item 64: check. and OW!

by santoki

When I returned to my beloved NYC, I imagined life would be fantastic. I’ve got my peeps, I’ve got much love, and I’ve got a great summer job. Well, a summer job. Did I mention that this summer job decided it was going to take its sweet old time actually paying me? Mind you, this job is not for some mom and pop operation, nor for some throwback startup. And no, it wasn’t an internship.No my friends. This is a company that measures revenue in terms of bils. This is a company that brings on people like me without batting an eyelash. This is a company that should have no difficulty signing on one little contractor. And yet, there it was.

For everything I tried to do to expedite the process, there was another fantastically ridiculous road block thrown up in my path. I called all of the right people, got the situation escalated along the right lines, gone and bitched out all of the appropriate parties, and to what end? For all of my ire, threats, and agita, I got nothing. All I could do was wait.

As a gal some might call hyper-sensitive, any stress will immediately manifest itself on mia faccia. Annoying but true. As such, I’ve made a strong resolution to never live by the phrase, “I am so stressed out.” If I have too much work, I delegate. If I didn’t get my work completed, I suck it up and take the repercussions. If I am in a bad place, I do my best to get myself out of it. Otherwise, my face will pay the consequences. I am talking blotchy red, I am talking cystic acne, I am talking dry spots, and I am talking an all around ur-gly nightmare. But I digress.

The stress of spending two months without a paycheck was simply too much for little me to bear. Should I spell it out for you, or be allowed my dignity and just say that I’m too old for this crap? My more insightful friends informed me that “it’s probably stress.” Really. Like I couldn’t figure that one out on my own. Here I am not getting paid, with a rapidly shrinking savings account, property taxes due, a roof to replace, a scalping citation, an air conditioner on the fritz, and a whole mess of serious self pity, but I couldn’t possibly have a single effin’ clue as to why I’m ready to star in the next frickin’ Clearasil commercial. Stress? Me? Never heard of it.

My solution? Buy product. That’s what a little voice in the back of my head kept saying. Product will make everything better. Unfortunately for that little voice, it was being drown out by an ever so slightly louder voice. It was that of the Blonde Bombshell. You see, my dear BB got me ship shape for my move by helping me clean, sort, repair, and trash my many piles of things. By the time she reached my train case, she had had enough. In her way of saving me from myself, BB grounded me from buying products for the rest of the summer. Honestly, it made so much sense at the time. I had products that were piling up, unused, and causing my life to clutter, clutter, clutter. But you know what? Her voice in my head that said “Do not get that toner,” was overwhelmingly drowned out by that of Triple G. That’s right. All of her hard work was completely undone by my oh so sensitive boss asking me, “Have you always had such serious acne?” Okay, WHAT?![1] And no.

Apologies to the Bombshell, but the camel’s back broke. The product was impossible to resist. Did I mention that I work directly across from Sephora. Long story longer, with products in hand, I waged battle against my trouble skin. But as we all know, we cannot win a war without identifying and addressing the underlying factors: money and oil. So first, get baby paid. Second, use baby’s paycheck to get her a facial. Fortunately, my war is winnable. Anyway. Done and done.

Baby went with Lil’ Yum and got herself steamed, soaked, and squeezed at the Mario Badescu spa. The results: no miracles but a definite step in a very good direction. And ow. Nobody mentioned how painful this was going to be. As the very sweet aesthetician Julia remarked, “yes, it hurts. A small price for beauty, no?” Small price, indeed. I had tears coming out of my cucumber covered eyes.

And you want to know the worst part of it all?

I really couldn’t help myself…

One down, 100 to go

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[1] There are stupid questions, and there are stupid questions. Seriously. Perhaps someone fancies himself able to have a clinical discussion without any attachment to the respondent, or perhaps someone fancies himself to be a close friend, or perhaps even a concerned boss. There is a time and a place for such fanciful thought, but you know what? When someone says that they are stressed and breaking out because they are not getting paid, don’t ask them if they have always had serious acne. You say “It’s not as bad as you think.” Or maybe “I had the same problem. It will go away soon.” Or better yet, GET THEM THEIR G*D DAMN PAYCHECK! </scene>

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