Tag Archives: Stand By Me

I’m ready for my close up, Mr De Mille.

Upon arriving home every day, I strip down faster than Gordy “leech-on-balls” Lachance (of Stand by Me lore). It’s over quicker than a superhero relay, my friends. Shoes, jewelry, clothes; everything in its place, pyjamas on.

If you happened to be with me, as you turned to close the door (very well-mannered, thank you), you’d hear a soft whoosh and feel the air shift ever-so-slightly (as if a flea had suffered an embolism). You’d turn, questioningly, to discover that I’d transformed from haute to hobo.

The only suggestion that anything went down would be the wardrobe door, slightly ajar, and the gentle rocking of coat-hangers (my recent outfit hung as beautifully as a British racehorse). If you weren’t there, I’d resemble my 4-year-old nephew: nuded-up from the waist down (though at least I have the grace to wear grundies).

It’s with this naked premise that I tell you, when it came time to put my garbage out tonight, the problem of clothing rose up to haunt me like the Titanic in Ghostbusters. Despite consensus, I have pride. That, and my elevators move slower than an independent film, I’ll inevitably become stuck in a fashion nightmare the likes of which Celine Dion has never seen.

Do I go down in my kimono? I stand in front of the mirror and ascertain that no, I do not.

I look like a Japanese hobo. The real bind (pardon the pun): can I be assed putting on a bra? Somewhere in the distance, I hear strident laughter. Mmm, quite right, poignant-and-well-timed stranger. It’s only the grace of humanity and gravity which inveigle women into bras.

The task therefore becomes to look like I’m wearing a bra. I begin rifling through my wardrobe, to select appropriate camouflage. The result is a ridiculous concoction which makes me look like an eccentric artiste, circa 1927. Motley green scarf wrapped around my neck and down my front; flowy cardigan which (why do I own this?) one only wears to take out the fucking garbage; flourished with MC Hammer pants and flips flops.

I look like Norman fucking Lindsay, for sobbing out loud.

I’m at a loss as to how this marks progress, but. Entirely too much time has been spent on this endeavour. And so! Into the breach I go! My garbage in tow (figuratively and literally, yo).

Cram it up your cramhole, La Fleur.

I feel like stabbing my eyeball with a paperclip the shape of Fozzie Bear. (The bear is now under construction.)

My boss had his performance review today and I don’t need a doctorate from Kiss My Ass University to know, it did not go well. He’s chucking a tanty under the guise of legitimacy, which makes me wanna photocopy my ass, sign it and post it to him via internal mail.

He just demanded something that I’ve already given him. He deleted it the moment he got it, unread; I know, because I’ve got access to his inbox and I saw that shit go down. Now he’s ripping me a new one and I just have to take it up the tail pipe.

“Suck my fat one, you cheap dime store hood.”

This is the line continually running through my head (courtesy of an 80s fav, Stand By Me). If a woman acted this way in such a senior position, she’d be tagged as overemotional and erratic. But my boss has a mangina, so just deal with it.

“Who ever told you you had a fat one, Lachance?”

“Biggest one in four counties.”

He sends me on a fools errand (is there any other kind?) to rip someone else a new one, via the gift of delegation (the gift that keeps on giving). It doesn’t go well, they return fire and give me a verbal instead. I’m but a ping-pong ball on the table of iniquity.

Is it a full moon, or were they handing out manginas at the train station this morning?

Now boss man is nitpicking over all of my tasks, demanding answers but talking over me as I try to give them. It’s now that I begin to revise my mental CV – not the doc which charts my experience with mental cases (not far off), but the virtual escape hatch from Crazy Town.

Coincidentally, this is the moment a coworker chooses to ask me when my contract expires, wondering if I’ll stay in the job. It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention there’s a better chance of me getting plastic surgery to look like Mickey Rourke in drag, but I let it go.


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