Revolution is not going to look good on my resume, so I thought.
There are two types of women you meet in the Corporate America. One who will help other women to move ahead, and one who will try to block you at every step. I had to learn to work with both of them.
Recently I was bullied out of a creative project I had been waiting for a long time. I am not going to name the person responsible, because she is still alive and may be among my readers. Let’s call her the Triple-X lady. I’m sure every office has one like her.
Triple-X is a classic case of the competitive corporate bitch. She picked me out from day one. I don’t know what actually turned her divine attention to me: maybe my designer portfolio or the cool French outfit with matching Prada boots that I was wearing when I met her, but I remember how her thin lips came together in a jealous, friendly smile.
Whatever it was, she could not get over it, and tried to put me down every chance she got, until finally she found a real opportunity. In a conversation with our Creative Director she mention, that I was not always politically correct in the high profile Brand Team meetings she and I were attending, and so I was not a good person to represent the Graphics Department. Triple-X never provided evidence, and nobody from the Brand Team had ever complained about me. Because she had a higher position and had worked longer for the company, however, the Creative Director decided to remove me from the project, without even listening to my side of the story.
I was crushed, as you can imagine. In my mind I fantasized a million ways I could get revenge. But, in reality, what choices did I have? Go to HR and fight until I was at my wits’ end trying to prove that I am not a political assassin in high profile company meetings? I know for a fact that in 99% of the cases HR people take the side of the senior manager, and in the end I would be labeled as a conflict-prone individual and a good candidate for the next round of layoffs.
When I got home I told my roommate Paul what had happened. He thought for a moment and then, as usual, came up with a great idea.
Don’t take it seriously, baby; just treat it as a game. Let’s name our operation, “Kill the Corporate Bully with LOVE.” All evening we were laughing and plotting an intimate LOVE revenge.
The next day I met Triple-X in the restroom. I gave her a loving doggy look and asked with a soft friendly voice how she was doing today. She turned to me with her mean face and fake smile and replied that, at the moment, she was dying from happiness. I have to say that her wittiness took me by surprise, but I did not lose sight of my plan. Happiness is a great thing, I immediately replied, and I was really Happy to see her Happy. I then went on and on about her outfit, which made her look thinner then she really is.
As I recited all that flattering bullshit I noticed that her eyes were starting to twitch and that she was trying to inch closer to the door, but there was no way since I was standing between her and the exit. Then something unexpected happened. I moved slightly forward and for a moment it was like we almost kissed. We were both stunned for a second, and then she finally exited the restroom. For the rest of the day she tried to avoid me.
Every day I made it my business to visit her office with compliments and different offerings. Luckily, in the previous week Triple-X had had a birthday, and I presented her with a wonderful gift. By way of background, Paul and I had been keeping two bottles of Czech whiskey that Paul had gotten from his father. Paul’s father gave them to us with the secret wish that, after drinking this substance, Paul would never touch alcohol again. Actually, it worked. We had one bottle open that we kept for special occasions and as a defense against unexpected guests. The second bottle found a home in the office of Triple-X. God help her.
In the meantime I am focusing on doing good work and on my relations with the Creative Director. I hope to get my project back some time soon.I think Triple-X will not be plotting against me in the near future, because if she does, I will finally catch her somewhere among the cubicles and for sure give her my Kiss .

We have to love shoppers.

Shopping is the core of human existence. Shoppers create culture, set trends, and drive progress. Think about it.

Everything mankind has created sooner or later becomes available for sale. You can shop for it, and maybe even get it for wholesale if you’re lucky. For example, every new development in the L.A. area begins with a mall. After that, we build houses, schools, corporate buildings, museums, restaurants, restrooms, wedding chapels, and hospitals.

It’s what I call the circle of life.

You are born in a hospital, and what does your happy grandmother do but go straight to the hospital’s gift shop and buy a present for you and your mother. In every airport, whether you are departing or arriving, you go through the shopping experience. At the end of every museum exhibit you pass through the gift shop. I could go on.

On top of everything already mentioned, shopping is part of psychological healing. It manages your mood and increases your productivity. If I am bored or unhappy, before I go to the doctor to pick up my Prozac prescription without tests or counselling, I will go to the mall.

When you hear an announcement or read an ad in the paper, “Dear Neiman Marcus shoppers! Today only we have 50% off on men’s underwear, women’s jewelry and (the most magical of all) women’s shoes.” All of a sudden, our life becomes filled with hope and possibility.

But wait, with time it gets even better.

I believe that the Cultural Revolution of the 21st Century is Internet shopping. You can shop straight from your home or, more importantly, from your office. This has made corporate America happier and more productive. It adds excitement to your work experience, regardless of your profession or status. Every day, corporate America starts its workday with Guilt.com or one of the many other sample sale websites. You can even receive a $25.00 gift certificate by inviting a friend.

For some negatively-minded people, this may seem like a conspiracy. Some would say that the conspirators are famous designers such as Donna Karan, Prada, or Chanel. For me, however, it’s the ones like Yohji Yamamoto, Comme Des Garcons, Issey Miyake, Martin Magella, and Marni who run our lives. Even if it is a conspiracy, better them than the politicians. At least we are looking and feeling good as a nation.

Paul had already taken Pontius Pilate to work a couple of times. He did a lot of research on Google about how to handle parrots. It was easy to teach Pontius Pilate to talk; it was harder to train him to sit on Paul’s shoulder while heworked. But slowly we began to feel more confident that the parrot was not going to fly away, and on Friday we took him and Maximilian for a quick bite to Urth Cafe on Melrose. We took Pontius Pilate’s cage with us, but when we had ordered and gone outside to sit we let him out and he immediately jumped on Paul’s shoulder. Maximilian lay down under the table, looking for potential victims.
In one minute Pontius Pilate became the center of attention. People were coming up to our table and paying him compliments. The parrot was sitting on Paul’s shoulder and basking in the glow of comments on his beauty and grace, like the Lion King in the middle of the jungle. Maximilian immediately took advantage of the situation and started humping a blond chick with duckling lips and huge breasts . She was definitely Maximilian’s type. She drove him crazy with her deep sexy voice as she told us the story of her ex-boyfriend’s parrot, who used to spit on her each time she entered the house. I apologized to the blonde, picked up Maximilian and forced him to sit on my lap. “The last time I put someone on my lap, I got a yeast infection,” joked the blonde. “I hope you are OK now, Ma’am,” responded Paul. “Never better,” answered the blonde in a flirty voice. She was clearly more interested in Paul than in Pontius Pilate and started moving her breasts and all of her slightly more than 100 pounds of seductive flash in Paul’s direction. Paul was terrified and sat back his chair; Maximilian got jealous and start barking, and then, in the middle of this erotic drama, Pontius Pilates started screaming his head off, “Sarah Palin for Presidente.” I looked around and saw that on the table next to us the waiter had just put a cheese plate. The crowd around us froze for a moment, not knowing how to react. I had to act quickly. I let Maximilian jump down, and ran to the neighboring table, asking the owner to give me his cheese plate. “I’m really sorry, but can I have your cheese for my parrot? He won’t shut up until he gets the cheese. I will pay for your dinner.” The stranger showed his white teeth in a charming smile and gave me the cheese plate. Even though I was still frantic, I couldn’t help noticing his good looks and striking resemblance to Che Guevara. He had that bad boy look I have always liked.

Paul stood up and announced, “Don’t be afraid, guys, my parrot is just joking…” The silence changed to general laughter. “O man,” I thought. “Your Parrot is Sarah Palin’s new spokesman,” the cheese plate guy commented. “My parrot’s name is Pontius Pilate; his specialty used to be Jesus, but now he is into Sarah Palin.”

After Pontius Pilate ate the cheese, he closed his eyes and said three times in a lovely soft voice, “I support free love, my friends” (this was the new phrase Paul was teaching him), went back peacefully to his cage, and fell asleep.

The blonde looked more closely at Paul and realized that it was nothing personal, then silently left.

The cheese guy came over to our table and introduced himself. His name was Ben. Paul and invited him to join us. We ordered another entrée for Ben to replace the cheese plate.i Ben did not want us to pay, but Paul insisted. He then offered to buy us a famous Urth Caffee apple cake for desert.

Ben definitely was very witty. He introduced himself as a philosopher of love, reality show writer, and street artist. I asked if anyone had ever mentioned his resemblance to Che Guevara. “Sure,” smiled Ben. “I make extra money on weekends as a Che Guevara impersonator at birthday parties and Quinceaneras.”

“You’re joking,” asks Paul. “OK, yes, but it would be a good idea.” I mentioned that it might be hard to market.

Paul had to go to the bathroom, and for a moment we were left alone.

“I also tried to write a reality show taking place in a retirement community, but nobody was interested.” “If I had known,” I said, “I would be your star.”

“It is not too late,” said Ben. “I can audition you on Saturday if are you interested.” I had plans for Saturday, but I decided to change them. Ben wrote his number on a napkin and asked me to call. Then he apologized that he had a dentist’s appointment in 15 minutes.

When Paul returned, Ben was already gone. It was time for us to leave as well. “You like the guy! Finally you are coming back to life. Alleluia!” said Paul.