Perfect.

I have a coworker who is a perfectionist.

Perfect teeth.

Perfect skin.

Perfect friggin’ hair.

Perfect image of being the perfect employee.

And truth be told, she is. Perfect, I mean. Especially at work. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her cussing her computer or banging her head in frustration on her cube wall. She never appears frazzled and she never, ever is late or has problems with any project ever, ever. Nothing ever goes wrong in her world.

And did I mention she’s at her desk at 7:45 every morning, perfectly manicured, beautifully and elegantly dressed – and ready to go?

Oh, and she’s thin. Naturally thin.

Naturally.

I was jealous for a time. I mean, I’m probably closer to the company stooge, idiot or geek than perfection. Hell, I’ve been known to come into work sick (oh, she never gets sick or has a red, peely nose), with 15-year-old, crooked glasses on, no makeup and a ballcap from my alma mater. I figure when I’m sick and on deadline, they are damn lucky that I remembered to replace my flannel pj bottoms with jeans.

But then, one day, I looked up from my chaos and had an epiphany. (Yes, an epiphany, and you thought I was shallow.) Chaotic though it might be – my life of imperfection is beautiful.

For example:

I don’t stay up until midnight checking emails and sending out meeting requests. I sleep. And you know, I bet my boss thinks I 'manage my time' well since I DON'T send out midnight emails.

I never know what I’m going to wear the next day – it’s an adventure in couture every day. Sometimes things get ironed, sometimes they don’t! I like to think of it as disheveled Posh.

I can enjoy the fun of peeling nail polish and while away time during boring meetings scraping the dregs off.

I get that rush of adrenaline when I’ve procrastinated on a project and only have 15 minutes left to finish… and nothing compares to that little flush of victory when you’ve fixed something you royally fucked up.

Perfection is an illusion.

She must lead a seriously boring life.

And I bet it must be really miserable keeping up that facade.

I think I'll stick to chaos.

I'm such a prima donna bitch sometimes

Last night I needed to run out and get some foundation. Chanel is the best and is the only thing that keeps my skin under control. And I was out. AND I had a big meeting today along with a holiday lunch.

So I decided to brave the mall with the Man. Pulled down one aisle, not expecting to luck out and I see someone pulling out and no one else is in sight. So I got to vulture the spot. Turned on my signal and waited for them to adjust their mirrors, seat belts and take their own sweet time pulling out. The finally did and headed down the aisle towards me.

And as I hit my gas, some chick in a minivan swoops in and pulls into my spot. That I waited patiently to have. Patiently, mind you.

I was shocked at myself when I laid on the horn of the Beemer in anger. Relieved that I didn't flip her the bird. The Man was horrified. I got embarrassed and started to pull away -- when lo and behold, she realized what she'd done and pulled BACK OUT.

It was a Christmas miracle, I thought. At least until the Man interrupted my glee to tell me -- she probably thinks you're a total rich bitch.

Yikes. Could it be true?

Merry Frickin' Christmas.

Fab Ad Life - an introduction

I had to start this blog. I just had to. Did you know that people think advertising and marketing is a glamorous life?

Hard work. Yes.

Demanding work. Yes.

Crazy clients? Check.

Great money? Only if you’re in a HUGE ass market.

Cool people to work with? Big hell yeah.

I used to have this vision, probably fed by television shows and romance novels, of the glamorous life I would lead if I became an account executive or a creative or just anything, dammit, at an advertising agency.

ONLY designer clothes.

Mani-pedis weekly.

I’d have to wear Chanel No. 5 because it’s classic and of course, so am I.

Fancy car. Equally lux loft.

Amazing clients with spectacular products for me to write about or manage.

Oh so glamorous parties and client meetings and lunches and dinners and wine and champagne….

Shit.

I was so wrong. It’s not the world you read about in chick-lit novels. All back-biting “clackers” with actual TIME to get mani-pedis and Brazilian waxes and have time for a boyfriend too? Give me a break.

You want a real look at what goes on in an ad agency?

Hop on board. I’ll tell you.