Like an Italian Prostitute

Before I begin today's rant post, this is going to include more tidbits from our beloved General Manager here at The Asylum. If you're going to get annoyed that I keep complaining about it, yet refuse to do anything.. well.. I don't blame you at all, I'm a little annoyed with myself, but be forewarned that I probably won't ever report him. I just need to vent, and more importantly, use his comments as fuel to drive me to find a better job.

I'm not that strong woman who takes on the establishment in those Lifetime channel movies. I'd be in the throws of an anxiety attack so fast your head would spin if I even considered trying to tell anyone.

Sooooo anywho...

The day after his little bikini comment, which, if you could see the ample fabulocity that is Mahala, you would understand was intended to humiliate, not compliment, the GM was still feeling a little froggy. Conveniently, at a time when everyone else was out of the office, with Lulu on her walk and Bossholio out in shipping, the GM wandered down the hall and stopped at my cubey door.

I'd like to take a moment to stop here and point out that I am still the only one left in a cubey, in the effin' hallway.

But I'm not bitter.


The GM looked at me and smiled that creepy, old pervert smile, his nicotine stained grin causing me to shiver... and not in a good way.

"Hey sweet Mahala," he crooned. Then, he looked around, sat his coffee on my desk and moved around behind it, blocking me against the wall. He put his arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze and whispering in that low, gravelly voice, "You sure turn me on."

The GM is a tall man. His position put his... business... right by my face.

A strong woman would have jumped up, slapped his nasty old ass into next week and told him to go to hell.

But me?

I laughed it off and told him he needed to learn to control himself. My reactions to his bullshit cause a hailstorm of self loathing, but not enough for me to grow a pair and do anything different.

This morning, when he spotted Lulu and I chatting in the hall, he said we reminded him of those women who stood along the streets of Italy back when he was in the Navy.

I'm pretty sure he wasn't talking about frumpy old ladies, but that's what we dress like here, lest we excite the pervs. After he moved up the hall, I told Lulu I was getting kinda tired of being compared to a prostitute on a daily basis. She agreed. Whenever she's out on her daily walk, the GM says, "Lulu's out street walking again."

I went back to my desk, dug around in my bag and found my clip on nose ring, some giant hoop earrings (yes I carry them with me... don't ask) and picked out some warpaint.

I can look like an Italian hooker if he wants. I said I wasn't that strong, I didn't say I wasn't a smartass.


That's the latest. I'm calling another company that I have a resume in with this morning. Keep your fingers crossed.

We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters.