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High end rehabs and their amenities:
Ten Luxury Beauty Brands That Were Under The Radar Until Now
Top Ten Luxury Shoe Brands You Might Not Know About
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Please check out my newest article for The Richest, which is about luxury beauty brands that have remained under the radar. It’s a fun, informative article that is very different from my other work.
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Now let’s get this straight, she’s called Cunt Chocula the Psycho HR Lady not because she was black because she wasn’t. I mean, that shot would be cheaper than the 99 Cent Store Mousse she used to style her hair with and that would be racist. I called her Cunt Chocula because she was a fat cunt.
I really needed a job, so through a family hookup, I took a job merchandising. Whenever I’ve gotten a job through a connection, I wouldn’t say I was treated better than other people or that my work load changed, but no one ever messed with me. Perhaps, I was naive or sheltered from people in the corporate world who do bad things to other people for no apparent reason, but a few months into the job, I learned this woman had set me up from the beginning to fail.
Cunt Chocula hated me from the beginning. I am pretty sure she wasn’t thrilled with a younger, cute, blonde optimistic Hollywood girl with a family hookup who came bouncing into her office in high heels, wearing a hot pink dress. This woman wasn’t exactly a super model, but she wasn’t Mamma June from Honey Boo Boo either. I’m sure her daily four hour commute didn’t do much to help her looks or attitude. While I know this sounds impossible, because she wore ill-fitting office wear, Cunty is only woman I’ve ever seen in my life who could actually make large breasts look bad. Also, her husband, who looks like a serial killer, works on another continent. Honestly, I can’t blame him. She also didn’t have kids. I assume this was because her husband refused to have sex with her. I know all of this because strangely, this HR genius doesn’t have a private Facebook page. While cyber stalking her, I found out she was also a liar. In person, if you asked Cunty where she was from, she would say an area that is known for its wineries, close to San Diego. However, her Facebook listed a different city entirely, which is known for its trailer parks and Denny’s locations.
The first time I met Cunt Chocula, she made me cry. That actually wasn’t her fault. I should have known that crying uncontrollably while signing paperwork and being told about policies and procedures for my new job was an obvious sign I wasn’t cut out for it. I wasn’t crying because I had to get to work between 4 and 6 am five days a week or that this job was way more physical than I thought it would be; I was crying because I couldn’t ever take a vacation day during “O-N-D.” Wait, you don’t know what “O-N-D” is? Doesn’t everyone use that expression? Apparently corporations have their language that they automatically expect you to be fluent in, the moment you walk through the door. OND stands for “October, November, December,” aka The Holiday Season. Because our product sold a lot during the holidays, you were SOL (shit out of luck) if you wanted to go home for Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanza or a funeral.
Between the requisite corporate sexual harassment videos, signing my life away and telling her I couldn’t choose an insurance plan on the spot because this was obviously something I could not do without my father, made things a little awkward. As I signed each piece of paper, I became more and more overwhelmed. Perhaps, the most anxiety provoking aspect of this job was being told we were GPS tracked with a Nextel manufactured circa 1998, in the field. Big Cunty was watching.
I’m not good at following things like rules, directions, the law or whatever people tell me to do. Possessing these qualities isn’t exactly beneficial when you have job where 90% of what you do is following rules and directions. I knew this before I started the job, but despite my college education and ambition, things weren’t exactly working out well for me in Los Angeles. So I didn’t have much of a choice. All I could do was try my best, but even I knew trying to do this would be like asking a Chihuahua to do a Pitbull’s job.
As she painfully explained each bureaucratic corporate policy, the tears streamed out of my eyes like a loud, dripping faucet you just can’t fix.
“Are you okay?” she asked me, as I wiped the tears from my face, fogging up my hipster, too cool for school Ray-Ban glasses.
“Yeah I’m fine. I don’t know why my eyes are tearing. I have really dry eyes and bad allergies. It’s probably just really dry and dusty in here,” I said, clearly defenseless against my own body and feelings.
All I wanted to do was run into the bathroom and cry hysterically which probably at some point would have ended my borderline panic attack, but my mother always told me never to wear waterproof mascara, so had I gone to the bathroom to just let it out, I would have ruined my makeup. So I had to grin and bear what felt like of longest day of my life, second only to moving out of Psycho Roomate’s house.
“We’re going to order lunch,” she said handing me a menu, “Unless you have other plans, would you like to stay and order something?”
“Well, I was going to home and slit my wrists with a box cutter, but I guess I’ll have a Cyanide Salad, dressing on side please, no croutons. Thank you.”
I had my first corporate lunch with Cunty and Co, who were a bunch of other woman who worked in the HR department whom I also had nothing in common with. These women were suburban June Cleevers from Orange County who probably worked because it made them feel superior to the stay at home moms from their suburban circles. I personally have nothing against the suburbs, I just wouldn’t ever want to live there. If I ever have kids, I probably won’t drive a minivan or be a PTA member. That’s just not me. For better or worse, I am a city girl. As if this lunch couldn’t get any worse, I should mention I can’t eat when I’m anxious, especially around other people. I know I’m completely neurotic, but I couldn’t get Cunt Chocula out from under my skin. So, as I struggled to eat a Chinese Chicken Salad consisting of canned mandarin oranges, iceberg lettuce and stale noodles, I just couldn’t connect to these women. So I shut up, pretended to eat and contemplated if I would be entitled to workers compensation if I drove my car off the side of the freeway during business hours.
torture session meeting finally ended, I couldn’t walk to my car fast enough. I sat in my hot convertible which had been baking in the 104 degree sun, for seemingly a week, but was probably about 3.5 hours and burst into tears. This would be one of many times this would happen, at least five days a week, for the next seven months of my life. I was able to pull myself together for a five minute phone call with my mom where I lied to her and told her how wonderful everything went (sorry, mom) and then I drove home in stereotypically awful Los Angeles freeway traffic. When I got home I cried some more, called my best friend to cry to him and took a three hour nap. I only cried four times that day…
I meant to post this yesterday, but I was too busy in line at traffic court, where over a loudspeaker, they announce “next customer please.” This isn’t Neiman Marcus. Next sucker or next victim works just fine.
Why is it when ever I call the drugstore, Costco or an office they ask me if I would mind holding? No, I called you to be put on hold. Please would be fine, but kindly leave my preference out of this. No, I would not like to hold. I would also not like to be asked stupid questions with obvious answers.
In the Rooms picked up my article from After Party Chat yesterday.