all babysat for while in school.  Cherry and Ava definitely had more interactions with them, but I had a family for whom I would "sit" about once a month.

Buena Vista was a super swanky neighborhood and every single house was a newly built McMansion.  They were all fun, pretty and had come from California where their husbands had made their money.

They had fancy, fancy things.  In fact, Cherry, on occasion, would go through one of the mom's closets and try on her designer gowns.  And sometimes drink the fancy wine they left for her while wearing those gowns around the house (after the kids were asleep, of course).  That's Cherry though.  I mostly just looked at all their furniture and giant bathtubs.  

To now be told that I am OLDER than they were?!  This was shocking.  There's no way.  I don't own enough jewelry.  

So I started thinking, what about my real babysitting families whom I used to see every week?  Am I older than those moms were too?  Again, the issue is not even that I think I'm old now or that they are old/were old then.  It's that if I'm now the same age as they were, I have some things to do!

For example, one mom was way cooler than I am now.  They had a giant "Fargo" poster hanging in their dining room (which was painted red), and a picture of Drew Barrymore when she was 13, smoking, in their guest bathroom.  They had books in Russian.  They knew about indie bands and had "Rolling Stone" delivered.  They introduced me to "The Daily Show."

The other mom of the other family is a doctor.  A doctor.

Okay, I'm not going to be a doctor, but she made her own yogurt and kombucha (which I didn't even know about until then- and still don't drink because it grosses me out).  They had things from Whole Foods.  They used cloth diapers, they had amazing homemade beer and they had chickens in their backyard.  They got "Rolling Stone" delivered too.

I guess what I'm saying is that I need to start preparing my life to impress a 19 year old college girl.  Wait, no that's not what I'm saying.    

What I'm saying is that it gave me pause to think about my life now compared to the lives of those whom I found so fascinating, and wonder if I'm measuring up.  Am I rich enough, cool enough, good enough?

I decided that I don't think I want to be a Buena Vista mom.  They had their kids very young, some of them didn't go to college, only one of them worked, and at least one got a divorce.    

Also, although I would like to be a little cooler and maybe I could be a little more earthy, I don't need a red dining room or chickens.    

It may prompt some changes.  At the very least, I'm subscribing to "Rolling Stone," since that seems to be a common theme of success.  Ultimately though, I'm pretty happy with my life, and I'm not sad about where I've been or where I'm going.  I'm just going to keep on going there.

Then, maybe one day I'll look up and some college sophomore will walk around my house and look at my stuff and think I'm so "old" and "cool".  Maybe I'll think I'm old and cool then too.  Maybe not, who knows.  I just hope she doesn't try on my clothes.

Part 2: Desperate Measures

As the wedding approached, I knew something had to be done.  There was no way I was going to walk down the aisle of my sister's wedding looking like I was wearing a bright red bib.

So, I decided that I would spray tan all of my body except the part that was sunburned.  That way, when the burn faded into a beautiful tan- like all of my sunburns had never done- it would match the spray tan.  It was fool proof.

I have spray tanned quite a bit.  In college, I went to those booths that were like car washes for tanning.  You put this goop on your finger and toenails, and then you put on a hairnet and goggles and stepped naked into this giant booth.  You were then blasted, front and back, with tan.

Things have evolved since then, and it's actually just as reasonably priced to get someone to spray tan you with a little gun as it is to go to the booth.  It's definitely a different level of intimacy to have a 22 year old spray your inner thigh while you wear paper panties, but it's a much better end result.

The only problem with my spray tan plan was that I was going to be in way South Texas for work, and was going to have to drive from there to Pippy's wedding.  There was no time to go home to the proven "city" tanning to which I had become accustom.  I was going to have to find a tanner in a small town basically two miles away from Mexico, at the last minute.

Fortunately, Yelp found me two options, and I went with the one that had pictures of body builders and pageant queens on their website, deducing that they were the most reputable.  It was called something like "Coconut Dreams" and was owned by a husband and wife team.  It was clean and they were nice, but I'm sure I was the palest person they'd ever tanned.

"So, what level of tan do you want?" the lady owner asked.
"Well, I usually do a 1 or a 2 at home," I said.  "But, I've got this sunburn, and I'm trying to even everything out so that the sunburn doesn't stand out.  My sister's getting married on Saturday and I want to look normal."
"Hmmm." She looked at the sunburn.  "I think you could do a 2.5 to 3.  It's Thursday, so by Saturday that sunburn's gonna be a nice tan, so we should probably go a little darker."
"Okay, if that's what you think.  Just please don't spray the sunburn please."

Obviously you know what happened next.  2.5 to 3 was waaaaay too dark.  I should have done a .5, and, of course, she sprayed the sunburn.  I don't know why after I explicitly asked her not to, but it happened too fast for me to stop her.  One minute she's doing my shoulders and the next, swoosh, sunburned bib is sprayed.

At first, it was okay.  The tan hadn't fully set in yet, and when I looked in the mirror, I was all one color.  I looked pretty good!  She did know what she was doing after all!  

On my way out the door she reminded me that I shouldn't shower for at least eight hours, I shouldn't wear a bra while I drove back, and above all, I should NOT use Dove soap.  Apparently, that is the worst thing you can do.  I promised I would follow all the rules and drove away.

Then, the bib started to itch.  I had been putting on my fancy sunburn cream and aloe pretty much every thirty minutes for a week, and it was time to reapply.  But I couldn't!  If I touched my still-fresh tan, it would ruin everything.  Maybe, just a liiiiiittle drop...no.

The moment I touched the aloe to the burn, the spray tan began to peel away along with some skin.  I had finally reached the peeling stage, and it was coming in fierce.  I was molting.  As the tan/skin peeled away, it revealed baby pink skin that din't match my level 2.5 tanned rest of skin- at all.

Five hours later, when I showed up at Pippy's house, I was a wreck. I had been picking and "smoothing" (trying to pull the tan from the non-sunburned parts of me to the bib) the entire trip.  Plus, the rest of the tan had set in, and as mentioned, was way too dark.

Pippy was horrified.  I was obviously about to ruin her wedding.  However, being the sweet caring person she is, she was trying to put on a brave face.

"Okay, it's okay," she said.  "Maybe you should just take a shower."
"No!  I can't!  The lady at the tanning place said not to take a shower for at least eight hours."
"You need to take a shower," said Pippy.
"Okay."

I got in.

"You only have Dove soap!" I wailed.  "The lady said not to use Dove soap!"
"You need to use the Dove soap," said Pippy.  "Use a lot of it."

This should tell you something about how wonderful my sister is and how terrible I am.  I stood in her shower two days before her wedding, and allowed her to hose me down with the shower head, while I cried and apologized.  She just kept saying, "It's okay.  Just use more soap."

Two showers later, I was a little less tan, but the bib was in full peel.  

"Let's just keep putting that cream on it," Pippy said, "and maybe by Saturday, it will at least stop peeling."  

Did I mention that Pippy is my little sister?  That's how fabulous she is, just taking care of me as I slowly morphed into less of a tan mutant.  

There was nothing left to do but buy a higher necked dress for the rehersal dinner and pray.

The day of the wedding, it actually was looking okay.  It was far less peely, and the tan was faded quite a bit.  About 20 minutes before we walked down the aisle, I decided to put some make up on it, just to see.  And Pippy, being Pippy, even applied it for me.  

"Wow," she said.

I turned to the mirror and...Oh my God!

I was one color.  It was a wedding miracle.  We used Cover Girl, and I'm telling you what, it was magic.  It was absolutely flawless.

Hooray!  We did it!  Pippy got married, I matroned of honored and no one thought I was a radiation victim.  It wasn't until much later in the night, when there had been much drinking and dancing that the Cover Girl began to wear off.  And by then, we had made it through the pictures.  

So, that's how I almost ruined my sister's wedding with a sunburn and a spray tan, and how she pulled me through it.  And, how I gained a new, very deep respect, for Cover Girl products.

Part I: Desperate Times

My skin is the color of nothing.  I'm so pale, I'm pretty much transparent.  I'm always surprised when nurses taking blood have a hard time finding a vein.  They're right there.  Right.  There.  I see them always.

Being a pale princess means that the sun and I have a contemptuous relationship.  Basically, I really like the sun, and the sun hates me.

My sister, Pippy (again, not her real name, but bizarrely the name she has chosen for herself for blogging purposes), can think about the sun and become gorgeously tan.  So for years, I thought I was just doing it wrong.  I just hadn't found the right ratio of sunscreen : sun exposure.

I tried SPF 15, 8, 2.  I tried laying out for short periods throughout the day, long stretches, tanning beds.  It didn't matter, the result was always the same.  Translucent skin became bubbling, raw red skin that turned into a peel and then, unfairly, right back to snow white.

The worst of these experiments was in college on spring break in Mexico.  I hadn't prepared my "tan" for the trip, and showed up as snowy as ever.  So, I came up with the genius idea of just not wearing sunscreen for an entire day to build up a "base."  

The result was that my entire body, minus where my bathing suit sat, was the color of a fire engine- seriously that was the color.  Imagine a fire engine and that's what I looked like.  When I took off my bathing suit, I looked like a negative photo of someone wearing a bikini.  I was hit on by sooo many cute boys.  Oh wait no, I sat in the room and rubbed aloe on myself and cried.

Now that I'm older, I've learned my lesson.  I've accepted my pale, pale skin.  I am Sun Challenged, and must never leave home without a layer of protection (at least SPF 30, but 50 if the beach is involved).  And I'm pretty diligent.  That's why I was so pissed when I got one of the worst sunburns of my life..in March...when I was fully clothed...the week before Pippy's wedding

Brad and I went to an outdoor concert with some friends.  It was fabulous, we saw a lot of minor celebrities and some rad bands.  We ate free food, drank ourselves silly and had a blast.  It was even better because it was like 70 degrees and cloudy all day, so we weren't hot.  And this was the rookie mistake that I should have known to avoid.  Everyone knows, but especially the Sun Challenged know, that you can get just as sunburned when it's cloudy as when the sun is out.  Stupidly, I didn't even think about sunscreen.  I just drank beer and sang.

Also important to note, I was wearing shorts and a white, scoop neck t-shirt.  Well, the patch of my chest that was not fully covered, the scoop part if you will, was eaten alive.  

I knew it was going to be a really bad sunburn when we got in the car.  I put my seatbelt on, shrieked in pain and threw it off.

It was bad.  It was so sunburned it was purple.  When I went to work on Monday, people made little surprised yelps and then backed away laughing nervously.  I didn't know what I was going to do.  Pippy's wedding was the following Saturday and I was the matron of honor.  I looked like a burn victim, which I kind of was.

I bought special, very expensive, cream that I kept in the refrigerator and rubbed on my charred chest all day.  I prayed.  Nothing helped.

As the week went on, not only did it not get better (and kept hurting), but it wasn't peeling.  That meant I wasn't even half way to better and I would surely be a hideous gargoyle for the wedding.  And really, how I looked at Pippy's wedding was what everyone cared about.

I was getting desperate.



Next week:  Part II, Desperate Measures