Day Thirty-Seven to Day Sixty-Seven. My Ears Are Burning.

I haven't written in a really long time because I've been incredibly angry with work in the last month for a variety of reasons. I know it’s my issue, that I determine my attitude, that’s it’s my job to be happy but…and isn’t there always a BUT… I work with jack asses, and although I shouldn’t take on their bullshit, I do, because these people are deplorable – and it makes me unhappy to be surrounded by such nonsense. And yes I am currently looking for a new job, but in the meantime, this is what I’ve heard in the last month and I am not exaggerating in the least, actually I wish I was:

Am I sending this fax to a terrorist?

-          The name of the recipient was Hussain.

What’s the name of that chink agent that used to work here?

Us Jews should get blue collar jobs.

Did you see the tit’s on that one?

Why are they crying? Didn’t they find them?

-     In response to a co-worker who found her missing sister after the disaster in Japan.

Oh, you’re smart I can talk to you now.

-     When I responded that I was actively reading certain classics, and basically read books in general.

Deplorable? No?

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Day Thirty Seven. Get That Billionaire On The Phone!

I had the most interesting day today. Oh yes, I did.  After I made some coffee, Mr. Black screamed from his desk (which is less than 10 feet from mine) “GET IN HERE” – I don’t think I will EVER get use to being screamed at like that. E.V.E.R.  I meandered into this office and Mr. Black goes into a lengthy explanation that his friend, a very wealthy friend needs a home with a helipad because he’s sick and tired of sitting in traffic. I am too, but not quite sure that my 60 X 100 property can handle a helicopter, note to self: get helipad dimensions. But I digress. Nevertheless, Mr. Black has a bee in his bonnet, he knows of a house that has a helipad – it’s the home that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie rented while filming a movie - the home is valued at 40 million dollars and Mr. Black wants his friend to buy this house, it’s not on the market, but… he wants him to buy it and buy it NOW!

My mission for the day: find the name of the owners of this home. Okay, interesting assignment. I like research, and I love a project that I can sink my teeth into. There was nothing else going on in the office except for the fact that I had to make another pot of coffee, so I got right on it. I got the address, went on a bazillion public record sites, and I just started googling the shit out of this house. I got nowhere. Nowhere.  In between my dead-end searches, and making coffee Mr. Black bellowed from this office  “ANYTHING? ANYTHING?” – This only heightened my desire to find the information; I was like a puppy trying to please its master. Digging deep I used my research skills from my legal eagle days and pulled some tricks out of my hat. I started making phone calls, and actually worked backwards by finding interesting things about the house to google.  I googled the name of the yacht’s, planes, dogs anything associated with the home – this my fine feathered friends uncovered a lot of information more than I really needed to know. I found strip clubs, sex hot lines, phone companies, media companies and some medical companies, actually thousands of corporations tied to this home and at this point I couldn’t even comprehend the depth, and the amount of zero’s associated with this property owner. Like a bloodhound, I kept sniffing around, and kept getting closer and closer to the answer. It was the first time since I began working that I was having fun in this insane asylum.

And then… I got it. I FINALLY found the needle in the hay stack. I felt like Willy Wonka when he found the golden ticket! I was so proud of myself, wagging my tail, golden ticket in my hand.  I had the name! I had the name! I couldn’t even believe it.  A Name! A Name!  I got it!  I couldn’t wait to tell Mr. Black but he left the office so I texted him: “The owner of the home is a Kuwaiti billionaire, 10^th richest person on the Forbes list”.  Immediately I got pinged back:  “Get him on the phone, tell him I have a buyer for his home”. WHAT? Really?  You want me to call a Kuwaiti billionaire? Seriously?  Really? Did I read that right? I checked my phone again, yep, it says to call him. Ummm, okay, I’ll get right on that but if my memory serves me right,  it’s a Kuwaiti Billionaire, you’re a Jew - right there there’s a HUGE conflict but besides that getting a Kuwaiti billionaire on the phone is probably as easy as calling the God, it ain’t happening!  I mean I have a ton of tricks up my sleeve, but this was out of my reach.  The question my friends is does Mr. Black really think I could actually flip through the white pages and find a Kuwaiti billionaire?

HELLO is ANYONE home?

Oy. To. The. Vey.

Day Thirty-One-to-Thirty-Six - Virtual Smirtual.

Mr. "I am going to own the world", who believes in his own little head that he is the leader in luxury real estate and setting the standard in real estate and technology REFUSES to take on a virtual techno-website-branding whiz that knows more about website technology, presentation development, branding, and what makes this man tick because he's a self-indulgent, micro-manager and needs to "SEE" what he's paying for. Moron. Moron. Moron.

That's difference between a successfull business owner and someone just playing the part: you need to believe and trust in your business, and employees, which he is incapable of doing.

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Day Thirty-One. I will OWN the World.

Mr. Black stood at my desk today and said "In six-months I am going to OWN the world." BA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

He's serious. Seriously insane but serious.

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Day Twenty-Five to Thirty. Bad Attitude.

Mr. Black said I had a bad attitude, and he is right on the money. What he forgets is that I work for women that abuse me; so I am a bit angry, argumentative, and at some times I can be very hostile. He isn't in the office long enough to know that I get treated like shit, that I get spoken to like a dummy and that these women, I do believe, believe I am at their beck & call.  Also, he fails to realize that I've been working without heat for two weeks, that I can't do my job because the bills aren't being paid, and that well, I am not happy here. This makes for a angry girl.

Mr. Black is never in the office and by the time Mr. Black actually gets to the office, I am spent, fried, done. I can't separate the two, because he can be demanding as well. But I guess I should work on my attitude because even though I am a angry youngish girl, I don't want to be disresptectful, because I am definitly not that girl, woman, gal, whatever.

A change of attitude might be good for me too, being this angry isn't good for my complexion.

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Day Twenty-Four. The Intern.

The intern stopped by my desk and tells me that he's working with another agent in our office on the next next million dollar idea, I ask him what that idea is and he said he didn't remember he has to call the agent. Priceless. 

Oy.To.The.Vey. 

Oh and still no heat - a full week. NICE!!!

Day Twenty One through Twenty Three. Heat.

The office has NO HEAT for three days. Fingers frozen. Couldn't type a post at all, fingers would of fell off.

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Days Sixteen through Twenty. A Very Angry Desk Jockey.

Anger, it could be my middle name. I can't believe I am back to being the Angry girl. I am trying so hard to shed my scales of angry, but nothing is working. To think that I I went through years of therapy, ton of self-help homework to be back in the same fucking boat - an angry mother fucker.  I am angry that I have to work, angry that I choose this job instead of the other one, and angry that the people I work with are just mother fuckers.  For the last few weeks I've been nothing but angry and mean, it's not a fun way to be, and I am not an ugly person, being angry and mean makes you ugly.

This what I've dealt within the past week:

• The other desk jockey works part-time, but she doesn't drive in the snow so she hasn't been here in two weeks, you're 42 to years old, you've lived in this area - a four seasons area that gets hit by snow every winter and you don't drive in it...strap on some balls and get over it.
• One agent is so fucking mean, every time she speaks fire spits out of her mouth, this is the same bitch that brought me her dead mothers clothes. Which were all 1XL's, stretch pants and bedazzled up the fucking ying yang. She can lick my asshole.
• Mr. Black is as clueless as a sorority girl at her final exams.
• Intern boy came to worked stoned, again. I don't blame him he's not getting paid.
• Mr. Khaki is pissed that someone edited his marketing letter, well when it reads like my first grader wrote it, it needs to be edited.

I am going to try hard this week to not to be so mean, angry and ugly.

Wish me luck.

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Day Fifteen. Pigs. Entitled Pigs.

Let me ask you a question: When you finish a bag of pretzels, or slam down a soda, or eat a package of cookies, what do you do with the wrapper? Do you put it in the trash? Yes, right? Your answer is yes, right? Right? Because you're a normal fucking person -the people I work with leave their garbage, the empty wrappers, the used coffee cups, the left over sugar packets, the half-eaten bag of cookies all on the counter in the employee kitchen- as if the trash, the receptacle, the garbage can is over 5 miles away and they just can't make the trek because they couldn't possibly walk all that way – they’d risk busting a heel on their Louboutins or the stick that is shoved up so far up their asses that it's coming out their nose may just fall out, imagine that? I don’t mind do a little light cleaning, a spritz of fantastic here, and a sweep there but people I am not your maid, common courtesy douche bags.

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Day Fourteen. A Bevy Of Botox Babes.

In an office of over 95 women, I’d say about 85 have had Botox and/or some sort of cosmetic surgery within this year (yes, I am talking about 2011, must of been a sale). Botox is discussed in this office as often as the weather, and since these gals are mostly over 60, you know for shit sure that they talk about the weather A LOT. The lastest person to get a little injection of that sweet little toxin is Ms. Pink, she's actually one of the nices bitches in here, she's the top producer, sweet as pie, cute as a button, skinnier than one of my thighs  (and I got some gams), trendier than the latest model walking down the runway at Bryant Park during fashion week...and she messed perfection and fucked up her lips something good. Let's just say Goldie Hawn in The First Wives Club, think Lisa Rinna, think, think, think Meg Ryan. That bad. It's hard to look at her because it's so bad, and just for the record, it was NOT needed at all.  That's what happens when you try to keep up with the Joneses, or drink the Kool-Aid or you absolutely do not think for yourself.

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Day Thirteen. Meet The Girls.

The company I work for has three luxury real estate offices, a small company of about 100 employees, well four salaried employees and 96 real estate "free" agents.  Each office has an Office Administrator that supports anywhere between 15-25 real estate agents, about five come to the office on a daily basis and the other 15-to-20 haunt us through phone and email...on a daily basis. 

We are a strange crew of Office Administrator's our age ranges from 24 to 70.

Mrs. Orange is 55, a smart gal, a smidge bitter, mother of 3, divorced, at this gig because she really does enjoy Real Estate (not sure why), and the job, however she is not treated well at all, she tends to run her mouth which gets her in trouble but c'mon, who doesn't run their mouth? HELLO we're in a office dominated by 97 women... get a clue! 

Ms. Yellow is a 24 a smart, funny, striking blonde that is literally wasting her talents at this place, she's been here since graduating college, and has no real direction. This is no place for a 20 something, my goal is get her out of here and into a real career. Yes I am taking on a new project, it's called PROJECT MY, first step...getting her resume done.

Mrs. Gold is a 70 something General Manager of all three offices, and is the matriarch of the company, she manages everything from all the bullshit with the Agents, Mr. Black, and the
Office Administrator's,  she's a smart straight shooter, unbelievably stylish and classy. I believe Class may be her middle name, as it exudes from her being as well as anything Louis Vuitton. 

We are the cogs that make the wheels move in this fine organization, we are the ball to every bat, the peanut butter and jelly to the bread, we are the Crockett and Tubbs of Real Estate, lucky us.

Oy.To.The.Vey.

Day Twelve. A New Woman

I had a day off and I I feel like a new woman, I actually do not hate work so much today, I'm nicer to myself and to my co-workers. I need to do this more often!!!

Day Eleven. FUCKING REALLY?

I hate this fucking job. Really I do.

This is my day:

• An agent got snippy with me because I didn't have the coffee ready, um really? People are dying across the globe because they haven't eaten in weeks, get your own fucking coffee.
• Another agent asked me if I wanted her 83 year old dead mother's clothes because she couldn't bear to throw them away. I was actually speechless. Unless her mother is a slender 40 year old trapped in a 80 year old's body than no fucking way. Are you kidding me? Insulted on many many many levels.
• I visited my mother at lunch and she asked me if I gained weight - why is this revelant to my job? Because if I wasn't working I'd be at the fucking gym.

Oy. To. The. Vey.

Day Ten. I'm Alive.

I made it two weeks. I have officially been working for two weeks and I can't believe I am alive. I feel like I've been chewed up and spit out, times 10!  I have NEVER in my life experienced a business like Real Estate. It's a interesting industry that's for damn sure.

Oy.To.The.Vey.