bert harrington approves!

last week, mancat invites me to a party at a showroom that sells super duper high-end bath and kitchen fixtures. we get to the front door and the over-tanned receptionist/bouncer lady asks us our firms. mancat says his, 'oh yes, welcome mr. [mancat.]' and when it was my turn, i morphed into bert harrington. 'bert harrington! bert harrington designs. great! to! meet! you!' 'oh mr. harrington, well that's funny, i am sure i saw your name here. oh well, you have a great time, gents. be sure to get your bags on the way out, it has our newest catalogue.' [writing down my name.] 'will do, little lady. bert harrington is happy to be here!' 'do you gents have a card? there will be a raffle.' mancat hands over his, i only find a calling card which, clearly, doesn't say bert harrington. 'well, little lady, you can't have my card, but you can sure have a date with me: only a calling card. bert harrington must have run out.' 'oh that will work!' [shit.] 'no no, there is just not enough bert harrington to go around.'

'what the hell is this? bert who?'
'come now, sweetie, bert harrington hates to be questioned.'
'stop. please.'
'burt harrington is a leader in the industry and will NOT be stopped.'
'behave.'
'when is bert harrington anything less than a perfect gentleman!?'

we find his coworkers and all cluster around the makeshift kitchen where the food was being warmed. the niblet trays came out and it was flesh after flesh after flesh.
'salmon tartar with garlic and rosemary?'
'bert harrington wants to know when he can expect some of this fine food that had neither a face nor a mother?'
'oh mr. harrington, the vegetarian trays haven't gone out yet.'
'alright then, thanks, mi amiga!'
'thank you, mr. harrington.'

oh it went.
'mr. harrington: mushroom somethingorother with on melba toast?'
'amiga, you're too good to me. bert harrington approves!'

'mr. harrington, i just got little pizza wedges with [frou frou ingredients. bla bla bla.]'
'bert harrington approves!'

'black cherry brownie tart?'
'oh no, bert harrington has to watch his waist! bert harrington does NOT approve.'

it was a food orgy, but i wasn't feeling dessert just yet. mancat's coworkers were a trip, this eclectic mix of personalities and pure energy and fun. yes, there was wine a-plenty, 'red, white, or champagne.' 'red? bert harrington loves red!' 'then bert harrington gets red!' and all were having a good time. the party staff, so hopelessly bored, was having as much fun with me as i.

mancat, his uber-adorable canadian dutch coworker, and i were talking about something or other in front of the nut bowl when this little man, say 5'4", in a suit comes over and i make a comment about how cute the canadian is to littleman. littleman, with his shaved head and full chest tattoo (his shirt was open), and 666 tattooed on his skull, greets the canadian with a kiss on the cheek and concurs. later on in the evening, littleman bit bert harrington on the shoulder. 'rarr, you're a dirty boy, aren't you!' 'oh you... ahem... great party, buddy...' 'yeah, i organized this party., it took days.' i was rather horrified. bert harrington doesn't sleep with the staff. duh.

and i had my fun, chatting people up and down until it was time for me and the mancat to leave and hit another event. three of the women there were clustered around the coat check and one was wearing a tanzanite necklace. bert harrington morphed into the fag she is... 'oohie! a TANzanite! darling, that necklace is fabu! bert harrington approves!' 'oh yes, my ex-husband [blablablablablabla]' ' you know that stone is mined out of the ground in this horrid shade of brown and needs to be treated to get to be that color! it's' 'wow, for an interior designer, you sure know a lot about gemstones.' 'bert harrington read a wonderful article in national geographic. hey, i love, love that scarf, princess.' the whole staff there, from the tanned bouncer to the coat check lady had a beige (no one looks good in beige...) scarf with this bizarre faucet motif. some wore it as a belt, some wore it on the shoulders, it was fun. 'oh this, yes, it's our scarf. did you see the dress betsy johnson made with this fabric?' 'bert harrington did, and wow is she a sassy one! i've got a girl back at the office who would love this. and on a dare, i'm supposed to ask you for one, but it looks too good on you!' 'oh, we've got maybe one or two extra... let me see if i can track one down.' 'she's a good girl, a little green, but she'd love this.' 'oh! here you go, mr. harrington!' 'oh, dollface, you've made a lady very happy! bert harrington approves!'

mancat played along with my antics, and it was fun. hell, i got a scarf out of it! for the 'girl' back at the office. viva industry parties!

review THIS

i know, my posts have been nebulous lately. where are the clearly insane ramblings of the burned out corporate prole i've come to know and love like a brother, you may ask? stuck in corporate-land, for starters. i had my review last week and, as grover is my witness, was told i'm good at what i do. being my uber-competitive self (moi?) i, of course, have to fight for a superlative rating, but my former cuntyfaceofaboss who did my review didn't feel the same way. cuntyface has an admittedly spotty memory: i've used this a-plenty over the past couple of years, believe you me, but last week it bit me in the arse.

she was transferred six months ago, and so my review was based on about six months of work twelve to six months ago, with her said spotty memory. because that's fair.... 'i just know that you misspelled a customer's name once. i don't remember the order.' oh. ok. and that's an airtight, important detail for my review, by the way. hell, why haven't you fired my useless ass months ago?

as i'm a shiny happy person looking at the sunnier side of life [laugh from the crowd], the important thing is that my current manager [who isn't up to speed on her job or mine enough to do my review, so the spin goes] thinks i'm a hero, though she backed up the cuntyface [because it's easier], as does my department director and v.p. auntie mame. 'darling, who did your review?' '[the cuntyface.]' [nose scrunchy eye squinty-facial gesture.] my only consolation about the cuntyface, warning, this is when i get petty, is that she's destined to adopt a cat and die alone. oh yeah, she has a problem with strong men, did i leave that out? that's just my speculation. the cat and dying alone thing is pretty well gospel.

ahem. take THAT karma.

i should probably be grateful that we all danced around my coming in the sunnierside of 930/10a, my lunch run hourandahalfs, (or lunch two hours on psychologist thursdays), and leaving promptly at 530 as if my gaycard were to be revoked if i were to stay at work even one minute late. (can't drink cosmos without my gaycard.) i did almost ask for 'flex-hours' to be a prick, like all the jamaican biblethumpers, but i let that go. with all my bitching and moaning about not getting the best rating (within reach, i haven't sold out and won't), i'd be surprised if my raisity raise weren't fabu and a half; that's something. my raise for the extraordinary amount of work i do, that is. best of craigslist was updated, by the way, and since gmail was recently discovered and, subsequently, banned, i haven't been able to chat with people. so unfortunate. must fill this void.

'and to that point,' as we say in the cubefarm, i had an interview two weeks ago. lovely company for a middle-aged french woman, perhaps, but not for yours truly. sure, they'd pay pretty dearly, and my venerable lunch runs would be a non-issue, but pay my own medical, dental, 401k, etc.? me thinks me not about to start over in a company that is thirty-seconds away from pushing up daisies. that will teach me to work with headhunters.

well, not exactly. see, the ad was for an established company looking for a merchandiser (check and check.) found out the brand, only an 'eh'-provenance, and thought for shits and giggles i'd go say hello. nice guy, but the place looked like a middle-aged french woman's boudoir (hence the above), and i felt like a pervert, but not in the good way. i was having no part of it, and dontchaknow, the headhunter was a little cuntyface himself about the whole thing. 'the job was made for you, it's kismet you found the listing.' 'i think i'm going to continue to explore other opportunities.' 'they've told me they will consider paying 1/2 of your medical, but don't say anything to the other people when you get there.' 'how nice of them, but, again, i think i'm going to keep my eyes peeled.' 'why? what didn't you like about the job?' 'the [nearly nonexistent] benefits package wasn't what i expected, i am not sure what kind of job-growth i could expect reporting directly to the cfo, and the scope of the job was so wide i can't see how i wouldn't burn out in a few years.'

checkmate. and stop calling.

so you see, dear readers (anyone out there?), it's been busy both within the cubefarm and outside of said penn of hell. i've been pretty convinced, as of late, that all of my friends are medicated or should be. family, too. i'm just pissed that i cannot get in on the happy pills: my damned shrink thinks i'm evolving nicely and we've cut back the frequency of visits. dammit. i was kind of hoping for a referral to another shrink with a prescription pad or to get my crazy papers and take a mini 'vacation,' but, alas, he foolishly thinks i'm mentally stable(ish). doesn't he read this thing? imagine, me the more sane of my friends and family, i never, ever would have seen that one coming in a million years....

look forward to the life and times of bert harrington tomorrow. 'BERT HARRINGTON DOES NOT APPROVE!'