SuperGurl

Darlin,

Well. It’s been two days since you mentioned it and all I can think about is your package. I know you said it’s really big, and normally you’re not one to embellish the truth. It sounds scary big to me. Still, is there any good way for me to tell you that I’m just not feeling it? Cause, I’m not.

And I apologize. It’s like I’m shape shifting again. Damn it, it’s so much more traumatizing because I recognize it! (Curses, Wonder Woman) I feel myself pretzeling up to accommodate you, and I can’t seem to stop it. What did you expect? You come into my living room and tell me everything I want to hear, and all I want to do is make you happy. But I’m using every scrap of energy I have suppressing my female tendencies. Yes, those tendencies. We need to talk.

And even though I know this will only send you running in the opposite direction, I have to be honest with you. Totally honest, because I know it will enhance your performance in a major way. Not that you need performance enhancement, don’t over-analyze this. Yes, lame and impotent mean virtually the same thing, but, afterall, you were the one who brought up stimulants to begin with.

So about our little problem, honey lambchop, you can’t possibly expect me to consider this town square ass-rape as stimulus, can you? You aren’t serious? Solve a debt crisis with a loan?

Oh, dear, no. Darling, no. Slow down, please, I need to be finessed. You see, stimulation should not only meet the initial requirement of feeling good, it should also and by definition spur on more activity. Not this, my lovejones. No. That is not what this is. This shuts me down completely. I reject this. It’s not at all what you said it would be.

And what the hell, baby? It’s like I don’t know you anymore. As the bright shining sunrise to the world’s worst hangover, this relationship of ours is coming to it’s natural conclusion. This stimulation of yours has already hurt us both, and not in any kind of good way.

And so, I guess I’m saying it’s over. Sorry, cutey pie. I’m taking the high road as I’ve been repeatedly counseled to do. Don’t worry about me none, I’ll just go back to stimulating myself.

Whoa! I’m severely jetlagged.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a coaster gurl. Generally, I thrive on ups and downs, they create opportunity. They focus your vision. They reallocate your priorities for you. Normally, I’d enjoy it, but this week, not so much.

And I’m not talking about our bipolar market either, well, not directly. Although, it is funny how my life at times seems market driven. Does yours?

Take Tuesday, for instance. I got a miracle ticket in the morning, one of the finest people I know. Walked in and said, “Do whatever,” in reference to an enormous pile of dough. I can’t explain what that feels like except to say, it has nothing to do with the actual dollars. The appreciation and kindness showed in trust makes for a much more fulfilling payday anyday. What a pick me up. And that was just my first appointment. By the end of the day, I had 6.

So Tuesday was a landslide. All day pretty much with fireworks and shit at the end. I was coolio inglesias with it. In fact, I felt blessed. I had been in the company of my favorite people doing what I do best.

Thank goodness I did, because the market wasn’t closed 5 minutes before I got the call. Holy cripes, people, I really got the call this time. I could try to pretty it up for you, but why, I’m tired. It was basically the hatchet man in his earliest form.

Which was strange and wonderful, considering my mood. He actually asked me what I thought was going to save my business and I broke into song. Ti-i-i-ime is on my side, Yes it is! To which, he not only agreed I had a kick ass theme song, he said it was his for a long time too. Hmmm.

All in all, my come to Jesus meeting was very effective I guess. Though I have nothing but disdain for the surprise attack. Still, one of my favorite peers whom I respect massively spent an hour of his time trying to help me to ensure my job security. That’s pretty freaking sweet if you can block out the fact that at his hourly rate, I think even the most mathematically challenged could figure out that I must be in some serious shit.

Yep. It was rough having my market buzz crushed like that. But hey, there’s always tomorrow. Which, in the case of Tuesday, turned out to be today. And today rocked. From start to finish, a triple A day.

Now I’m off.
Sleep well and be well, folks.

That’s right, that’s me.

I think I stumbled across this phrase on the way back from Oxymoron Island and it stuck. Words have immeasurable power and innumerable meanings, all depending on interpretation. The ear of the behearer, as it were. So if perspective is 99 percent of understanding, aren’t we all kind of wasting our collective time? Hello?

Disturbing news about my beloved Amy Winehouse on that same day. I guess you heard she hadda go to rehab, baby? No, no, no? Well, don’t worry. She, in fact, did not have 70 days so she checked herself on out. Speed treatment is the only way to fly. Dang. She does celebrate the same way we do when we get out of rehab, though? I mean, theoretically speaking, of course.

Beyond celebrity, and even among us, here in the sphere, I’ve been sensing a great movement in the force. Have you, dearies? It’s like emerging from an Aunt Flo mushroom cloud, like we’re all still in shock. But she’s been here. You can see it in the hollowed expressions of the inhabitants, even though their memories have been temporarily wiped clean. An estrogen atom bomb of sorts. That’s what I’m guessing.

Truly, it’s a tough contest. I, personally, have brushed up against some of the freakiest, batshit should-be finalists this past week. You go thinking crazy women these days and a lot, almost too much, springs to mind. I could go on and on and on. Couldn’t you?

But hey, that’s not really fair. School starts monday. Opening day of Psychobitch Season in Texas, I can’t wait. You best ready yourselves, folks. All those women, and all those rules. Time to buckle down. But in our rapidly decivilizing society, I’m betting on a blowout to beat the band this year. Wagers in the wildest comment box below, pretty please.

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Here we go. Or not.
I’m jetting off again. Likely with an anchor in my bowel. I hate this time of year.

Fourteen years of it. Fourteen dreaded annual gatherings. Fourteen four day corporate rah-rahs. Fourteen miserable suck-up fests. Fourteen disappointing showings. Fourteen years of accepted corporate espionage. I mean, what would you call it, I don’t like these people that much.

Just kidding. They’re fine people. It’s just the annual meeting is a stress fest and a half. Initiatives. Initiatives delivered do or die style, sprinkled on top of family values jammed to the rafters. Like Eight is Enough style, ya know? Let’s go get ‘em and, oh, you’re a really good person too, here’s your plaque.

See, the thing is, most the time I feel pretty super. Really. I’m blessed. How many people do you know that fly as high as I with as little support? Anyone? I feel fortunate to own my home, send my kids to the school of my choice (nowhere near our toothless neighbren), and when you look at it, pretty much have my own business, albeit, not mine, but without me, new stick-em letters would be needed for the door. That’s just how big and bad I am. You need an X-acto knife to rid yourself of me. Yep.

So anyway, I keep myself pretty propped up with the stick-em letters and the limestone veneer. But you’re stripped of that when you come to Constipation Fest. It’s just you and the other freaking losers that don’t deserve to be there. UGH. Why must we populate country clubs anyway?

You know how men and women don’t really speak the exact same language? Well, CF14 doesn’t come with translators. It’s all in man. With isolated showers of scotch and afternoon golf and gold bond and all that crazy man shit us women don’t get. UGH. Even the freaking plaques. I want to walk up and karate chop that shit in half. A real thank me very much, you know? Hi-yah!

Wonder why CF14 isn’t a happier experience?

Well, until CF14 becomes of celebration of mediocrity, I think my stock will remain undervalued. It’s a tough time of year, folks. Next time you hear a bird sing, think of me sitting in a banquet room, coming to terms with yet another not-exactly-what-it-was-supposed-to-be year.

Guess how much I’ve packed? I leave at noon, I’m taking the boys, I have a nine am appointment at my office, and it’s past midnight now….any guesses? Nothing. I’m still doing laundry, of course.

And being laptopless, I will be gone for a number of days.

But please don’t worry about me, folks. At fourteen years, I’m nothing if not inoculated from most the expected bullcaca. CF14 baby. CF14.

I don’t know how you would classify me, city-smarts wise. I consider myself kind of a cosmopolitan hayseed. I grew up in a very large city, in a typically plasticated strip mall slice of suburbia. You’ve seen it. You probably still frequent the drug store or Blockbuster there today.

But it wasn’t bad. When I skipped school, I either went to an art museum or the beach. I think I was equivalently educated on those non-regulated days off from class. There were a lot of them.

Over the years, it became kind of a internal drive to extracate myself from the trappings of the city life. Downsizing my per capita while upsizing my elbow room. I think I have finally reached Nirvana, at least as far as a living situation can go.

I hope this doesn’t sound arrogant, but I have an impact on the men of SuperGurl’s world. It’s kind of oddball too, because I can think of no other arena wherein I have such an impact, but the investment world? They love me.

Maybe it’s the shortage of females? I’m going to guess, 8%? Or maybe it’s similar to my uniform fetish? Men with skirt suit fetish? The possibilities as to the motivators are endless…but one thing I know for certain, the Wall Street man loves SG. No doubt.

And if I could be so bold as to play armchair psychologist for just a minute more, I think that few occupations feel as risky as the one I’ve embarked on. For instance, do you have any idea what minimum amount your next paycheck will be? I don’t. No one in my profession does. It’s a crapshoot everyday.

Perhaps it’s hard for the men of my world to find women that can truly empathize with what they go through. Most of them seem to attract gold diggers, to be quite honest. I don’t know, but time after time, I find myself given the most exquisite sales pitches from some of the most handsome, silver-tongued devils you’ve ever laid ears on.

Seriously. If they are shuttling about to NYC and such, you can pretty much count on their ability to deliver the goods. No impotence issues on Wall Street. Og would be happy, it’s giant scrotumville, for sure. Gold Bond City.

And dang, I’m wordy for a Saturday, but unfortunately, my yard man is here. I’ll have to tell you about the oral in the next segment. Do come back. It’s quite the hazy memory.

And until then, have a great day.