In my industry, I meet a lot of high maintenance singles. There is nothing wrong with appreciating the finer things in life, but when taken to the extreme, or expecting someone else to foot the bill and make your life perfect, more often than not, proves to be disasterous. Here is a perfect example in an excerpt from my new memoir;
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Horrendously long line at ’Bucks this morning—though I allowed plenty of time. I’ll be late for my job at the Double D dating service in Beverly Hills, a place where no one should be expected to work without a serious cup of their usual morning addiction. I attribute some of the delay to my hair. My boss Gary insists that I, his vice- president, must perfect my fine, unmanageable red tresses before I’m fit to meet with any client. We’re not talking just chic or even professional. We’re talking hot. My hair must send a message: if you think your matchmaker is sexy, big boy, just wait until you see what stunners we have waiting for you—for the right fee. Money should be no object when you’re looking at hair this hot, right? That’s what Gary expects my hair to do for his business.
My hair ignores Gary though. I did try. I ironed it with a gizmo that cost a hundred bucks, which left a big red burn on my neck— whereupon I cussed in three languages. And now the morning is humid, and little dorky wisps go all frizzée. The message my hair sends is more like: if you mess with me, you’ll find out what’s hot around here right now—my temper. I mean, I know I’m lucky—really lucky—to have my job, but the longer I work at it, the tougher it is to think of positive affirmations that inspire me to keep pairing the Farley Fuckwits with the Amy Airheads. And my boss....
Oops. A lapse into negativity. I’ll do affirmations later—kind of like the old Hail Marys my Grandma used to do, except that they’re about positive energy instead of sin and guilt. They do help.
My turn. Finally. The barista asks, “Grande vanilla soy latte, right?”
“Make it a venti.” I have a feeling I’m going to need it.
I don’t get to work until 10:15. My assistant, adorable Alana, greets me with a frozen smile and an ever so slight nod toward the other person in the room. I turn to see Brittany Malone, a client, sitting on the mocha leather sofa, thumbing through a Vogue magazine. The scene could be a cover shot for Vogue. The office itself still looks good, though Gary has downgraded because of the recession. He auctioned off the original art work on e-bay and picked up an abstract at a Farmer’s Market sidewalk sale to hang over the sofa. The sprays of roses the plant service used to provide are long gone...as is the service. One lone ficus, cared for by Alana, now graces the soft designer hues on the walls and the shining marble floors.