Saturday, 3 May 2014

THEN THERE WAS THAT DAY YOU ALMOST SAW MY ARSE

whorrified, marie sutherland, rob ford, rehab, ribbon belt, fashion tips,
YOU'D NEVER GUESS TO LOOK AT ME 
that just moments earlier I was damn near naked 
and whimpering in the ladies' room. It's a gift, 
this preternatural composure. I was born with it.

Yay! It's Friday! And you know what that means: it means I piss all over your best-laid date plans by making you realize that love is dead and men killed it

However, tonight, because I've been into the sauce and am feeling charitable-ish, I decided to pull back on the negativity and instead gift you with some delightful anecdotes about my horrible week. 
Aside from the fact that Rob Ford and his hilarious crack-fueled luge ride to rehab pretty much guaranteed I got minus-zero hours of sleep, there were the missed buses, the 3 a.m. sleep-inducing nightcaps and the titillating wardrobe malfunctions that spawned an office-wide drive to have our new uniform be a floor-length T-shirt that reads: "All hail Queen Marie, who danced on the edge of the dress code and never fell off. Until Thursday."


      RELATED: 

Because Thursday was the day that hangovers and sleep deprivation caught up with me.
Thursday was the day Ketel One won and Marie lost. 
Thursday was the day that I went to the gym before work, then arrived at work in my gym gear only to realize I'd forgotten my sexy heels at home. And my belt. Oh, and my pants. 

Yes, well you can get away without a belt and sexy heels, but I find people do tend to notice when you strut around the office in a pair of see-through Lululemons instead of crisply starched dress pants. So what I did was, I panicked. I threw a hissy fit in the ladies room, where a co-worker heard my five-alarm meltdown from five cubicles away and came in to ask "What the hell is going on in here?"
"I FORGOT MY PANTS!" I shrieked. "AND MY BELT! AND MY SHO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-OES!"

Well, Jane immediately went into Girl Guide mode. 
"Keep it together, girl!" she barked, slapping me once and soundly across the face. Or maybe it was the buttocks. I don't remember; I was hysterical. "You're going to march your Lululemoned arse down the street to Joe Fresh and you're going to buy a pair of pants. And then you're going to use this belt-length ribbon I just happen to carry around in my purse at all times, and you're going to wear these hot pink shoes I also happen to have on my person, and you're going to calm the fuck down. Do you hear me? DOWN!" 

Well I've never had anyone straighten me out quite that efficaciously (except for the nuns at St. Willibrord when I was six, but that was in Le Montreal so it doesn't count). Within less than 15 minutes I was appropriately dressed and looking smarter than I'd have looked had I remembered to bring clothing to work. 
And I sailed through the rest of the day on a cloud of compliments ... "Nice shoes, Marie!" "Oh, cute belt, Marie!" ... which I graciously accepted without any indication to anyone that in fact Jane was the only reason they were looking at hot pink stilettos and a ribbon belt instead of dirty Adidas and a pair of I-can-see-your-arse sweatpants. Sometimes my unshakable composure amazes even me.