Sometimes in the workplace I just want to shout: “FUCK this! I got into Studio 54 — TWICE!!. So go fuck off!” That’s right. Marc Benecke, the doorman — the guardian of the velvet rope, chose ME, bitches. But no one cares about a relic like fabulous moi from the Seventies. I daresay only a handful in the office would even begin to grasp the noble reality that über ultra suede fashion king — HALSTON, owned the Seventies. Sigh.
So we rent office space in a luxe hi-rise tower and share the floor with a WASP-nest financial firm. Many are nice; a few are the ‘1 percenter’ pricks one reads so much about. It’s been an US versus THEM scenario since I poured French creamer into my morning coffee that supposedly wasn’t OURS to use. These monogrammed shirt cuff folks make six figure incomes but don’t touch their goddamn $3.49 fake cream for fear you’ll lose a summer share in the Hamptons. Our clueless office manager routed a card today for all of us to sign; we’re moving out at the end of the month. He asked that we express our ‘thanks’ for sharing their space and jot a note about what we’ll all miss most. Say what?
Seriously. I’m not making this shit up. When the dirty folder hit my desk I grumbled something like “…Hold on. Let me put down ‘My Little Pony’ and Lite-Brite so I can sign this damn card!! WHAT ARE WE? FIFTH GRADE…” My curmudgeoness was not appreciated.
So fuck them. I signed the goddamn card though. Team player, and shit, rah-rah; “let’s go out on a high note” they said. But here’s the thing: in my head I’m still Diane von FUCKIN’ Furstenburg waiting for my town car to Studio. So blow me. And then go slow fuck yourself with that shiny greeting card scribbled with dull sentiments.
Now go dance in your Maud Frizons.