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.