God is Ashton Kutcher. And I'm perpetually being punk'd.

[Editor's Note: Chris will be taking a brief hiatus from blogging to take care of some personal issues. Like herpes. Chris has herpes. That's a lie, he actually has some hard family stuff to take care of, so don't I feel like an asshole? Much love and good energy to Chris and his family during this difficult time.]


This wasn't the post I had planned to write today. I planned to write a delightful and jaunty little post about a new business venture Helena and I are embarking on, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. The events that transpired this morning are too important to overlook. It is my duty to document the horribly unfortunate and ill-fated things that happen to me on a daily basis. Future generations of socially awkward and perpetually fucked young twenty somethings must learn from their elders.

Let me tell you something about my job: a medium sized houseplant could do it. I'm not kidding. If I were fired today, my boss could simply go to the nearest Lowe's or Home Depot, buy a healthy-looking medium sized houseplant, put said plant on my chair and walk away knowing that my job will get done just as adequately as it was when I was there. This is not a reflection of my ineptitude (Kelly Cutrone buzzword of the day!) but rather a reflection of how easy my job is.

My job is to show up and sit in a chair for eight hours. And I'm not saying that in a self-deprecating "my job is boring wahhhh!" kind of way. That's really my job. A few weeks ago Alex stopped by the studio for the first time to have lunch. As we sat there alone, eating salad and playing with office furniture like small children, he looked around and asked, "So...what exactly is it that you do here?" "You're looking at it," was my answer. "Ah."

It would be incredibly easy to take advantage of this job. I'm trusted to show up at nine and leave at five and I'm usually the only person in the office. The girl who had this job before me used to show up at 11 and leave whenever she felt like it, which was discovered an impressive four months into her tenure.

Unlike my predecessor, I haven't really taken advantage of how unsupervised this job is. Sure I write my blog and watch Dynasty all day, but the important part is that I'm here. That's my main responsibility and I take it seriously.

But guess what kids? Shit happens! Shit happens and every now and then I'm late, or I have to run out of the office for five minutes. Trains get delayed. Prescriptions need to be filled. There are things beyond my control that make me be absent from the office for very brief intervals of time. And because god hates me and I am cursed, these are the same rare instances when my boss swings by the office. And I'm not there. And I look like the jackass taking advantage of my job. It never fucking fails. I can show up 30 days in a row perfectly on time (if not early!) and nobody knows. But on the 31st day (again because god hates me) I will trip up the metro escalator, scrape my knee and need to run to CVS to get a bandage. And of course, this will be the day that my boss decides to actually come into the office. So she will come and I will not be there. She will call and leave me a hostile voicemail about where the hell am I?!?!?!? I will then fly through the studio doors, bleeding, sweating and lookin' a hot mess, and will try to explain the completely understandable reason why I'm late, but I will get flustered and stutter a lot because I'm scared of my boss. So in the end, I will look like a moron with a speech impedement who was late for no reason. And so the cycle goes.

Let's take this morning for example. This morning started out promising enough. I was excited about today's outfit and, being a deeply shallow person, the success of my outfit usually dictates how the rest of the day will go. However, once I got on the metro things took a turn for the worse. Our train was stopped between Farragut North and Metro Center. Apparently there was an emergency with a passenger on the train (thanks a lot, jackhole.) So we waited there. And waited. And waited. The situation was out of my hands. Unless I physically pried open the metro doors, navigated through the tunnels like a mole person and crawled out a manhole (that's what she said?), I had to wait it out. And I did. Obviously, this made me late for work. "No big," I thought to myself. "Nobody's been by the studio in weeks and we don't have anything on schedule today, so I'm sure no one will be there this morning." Oh Meggles. You simple-minded, country, little fool.

As I walked into the lobby, I saw my boss. Fuck. Me. OF COURSE! Of course this is the morning she decides to drop by the office. She couldn't have come any of the mornings in the past two weeks when I was here early, doing fuck-all for eight hours. No! She had to come the morning some selfish asshole decided to have a heart attack on the metro and make me late.

I stopped dead in my tracks and watched in horror as she get off the elevator. She was carrying a bunch of boxes and looked pissed as she went to talk to our concierge. So, I did what any self-respecting, responsible young adult would do—I hid behind a plant. I hiked up my skirt, crouched down and hid behind that plant like it was mother's skirt. In retrospect, I probably should have walked up to her, explained why I was late and offered to help her carry things to her car, but at the time hiding behind a plant seemed like the more honorable thing to do.

After she left, I came out of hiding, got in the elevator and promptly diagnosed myself with Asperger's. If I get fired, my plan is to sue for discrimination and never have to work again. Ker-ching!