exitstrategy

So it has become painfully clear that there is a major gender divide at my job.  We even had an expert come and gather information to prove it.  The men thought her visit was unnecessary.  They thought she was needlessly drumming up controversy.  I mean why fix something that ain’t broke.  Well, the obvious answer is that it IS broke.  But, these d-bags were threatened.The statistics are pretty bad.  They get better work, more hours, more money, and more respect.  Like last week, this partner asked me to do a super important task.  He asked me to tab stuff.  You know, like how Cher highlighted those phone conversations for her dad?  But, oh yeah she was in high school and I graduated law school.  Why was I tabbing?  Well obviously, that is women’s work.So, what does it take to be successful as a woman?  I am reminded of the conversation I had with Mr. ATD.  He suggested that I dress the part by wearing suits.  In other words, dress more like a man.  But, how far will that really get me?  My suits, like all my clothes, are tight.  Oh and they come with skirts.  So, no one will be fooled by my drag.  What else is there?  Victor/Victoria aint gonna work.There were those broads in my women’s group at the old firm.  Their recipe for success was to mimic the work habits of a man.  So, they got themselves stay at home husbands (or live in nannies who stayed in servants quarters in a closet in their house and refrained from eye contact) and worked all the time.  I mean I have more of a chance of imitating the dress habits of a man than the work habits.  I don’t want to work around the clock.   Those bitches were crazy.So what do I do?  Its not enough to dress like a man and I can’t act like one.  Well, the answer is obvious.  There is really only one way to be taken seriously at this law firm.  You need a penis.  So, I guess that means taking huge doses of testosterone a la the pregnant man.  I can grow a little guy and just sit back while the opportunities for advancement present themselves.  After all, I don’t want to make all those men uncomfortable with my woman parts.  Its a win-win.

The Spinsta was in rare form.  Or, should I say, the Spinsto - the Spinsta’s evil twin.  So this past Friday was a charity event for another of my boards.  The event was long on booze and short on food.  More specifically, it was open bar and with a few dishes of cashews.  As you can imagine, I was blitzed.So there were the stairs - I think I fell down a few.  And there was the delish wine named “truck.”  And then there was more truck.  Oh and then I threw a clip board.  And then there was more truck and then there was the afterparty.  This was where things went seriously awry.Picture this: one cab, two people and one barely coherent Spinsta.  To the left of Spinsta, is a guy.  To the right, a gal.  Spinsta decides to set up the guy’s brother with the gal on the right.  So, she says that the girl will “tap that ass.”  And then apparently she licks the guys face.  Not getting the result she desires regarding the set up, the Spinsta ups the stakes.  ”She likes it up the a**.”  I mean what guy wouldn’t jump at that offer.  Both guy and girl are stunned.  Spinsta licks guys face again.  The cab arrives at the destination.Spinsta and her friends and the guy arrive at a bar where guy’s friend is having her bday.  Spinsta has a small split in her skirt.  Then, Spinsta has a HUGE split in her skirt.  Luckily, Spinsta is wearing tights or else she would have been arrested for public indecency and sent to “dry out” in a cell.  So, Spinsta and her exposed bum go into the bar.  Spinsta says again about the friend and her desire for rear access.  Then, the “friends” leave - I use quotes because who would leave Spinsta alone.  (I am not serious.  I would have ditched me too.)  The Spinsta goes to the dance floor with the guy.  The Spinsta freaks the guy.  Mind you, the bar was playing blues music.  So decent folk were sitting listening to the blues and the Spinsta was there on the dance floor, exposed skirt, and made it clap.Because where do you go from there - I mean clearly one cannot get better, the Spinsta went to some dank area in the back and ordered herself a Shrimp Po’Boy.  Followed by a taco.Note - the above tale is second hand.  To preserve her fragile sanity, the Spinsta’s psyche blacked out the whole sordid affair.  But I did wake up with a head ache as if I had been over by a truck.  A ha - I see where the name comes from.

This blog is no stranger to controversy.  I mean some of my blogisodes have elicited heated responses from all kinds of people - even John McCain not too long ago.  But, I was not prepared for the firestorm that came from Macho Man.  Given that the Spinsta is not one to run away from controversy, I am prepared to address Macho Man’s comments head on.In short, Macho Man you are wrong.  Let’s talk this line by line:33 is too old for group dates period.  If he wanted to go on group dates, then he should meet random tator tots at a bar and ask them to all hang together.  Don’t go on a set up.  Period.Asking a set up to bring “hot chicks” on a group date when you are 33 is even worse.  Whether or not he thought my friend was a hot chick and so hung around with other hot chicks, it is beyond douchey to request she brings along the hot chicks.  And, under NO circumstance, can a 33 year old man use cutesy abbreviations.  LOL is the catch phrase of a douche.  Other forbidden terms:  ttyl and omg.  And don’t get me started on douches who combine the abbreviation with an emoticon - it is too much.Someone with plans who makes exception to go out on a Sunday shows up at 2 on a Bears game.  The cheap skate did not offer to take us to the game.  We were just going to watch it while scrunched together with hot chicks in a booth.  It was clear that whatever goes.And yes, anything did go on that hellish “date.”  I find it hard to believe that the tator tots approached the table of jokers.  Remember, I saw them and Macho Man you did not.  They are not the type of crew that would cause random tator tots to throw themselves at a booth full of dudes.  If he is desired - which is unlikely - he can be desired when he is not expecting a date.  And yes, the group date is all in it together.  No random tator tots for his friends.  Remember, Macho Man, my friend was told to bring her own hot tots.Why did we go to another bar first?  It was a passive agressive move to tell The Douche that these tator tots did not appreciate his other tots.  Maybe it was not the best idea - I grant you that Macho Man.  But, curiosity is a valid reason to go on a date (in fact, it is a great reason) and showing up drunk to meet someone is always a good idea.  The drunks are more interesting and the prospective dates are more attractive.  It is a win - win.Now, clearly I schooled Macho Man.  But, for those of you who are not convinced, here are a few more details that I left off because I did not want to come down too hard on The Douche.  Given that my journalistic integrity is at stake, however, I must divulge:The Douche had injured himself by falling off a go-cartTo deal with the pain, The Douche was taking narcotics.To enjoy the Bears game, The Douche also drank while taking his pain meds.The Douche is renting out his home.  He told us about the tenant who got the “sweet pad.”  ”He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and was not wearing designer jeans, so I assumed he could not afford my sweet pad.  But, turns out he is will to spend ___ on the place and he has some serious money.”  That phrase needs no explanation - DOUCHE.The Douche took several pictures with the random tator tots.  The Douche flirted with the tator tots, and he got the phone number of one particular tot.Enough said.  The Douche was a real douche and Macho Man is wrong.  The Spinsta is right.  Since I do not want to alienate any readers (I still love you Macho Man, please continue to read), I am going to write about less controversial topics.  I will stop writing about group dates, and instead I will start writing about gay marriage, abortion, and other similar topics.

I don’t know what it is but it has become painfully clear that there are a lot of really awful dudes.  Like more than usual.  I mean I know you are supposed to kiss a lot of frogs - and I have kissed more than a lot of frogs, including one dude who actually was a human frog hybrid and ribbotted at my throughout the date - but I think the numbers are on the rise.  Maybe it’s the economy or the fact that I am getting older, whatever the cause the effect is quite disheartening.  These jokers can be categorized into several groups.  The predominant groups are:1.  The Clueless DudeNow I have dated the clueless dude.  In fact, a few months ago I went on a date with a clueless dude who ordered himself liver and onions and talked about his dog’s loose stools.  I mean really?  Clearly these are bad choices, but the brother did not have a clue.  But my clueless dudes are nothing compared to a clueless dude with whom my friend was going to be set up.  He apparently got her number from his dad who was friendly with her dad.  To arrange the date, this clueless dude sent her an email entitled “Surprise, its me.”  Um, scary.  But it gets worse, much worse.  The email reads as follows:I was told you were expecting this email, so I will try not to be embarrassed (:I was given your email from my dad, and since I am a spontaneous guy, and did not want to let him down, here I am!It’s so great having parents try and set you up isnt it? (:It would be great to chat when you get a chance..I hope all is well, and look forward to hearing from you.How can these jokers not realize that this is not the way to woo a woman?  2.  The Clowny DudeI think the majority of dudes I have come into contact with could be grouped in as Clowny Dudes.  The latest clown was from a month or so ago.  We were supposed to see a movie but Clowny was like an hour late.  When he told me he was going to be late he asked me “Are you cross with me?”  Um I was not “cross” until you invoked my grammy.  Who says cross??  Oh and when he arrived late as the movie was playing he again asked if I was cross.  I think the answer was obvious.3.  The Douchey DudeOf course the worst type of dude is the douchey dude.  Yesterday I met the douchiest of dudes.  Like this guy needs a poster warning women against him.  So, he was being set up with my friend Rose.  Rose’s sister knew (barely) some woman who was going to rent Douche’s home.  She and Douche talked once on the phone and decided to set up a date for last night.  Yesterday morning at brunch she got a text from him asking if she was a Bear’s fan.  ”Sure.”  ”Ok I am going to watch the game with some friends at a bar.  Why don’t you come with some friends.”  Um, a group date?  The guy is 33 years old and had been set up with her - not some random meeting at a bar late night while hammered.  I think drinks (alone) are appropriate.  But she is less devoted to The Rules than I so she said sure.  And, of course, she made me come with.  ”Who are your friends?  Are they single?”  I requested the information - I mean it is already awkward enough to come along on someone else’s date but hanging with married couples might just push me over the edge.  ”Yes.  Bring some cute chicks, besides you of course.  Lol.”  I mean there were so many things wrong with his text.  Starting with the hot chicks comment.  Gross.  And worst of all “LOL.”  Men should not use abbreviations or emoticons.  No exception.  ”Are you sure about this?”  I ask.  ”You never know.”  So, Rose texted “we will be there at 1:30.”  ”You should try to get their earlier.  The game starts at 12.”  Bossy Douche.  Fast forward to 1:25.  Rose and I were in the cab heading towards the bar for our group date.  She texted him that we were on our way.  ”Perfect.  We are sitting in a booth across from the bar and I have on a Yankee’s hat.  There are two girls that sat down at our table.  I will get rid of them.”  WTF??  The Douche invited his own “hot chicks” on our group date?  This is just too much.  ”We are getting a drink somewhere else first,” I demanded.  So we went to a bar down the street.  ”Actually we are going to get a drink first down the street.  See you after.  Hopefully there will be room in the booth for us,” she texted.  ”We may be gone by then,” he responded.  I mean this guy just kept getting douchier.  He may be gone?  You asked her on a date.  You can wait until she arrives or you can meet us at the other bar.  ”I don’t think we should go,” I said.  ”We are a block away.  This way we wont be curious.  We will just get one drink.”  We finished our drink and headed over to the bar with the gang.  Sure enough the “hot chicks” were seated at the table.  This chicks were obviously not hot and they were eating tator tots.  His friends were lame.  We squeezed into the table and talked to the Douche.  The Douche talked exclusively about the Douche.  Oh, until he told me that I should not twirl my hair.  ”Are you nervous?”  Oh yes Douche, being in your presence takes my breath away.  ”No I always do it.  It’s subconscious and I think it’s genetic.  My whole family does it.”  ”Hmm.”  Apparently, the Douche was not convinced because later when I was twirling he hit my hand.  Um, Douche, don’t touch the Spinsta.  I mean I don’t like people who I like touching me.  Oh and at one point, the Douche was telling us his view on life:  ”I know its a cheesy phrase, but I really believe in it.  You know work hard party hard.”  That is NOT the phrase you Douche.  It’s live hard play hard.  And obviously you live by cheesy phrases.  I am sure his home is decorated with Successories posters - you know the pictures of a mountain that say “There is no height you cannot reach” or some other cheesy phrase.  That was the last straw.  2 minutes before the game was over we told him we had to go get lunch and we were free.I don’t understand what is wrong with these dudes.  Is it so much to ask that there be the male equivalent of the Spinsta?  You know, perfect.  Oh, and for those of you wondering if my “friends” are really me - they are actually my friends.  I mean come on - I told the world I had a rash.  Clearly I have no shame nor any problem with telling embarrassing tales about myself.  I guess the message is be warned.

As you are all aware, my interactions with the divine usually occur through another medium, often a cab driver.  But, perhaps because we are in the holiest of days, I had direct contact.  I was, as some might say, smited.As you read, there were two weddings.  The second wedding was so amazing, and I felt like such a princess in my white flowy lengha, that I could see images of myself at my own Indian wedding.  In fact, some of the guests commented on my garb and suggested I mary a nice Indian guy.  The truth is, if I really want to marry a doctor, I should marry an Indian guy.  Jewish guys are not doctors anymore.  They work for their dads or work in real estate.  So, I began to day dream.Fast forward to the Monday night after returning back from the wedding.  I was having dinner at my parent’s apartment.  My mom was checking her email and I was staring over her shoulder.  I had not told my parents about my dream wedding.  Instead, I decided to test the waters.  You see, my mom is a member of a psuedo-Jewish cult of sorts.  They get weekly newsletters and attend meetings and stuff.  In the newsletter, they announce the engagements of members.  ”So mom,” I began, “do you think they will announce my engagement in the newsletter.”  ”Probably not,” she laughs, “as I will be dead by that time.”  ”Ha.  Is that a promise?”  See Dr. G.  My communication with my parents has gotten much better.So my mom spontaneously suggested she would die before seeing my wedding.  Sounds just bitchy enough to be her actual sentiment but also is a little coincidental.  But that was not the sign.  The sign occurred two days later.  I woke up with bright red puffy elbows and a rash on my lower back.  What is going on?  I call my mom.  She tells me to call my sister the doctor.  She tells me to take benedryl and go see a dermatologist.  I get to work and make the appointment with the dermatologist.  He cannot see me until the following day.  My rash continues to get worse.  The next day in his office I can see the rash exploding.  WTF, I have it on my chest?  I look like some sort of victim from a medical test gone awry.”Well Spinsta, this is a pretty bad reaction.  I think you might be allergic to the henna or perhaps there was something that you came into contact with this past weekend.  I am prescribing you a high does of prednizone to take for the next week and half.  It should fix it.”I head home after the appointment - too much drama to go back to work.  I was a grotesque figure of my former self anyway.  So, I walk home and am almost run over by my sister.  (DO YOU SEE ALL THE COINCIDENCES??)  ”Hey sis.”  ”Hey Spinsta.  How was the doctor?”  ”He prescribed me this.”  And I hand over the bottle.  ”Oh wow.  Did he tell you about the side effects?”  ”What no.  TELL ME.”  ”Well common side effects are (1) mania, (2) insomnia, and (3) insatiable hunger.”And that was when it hit me.  I was smited.  This nice Jewish girl is gonna have to have a nice Jewish wedding.  Otherwise I will have a rash, and I guess my mom won’t live to see me wed.  (Although that cuts both ways)This divine intervention occurred 6 days ago.  I have not slept in days and I go to bed eating rice krispy treats.  I have a lot to repent for before Monday when the book is sealed.  That is why for the next several days I will not blog meanly about anyone.  Or too meanly.  Or probably I just won’t blog.  I don’t want to tempt the fates again.  I have an event coming up and I want to go sleeveless.L’Shanah Tovah.

I have an excuse for my lack of blogging - I was out of town this month at two back to back weddings.  Big Daddy really drove the point home when I told him I was taking off several days - “Oh yeah everyone is getting married at your age.”  Way to rub it in.But I digress.  So the two weddings were both for school friends.  The first wedding was beautiful.  I went with a friend who was referred to as my siamese twin throughout law school.  I don’t know why people said that.  I mean just because we do not separate, I mean so what?  And then there were some other people I had not seen in a while.  So, it was a fun reunion.  I did it up like a usual wedding.  I got hammered, had a dance off, ate cake.  Unfortunately the dance off was not up to my usual caliber.  See, I excel at weddings - dance wise.  It is a cruel twist of fate.  But, I just go crazy.  This wedding, maybe it was the too much drink not enough food (it was the first non-Jewish wedding I attended and those are usually the reverse), but I was a sloppy dancer.  During the song “Apple Bottom Jeans” I was getting low, low, low, low, low, low, low and then too low because I fell on the floor.  I was outdanced by an ivy league grad which just added insult to injury.  But I guess he felt bad because he declared it a tie.  I do not know if the reason was due to the fact that we made out, but either way I retained my title of “Best Dancer.”  I was coincidentally “Best Dancer” in my law school, although the majority of my classmates could barely move so I am not sure what the title really means.Then, there was the second wedding.  The wedding was for a very dear friend and I was a bridesmaid.  It was an Indian wedding and perhaps the most beautiful wedding I have ever seen.  It was so colorful and fun with music and dancing and food and flowers and “Aunties” - it was amazing.  I got to play dress up even.  I wore the most amazing saris and lenghas (I think that is the correct usage).  Oh and fake eye lashes.  My outfit for the ceremony was white.  I felt like the bride.  That could have been due in part to the fact that I also got to stay in the bridal suite for the two of the three nights.  I was considering staying there the night of the wedding, but maybe I would have overstayed my welcome.  Just maybe. . .But what I will never forget about this wedding (and hopefully you are reading this from the beautiful beach honeymoon, or better yet when you get back), was how amazing the bride was.  I have been a bridesmaid twice before.  Both times were for my sisters.  My first experience was very uninvolved - I was in law school at the time and the other bridesmaids did all the work.  I was the maid of honor in name only.  Or at least I got the glory without doing the work.  Although I had to help my sister use the bathroom so the honor was in part earned.  My sister was a beautiful bride, but we are family and we know what matters on your wedding day - just you.  And the second bridesmaid experience, well I was a bridesmaid in name only and did not get much of the glory since many of the wedding guests did not in fact know the bride had a sister (me).  And she was even more believing of the family motto that its ALL about the bride.  Oh, and in both weddings I was the most rubenesque of the bridesmaids in black formfitting numbers.  Interestingly, there were pregnant bridesmaids both times and from the back I would think the guests thought I was the one with the bun in the oven (due to the junk in the trunk).  But, in this wedding, I got to wear a flowy outfit that covered all my bad parts and showed all the good.  I felt great.   And whats more, unlike my sisters, my friend did not seem to remember that all that matters is the bride.  To the contrary, she was telling me how great I looked in the outfit instead of the other way around (although I did tell her and she knew - she looked like a movie star, a bollywood one).  It was truly a wonderful wedding.And now I am back after the excitement and the short weeks.  I danced, I made out, I wore white on my - I mean my friend’s - wedding day.  Before walking into the office Monday morning I was three steps short of jumping into the river - I mean I don’t have any time off until Thanksgiving.  But then I remembered, the new season of my shows is starting and it took me away from the ledge.  So, I am back.  Whole new season of the Spinsta.  XOXO.

It has been a while since I last blogged (I guess this is confession?), and there is no cohesive way to let you all know the crazy stuff that happened last week.  So, I am going to lay it all out there - diary style.Monday:After offering to sell my soul to get on a case, I FINALLY got some work.  I was put on a TRO which means lots of work that needs to be done immediately.  Since it was going to be a late night, I was told to order dinner.  The “team” I was working with likes to dine together in the lunchroom.  See, there are two types of late night workers:  the ones who eat dinner at their computers so they can get the h*ll out of there and the ones that like to eat dinner together and talk about the work and then work and stay there even longer.  Yep, this is the latter of the two teams.Dinner was chinese.  I am trying to eat healthy again so I ordered mine steamed with the sauce on the side, but of course I ate too much rice.  But that is neither here nor there.  The team sat around the table, eating and talking about the case. There were also some little tidbits of life stories thrown in.  Then, when we had finished eating, big daddy’s secretary gave us each a fortune cookie.  She suggested that we go around the cirle and read aloud our fortunes.  WHAT?  I am stuck working in h*ll until all hours, I am not at some adult camp.  No Kumbiyah.  But that wasn’t even the worst part.  Big daddy modified the campfire roundtable - he suggested we add “in bed” after each fortune.  Seriously?  What kind of a camp is this.  Oh and his fortune was about experiencing unexpected success at work.Tuesday:I had to get to work early.  I was called into Big Daddy’s office where the client was.  We drafted stuff and I ran around and did all kinds of stuff asap.  The client was annoying.  He never stopped talking.  So three plus hours into the work race, I was told I had to run to court.  I had only 10 minutes to get there.  So, I ran into a cab (in heels and a suit - looking psychotic), ran up to the court room and stopped for a second to catch my breath.  I looked on the court call to see when I was up and the opposing counsel approached me.  The guy was not happy that he had been stuck with me.  And he was even less happy with what I was going to tell him.  So we go to into the courtroom and two minutes later we were done.  As we were heading out there was a reporter talking to one of them.  I overheard the reporter ask if there was an attorney for the other side.  At that point I had slipped away towards the elevator.  ”Its that little girl in the black dress.”  And I felt the guy pointing at me.  Not knowing what to do, and waiting for the elevator to arrive, I reached in my purse and grabbed a banana - I mean when all else fails eat right?  Wrong.  I was eating a banana as the group of men stared over towards me.  What is wrong with me.  Luckily, just as I realized how inappropriate I was, the elevator doors opened and I literally jumped in.  Yes, gentleman, the little girl in the black dress deep throating a banana has left the building.Wednesday:Wednesday night I had a date with a guy I met at an event the week before.  Since my work was done, I spent the day obsessing about the night.  I couldn’t remember what the guy looked like so I had my friend send me pics she had downloaded from facebook.  After analyzing them thoroughly, I then sent them to a list of friends for feedback.  I mean didn’t he look short?  Was he fat?  His hair was greasy no?  I mean I do realize I am CRAZY but it was a good way to pass the time.  When the date came, he picked me up in his car.  He opened the door for me (which I cannot remember ever happening on a date, although I don’t usually get picked up on my dates.  The last time when a date drove me, as soon as he turned on the car, the music started playing Shania’s “Man!  I feel like a WomAn ).  We went to some restaurant and shared.  We got a bottle of wine (per usual).  And it was actually ok.  Although I think I was taller than him.  My picture analysis was right.  I should be in the C.I.A.  Or, a stalker.  Either way.Thursday:Thursday I had an event in the evening.  There was an apple-tini bar and people were HAMMERED.  I struck up a conversation with some law student who was tall, but had bad breath.  He talked my ear off about how he was going to be “wildly successful.”  Unfortunately, he still had two more years as a non-wage earning law student or I would prob have asked him to move in and retire early.  After we had parted ways, I was hanging around waiting for my friend to finish up her “seduction” of a dude she had met.  I was watching some clowns on the dance floor and this one guy was trying to start up a Grease style dance when you go two by two down the line, freestyling.  Try as he might, it didn’t catch on.  But, it was my sign to leave which I did, although not before being asked by some douche (who I know and made out with once) if he could bed me down for $36.  (”It’s a lucky number in jewish tradition.”  ”Well, not for you.”)Friday:The monthly work happy hour.  It was off-site which meant that there were less people but still a few partners.  During the happy hour, I decided to take part in a contest between myself and another woman who likes to buy stuff to see who can spend the least in a 6 month period.  Now, granted, this lady likes to get stuff, but she does have to buy for 3 children and a husband.  So, if I lose, well than I should probably just move home since it will be only a matter of time before I have to declare bankruptcy.Saturday and Sunday - I don’t know.  Nothing much happened.  I guess I was recovering from the week.  And it all starts over tomorrow.  Oy.So how does one end a diary entry?  I cannot remember.  I know the opener is dear diary.  I guess the end is something like:Yours forever,Fat Spinsta

So, the past two weeks of my life has been summed up by the lyrics to the above captioned song.  She (me) works hard for the money, so hard for it honey.  Not that I work that hard, but I think the song is about a prostitute (or am I confusing it with Roxanne - which I KNOW is about a prostie).  You see for the past two weeks I have not worked all week but then had to work on the weekends.  I don’t know exactly what the schedule of a streetwalker is like, but I imagine it is more weekend hours than 9-5s.Well, I did not understand just how prostituty I was until today.  So, for the past 12 months out of the 13 months I have been working I have been asking for work.  For whatever reason, I get little bits but not that much.  Today, I decided to have a more concrete conversation about, well, WTF with who else but Mr. ATD.  I had prepared a whole speech for what I was going to say.  Tell him that I was frustrated, that it was not my fault since I constantly asked and um it is his JOB to assign me the work, etc.  It started off smooth, but at some point it got off track.  The clown said he was not aware of just how “dire” the situation had gotten with my hours.  Woah - overstatement buddy.   And that his number one priority is to get me a ton more work.Obviously, that plan backfired but that was not even the worst part.  The worst part came twenty minutes later after Mr ATD had analyzed my billing records and other data.  He offered some “constructive criticism.”  ”Spinsta, you need to be more forceful.  You are too quiet.  People confuse your quiet nature with not being competent, perhaps.”  ”But Mr. ATD, I have been told many times that my work is good.”  I neglected to say - although it went without saying - that the majority of my co-workers, while louder than me, were much stupider so every time they opened their mouth it was obvious that they were incompetent.  ”Well thanks Mr. ATD.  This is the first time I have heard this before from anyone since I got here.  I will take it into consideration.”  ”Oh yes, and Spinsta, you should dress more professionally.  There were a few days when you looked like you were going out at night.  I think you should wear suits.  Then, when you see potential clients on the train, you look like a real professional.”WTF ATD???  Let’s just take his statement to me one piece at a time:(1)  Other than the well documented day when I was in the skin tight pants and blazer number when the client came, I dress not only professionally, but better than most of my superiors.  I mean sure maybe I do not wear “chinos” that are too short and expose my vaguely orthopedic black shoes, but I am pretty sure my clothes are fine.  In addition, I work with three women who have uniforms - one wears ponchos, the other leggings, and the third suits made out of sweater material.  Oh and sweater lady was topless in the bathroom one day.  I may have once worn tight pants, but I am not wearing leggings and a poncho and not showing my jugs to co-workers.  But, yeah, I should work on my professional attire.(2)  Why would I wear a suit?  No one else does.  If I need to go somewhere that requires a suit, I wear one.  But, I am not going to have one on in the off chance I run into a client - that I don’t have - on a train - that I don’t ride.(3)  How cliche is this office?  I mean this is exactly the overplayed seen when a woman is one the stand and the sleazy lawyer is asking her “what were you wearing to deserve this.”  I mean fine I was not attacked, but it was definitely sexist.Basically, my boss accused me of being a ho.  I mean, hey, maybe some of my clothes have gotten tighter and so appear more “weekendish” but that is only because these mo-fos force feed me baked goods.  I can’t wait until that day I get to give my notice because I have found a bigger better gig.  I can picture it now.  I will be dressed in leggings, with a poncho, no shirt underneath.  Maybe I will even give a little flash, followed by something along the lines of “now who is unprofessional!”  Oh wait, that doesn’t work since the flash is rather unprofessional.  ”I was always dressing for the job I wanted, not the job I had.  How do you like me now?”  That is better.  Although, I am not sure what kind of job that I will be getting in that number.  I got it!!  ”She works hard for the money so you better treat her right!!”  Perfect.

This week has been a bit of a slow death.  I asked everyone and his mother for work.  But, no one had any.  Hmm, seems like a bad sign.  Either they don’t like me or there is not enough work.Luckily, I had a little bit of work to do for this one partner who caused my friend to quit.  He is beyond anal.  You remember - he made me summarize the summaries?  Well this clown is on “vacation” although he constantly sends me emails.  The two of us are editing something and instead of making his edits, he emails them to me in narrative form and asks that I put them into the document.  Well, I missed a stray comma and a capital letter.  This dude was not happy.He sent me the following email:  you missed a comma.  You really must be more careful.Hmm that seems a little bit of an overreaction.  So, I sent the following email:Sorry, it is hard to see everything in track changes format.  I will be more careful in the future.And then he writes:”You need to appreciate the ATD that is required in our practice.”Um, excuse me?  ATD?  What is he talking about?  Oh g-d, he means attention to detail.  Is this for real?  When did I start working for that little girl in Sleepless in Seattle?  And, lets be honest here.  I am not searching for my son or looking for my one true love on the top of the Empire State Building.  The shit I am doing is no where near as important.Should I respond, I wondered.  Hmm.  Something like “OMG dude.  Be more careful.  Ttyl.”  Nah.  Something more to the point:  ”LOL.”  Not quite right.”Thanks for your email.  Unfortunately I DCATD.  Translation: I don’t care about the details.”ISNANJ!!!  (I seriously need a new job)Interestingly, I am extremely mindful of the details in my non-work life.  I mean there is not a snaggly tooth or a receding hairline that gets passed me.  But like Tom Hanks, I pay to attention to the details that matter.

The economy is really starting to get to me.  I mean luckily not in the way it is “getting” to a lot of other people - i.e. actually affecting them by causing them to lose their jobs, take on multiple jobs, lose their retirement etc.  It is getting to me because it has made it abundantly clear that I need to save money and won’t be able to quit my job any time soon.  I do realize that the preceding several sentences make me seem like a spoiled brat, but trust me, it gets much worse.So, last week I had three separate conversations with people about the need to save as much money as possible right now because the future is very uncertain.  Then, I picked up a Glamour magazine (to read about how strong Jessica Simpson is, obviously) and it had a whole section on budgeting and saving money.  All together it was a not so subtle sign that I need to tighten the bootstraps (or pursestrings or some other string/strap/ribbon/chain).Oh and then this morning, while I was watching Breakfast in Bed on Soapnet (the best part of my weekend: back to back episodes of vintage 90210 and gilmore girls) I saw a commercial for some special mop.  In addition to cleaning up mud, dog “messes” and dirt, the man on the commercial spilled out a soda and then mopped it up, and then squeezed it out back into the cup.  He said “in this economy, you cannot afford to waste anything so with the ___ Mop you can still drink that soda.”It was the grossest thing I had ever seen.  Are things really that bad that we need to drink soda that has been twice contaminated - first on the floor and then from the dog crap stuck to the mop??  I guess so.  I will not be getting another job anytime soon, will I?  No, that dream has been squeegeed like that dirty soda.  Hopefully I can wring it out in a few years.But, when I thought all was lost, I heard a story that made me hopeful.  It may shock some of you but I do not always read the news regularly.  So, I decided it was time to get informed and went to cnn.com.  I read an article about a Kenyan man offering a dowry for Chelsea Clinton of 40 goats and 20 cows.Why is this hopeful you ask?  Is this related to your husband hunts?  Fat Spinsta, do you think you could fetch a similarly generous dowry?  I mean, unlike the warm and loving Bill and Hillary, your parents will pay someone else to take you off their hands rather than the other way around.  (Oh wow, now I am even having a two-way imaginary conversation with you people.  Should I be alarmed?).No to all of the above.  I am not hopeful because I think that I can be purchased by a man or taken care of by a husband.  I am hopeful because even in a bad economy, people are still spending money on some things.  I just need a good concept.  I mean I don’t think I will be accepting payment in livestock, but accessories would be ok.  Now, I just need the concept.  I must strike while the time is right.  I am thinking something related to goats, or soda, or legal services.