A Brief Conversation With My Boss

“Annaliser,” a gruff Long Island accent bellowed from the bowels of a throat coated with three lifetimes of nicotine. I impatiently, yet cautiously, treaded from my office next door to see what my boss, Barry Owitz, could have possibly found so important that he had to summon me vocally, rather than with proper office etiquette.

I stood in his door, smiling with what I hoped came off as eagerness. But I couldn’t stop my shoulders from slumping. “What’s up?”

He paced circles in the center of his office, an unlit cigarette dangling from his stubby fingers. I assumed the reason he called me in here was also the preemptive cause of this upcoming bi-hourly smoke break. “Do we need a model,” he coughed.

I sighed. On the TV show we produced, we were going to have a segment featuring close-ups of Belgian chocolate. Barry’s not-so-internal conflict had been whether or not to hire a hand model.

“That’s up to you. The shoot’s tomorrow though, so we better figure it out.” Ugh, now I was going to have to call agencies and make last-ditch attempts to get someone on such short notice.

“What’re your hands look like? Let me see.”

“Barry, I don’t have nice hands. They won’t look good.”

“Just let me see.”

I begrudgingly stuck out my chapped appendages which were still clinging to the remains of my scarlet nail polish from New Year’s Eve, two weeks ago.

Silence. Barry stared, lost in a world no one will ever truly understand.

“Well you’re gonna have to take that polish off.”

“I can do that,” my voice solid with a special brand of patience reserved only for him.

“Maybe we should get a model.”

I smiled. Barry laughed, more at himself than the situation. He knew his indecision was legendary.

“We can’t use your hands,” he asserted blatantly. I laughed, anticipating his next statement. “Look, you’re a very pretty girl, but you just don’t have nice hands. You’re not a hand model. It is what it is.” Then he laughed too, glad that I wasn’t going to spiral into depression because of his comment.

“Do you want me to get a model?” Patience.

“Nah, I don’t think we need it? Do you think we need one? I don’t think we’re gonna need one. It’s a waste of money. You think we should get one? Nah, we’ll just shoot the chocolate. Is someone getting the chocolate?” His questions mostly rhetorical, I had learned to weed out the ones he genuinely sought answers to.

“Yes, the art director is bringing chocolate.”

“Belgian chocolate?”

“Of course.” I turned to leave.

“Do you think we need a model?” I looked back, waiting. The question wasn't directed at me. “Nah,” he waved his hand, “I need a cigarette. I’m quitting after this shoot.”

Ode to Business Casual

Oh, Business Casual
The strangest of attires
We would much rather be in jeans
But you mask our hearts' desires

We spend our days at computers
Hidden behind our desks
But it is still important
To never show our breasts

And, so, business casual
To you we must concede
A new wardrobe is bought
That contains a lot of tweed

Editor pants and shell tops
Skirts below the knee
Cardigans and blazers
Banana Republic tees

Can I wear knee-high boots?
Business Cas, you're rules are muddy
If I pair them with a mini
Will that look way too slutty?

You do have your upside
You make me feel grown-up
But the dry-cleaning bills get me
When I spill my coffee cup

If it weren’t for you
I'd always wear t-shirts
But now I own button-downs
And pleated tea-length skirts

You've taught me about grosgrain
And to love pinstripes
But your shoes hurt a lot
So I wear flip-flops at night

And, oh, Business Casual
As a temptress you are cute
Fewer things make me more confident
Than a brand new Laundry suit

I love to wear capris
With some pink kitten heels
A fitted short-sleeved polo
Is enough to seal the deal

The men all wear stuffy shirts
And their noose-neck ties
But I've got a J Crew pique dress
So I get all the guys

And, so, Business Casual
You may take all our money
But you're still just an excuse
To shop at Anthropologie
(I know it doesn't rhyme, but just go with it)

My Little Blurb of Declarative Sentences

TV is my electronic pacifier. I pretend I'm still in college. I have a Masters in Film and actually use my degree at my job. Cucumbers and cilantro taste like poison. I coach athletes how to be faster but I have to try really hard not to fall. Ebay is my unhealthy addiction. I want to be Carrie Bradshaw (like every other girl/woman my age). I've had the same best friends since the early nineties and I love it. Flavored vodka warms my heart. There is a great imbalance between my knowledge of celebrities and my knowledge of politicians, but I'm working to correct that. I believe the only tools necessary for success are heart and balls.