Days to 1st annual 29th birthday: 2
State of Maryanne and Ginger: Upright and perky.
My friends, my compadres, my cronies, my darlings.
If I could, I'd invite you over right now. I'd sit you down on the divan and offer you a cigarette from the wee pretty humidor on the coffee table. I'd pour you a mimosa, (because it's only 7:30 in the morning and we don't start serving martinis until eleven). I'd offer to drop a pencil and pick it up so that you could take in the lushness of the divine curves that I'm sporting today.
Do you see where I'm going, people? Do you understand that not only do I look like the cat's meow today, but I'm the cat's meow, times nine?! That's right, sweethearts. There is some poor feline out there, strutting and silent through all nine of it's lives, because I just look so damn hot today, I've stolen it's voice.
I'm stylin' a mild '40's era groove on this fine day, which is sure to drive many an unsuitable suitor wild with unquenched ardour. The coif? Still working, thank you very much. It was dicey for a minute there, as some peacenik forelocks decided to stage a rally and go limp for the cause. But no, my friends, I persevered, and the guerrilla pomade worked it magic. Then, while I was readying my face for this stage we call Life Outside The House, my eyes started looking a little haunted, a little red around the rims. There was a hint, an essence really, of 'battered wife', which scared holy hell out of me. I think I may have finally figured out which of my cosmetics I'm allergic to. No matter though, because I've got some hydrocortisone which will do the trick tonight after I get home from work and take off all my makeup. In the meantime, the eyes are working with the costume du jour, because if you squinted a little, you'd think I'd just said tearful and drawn out good-bye to my fiancÚ as he headed off to Somewhere In England or Morocco or An MGM Movie Set to fight the good fight.
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In other news, we've got a client breakfast today. We were told to be here before our usual straggling start of day, and to wear our Sunday best. Here's the kicker though. My multimillion-dollar firm only ordered enough breakfast for the clients, and perhaps a nibble-worthy amount for the internal brass. The rest of us? Smile, nod, and keep our mitts off the bagels. No, I'm not kidding, but I am shaking my head disbelievingly. This does beat all, don't it?
I have no idea whether I'll be expected to mingle and make shop/small talk, as really, the Piranhas would be in line before my poor little self to do that. Which is fine either way, really. I'm not afraid of people, but I'm always afraid of having to speak to strangers for fear they may be Low Speakers. God, those mumblers! My poor broken ears have to do double duty with half the power because of those silly people who don't know the meaning of e-nun-ci-ate. Hell, one of the Piranhas themselves is a Low Speaker Extraordinaire. I've worked with the woman for 2 years, and I haven't heard a damn word she's said in that time. My strategy? Just mimic the look of amusement/horror/anger/shock that's on her face, and nod. When she tinkles with laughter, I tinkle with laughter. When she mumbles bitterly about whatever she's bitter about (God knows, I have no idea!), I put on my Bitter Face and silently feel her pain. Lord, the woman probably thinks I'm her best friend at this point! It's amazing the survival methods one can build up without realising it.
So, there you have it. I look good, I'm your best friend, and you know I won't tell your secrets, because I probably didn't hear them in the first place. It doesn't get much better than that, does it, poppets?
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Special Bonus Feature... and this scares the... er... heck out of me.
Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
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