City Snicker

I believe I’ve mentioned I’m not nice in the general way nice is meant. In my defense, I will admit to committing random acts of generosity, kindness, and love. I care little for acquiring wealth, and I despise being made a public spectacle for those nice things I do.

When I work, I am an independent consultant to those wise enough to ask my advice on how to do business in almost any retail, service, or entertainment industry. Only one in ten of those who pay me a truly obscene hourly fee for my insights actually take heed of my advice.

Those who are smart enough to use what I tell them do well. The other nine invariably fail. I make no apologies for their failures, although I must say I enjoyed watching some of them file bankruptcy and slip away into the night.

Why don’t they take my advice you ask? The answer is easy. I am not male. I do not have a business degree from an impressive institution. In every instance of failure, my advice was eschewed in favor of that of an earnest young man wearing a month’s salary on his back – one with an impressive degree from an impressive institution of higher learning.

There was a time when it made me just a little crazy to hear the CEO of whatever company it was had decided they’d wasted their money on me. In fact, in more than one instance, the earnest young men made it their business to make a phone call letting me know their boss had decided they had not received value for services and my fee would be adjusted, and sometimes, not paid at all.

I enjoyed watching those companies crash and burn at the hands of earnest young men living on the edge of their credit scores. A couple of years ago, I saw one of them during a trip to Vegas.

He was standing in a taxi line with a hooker hanging on his arm, and the ten years since we last met hadn’t been kind to him. His shoes were expensive, but run down at the heel. He didn’t tip the valet. The hooker slipped him the customary dollar.

In a perfect world, the hooker emptied his wallet after he passed out drunk – unable to perform the act for which he paid her.

I love my sister, who loves me in return, no matter how bitchy I am.

However, having bared my dark soul on that tender bit of my heart, I feel compelled to prove how truly evil I really am.

I watched a heart-rending reality show about Siamese twins this weekend, featuring a pair of 40 year old conjoined Indian women. I was so irritated at not just them, but their family, by the end of the show, I was steaming.

It was fairly obvious that they had spent most of their lives as a single object of curiosity.

What made me crazy, though, was that they had so little education, so little knowledge of the world, that they were consumed by fear and superstition – yet it was obvious the rest of their family did not share their childish fears.

My sister felt sorry for them – I wanted to slap them for their silliness. People, conjoined or not, uneducated or not, are just people, after all.

They reminded me of so many elderly southern belles I’ve run across over the years, with their die away airs, “sick headaches” and palpitations… argh!

I’m anonymous – and for good reason. Thanks to a wise friend for giving me this space.

I’ll begin by telling you that a recent flight rewarded me with a seat mate who scratched her head and ate her dandruff flakes on the first leg of the trip.

On the next leg – I shared a row with a woman who bitched because her attempts to guilt me into giving up my aisle seat engendered this response:

“You should have booked your flight earlier. This seat is mine.”

I resisted the urge to sneer.