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Notes from a corporate assassin

For the last week, I’ve been dunked headfirst into project land at work. Days spent in planning meetings, and having the uncomfortable position of needing to actually pay attention to said meetings, because I was like, in charge or some crazy shit. Which is just crazy, because these people are all sort of rock stars and I’m kind of a lowly little squab in the company. No, I don’t know what I’m talking about either. Poultry? No idea. Ignore me, as my brain has been liquefied by dry erase marker fumes.

So, we were spending two days completing, to culminate in a big scary presentation at the end of the second day, except the people to whom I was supposed to be presenting? Couldn’t be there at the end of the day. So one of them (my boss’s boss) came at lunch and the other one, whom I did not directly report into but whose presence was more important, didn’t come at all. Which meant that I had to present to senior management from flip charts and say “Oh yeah, and this stuff? Pretend that we did that already! We’re just zany like that! Please don’t fire me! Ha ha!” all the while knowing that I’d have to represent the shit and works again to the other guy. And the best part is that some of the flip charts were being created as I was racing to create even a semblance of a PowerPoint deck, so I had to talk to people with scary titles off of bullet points that when read aloud, sounded like they were written by Yoda, and yet act as though I understood what they said, all while the audience was eating their selections from our build your own sandwich bar. I’d show a great chart or process map and ask for questions, and the response would be the sound of a dozen people chewing.

So basically I was really boring dinner theatre.

But on a side note, I dashed into a store to pick up an emergency t-shirt (I swung by the dry cleaners on my way out of town to pick up my power plaid dress but sacre bleu it was not there) while my teamlings were browsing next door. Grabbed said t-shirt (would pair with a cashmere sweater and a scarf, as I always travel with mix and match accessories) and while I was in line, I spotted a very cute suit.

I didn’t want to step out of line and lose my place just on the gamble that there would be both a suit coat and a pair of pants in my size (with the illusive Tall suffix that is de riguer for even the slightest heel), so I checked out, then zeroed in on the rack, and found both a jacket and an appropriate pair of pants. I didn’t even try them on, because the teamlings would be searching for me in the bowels of Nordstrom Rack next door, and it would be easier to return the rejects to the store than face another dismal failure with a suit jacket in public.

I have a horrid time finding suits because of my rack. They just aren’t tailored to accommodate girls with overwhelming accoutrement. When I put them on, they look great until I button up to my ribcage and then… blork. So I can either buy a size or two up and have the shoulder seams hanging halfway down my arm (which is impossible to fix via tailor… I’ve tried. The answer is “You cannot easily move a hole”) or wear something that is bursting out at the tits, which is a GREAT impression in the boardroom, let me tell you.

But! Surprise of ever, back at the hotel, the jacket fit like a dream. The sleeves were a little long, but that’s the simplest hem to fix, and the pants were perfection.

Sometimes you just have to take these little shopping karma boons when they come, or risk cursing future shopping trips with nothing fitting and nothing being right and having money to spend but nothing fitting the bill. I fully believe that by taking the offering from the shopping gods and appreciating it, during my shopping adventure with Poppy, I was granted with not one, not two, but three pairs of incredible shoes that fit my giantess feet perfectly. And also found a Calvin Klein t-shirt in my size, which almost never happens. Scratch that, it has never happened, mostly because I didn’t enjoy shopping when I was a fetus.

So that was the business trip. 10 hours of talking straight and then going out to dinner and gorging oneself on the company’s dime, which meant that I had oysters and albacore sushi and didn’t feel even a little bit guilty for splurging to fill my gullet, because per diem, baby, per fucking diem.

Clearly I am a corporate miracle, barely contained within my clothes.

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