Apocalypstick

Sample GMAT Questions:

2007-06-20T21:30:00.000-07:00

Math:
A potential MBA student surviving on a retail salary attempts to save $150 per month by making coffee at home rather than purchasing Starbucks. She purchaed a coffee maker, filters and pound of coffee totaling $40. To make four cups of coffee to keep her awake during a practice GMAT, she poured water to the line marked four in the machine. The directions say to add two tablespoons to every cup of water. How many tablespoons should our student use?
--4 tablespoons
--6 days
--8 tablespoons
--10 days.

This student chose 8. The correct answer is 4, which she learned when she expected four cups of coffee, but only poured one. The other two were Joe Bloggs answers, you idiot.

Verbal:
Our GMAT-taker drank the aforementioned cup of copy, then took the practice GMATs online. The test, which is supposed to last three hours, was completed in 50 minutes.

Which of the following statements can be inferred from the above statement?
A- This student is a genius.
B- This student broke the time-space continuum and actually traveled backwards thru time while taking the test.
C-This student is a jedi, and capable of seeing the answer before the question is asked.
D-This student is not qualified to work at Starbucks.

The correct answer is D, which is too bad, because she is not qualifed to go to grad school either.

Math, again:
If three shots of espresso keeps our student activated for five hours, and our student drank this coffee at 7:00 pm, how long did she stay awake and what did she do to occupy her time?

A-2am, and studied GMAT Verbal again.
B-3am, and attempted to name every product in her store.
C-4am, and attempted to remember the ingredients of every product.
D-10pm, the next day, worked 12 hours, shit her brains (more than once), wrote this blog, plus all of the above.

The correct answer is D.

True Life: I'm a Seatfiller

2007-06-05T16:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, how naive we were! We were two bumpkins bouncing on the back of a turnip truck when we were excited to find the craigslist post asking for Seatfillers for the MTV Movie Awards. "Ooh," Non-Sexual-Life-Partner (NSLP from here on) said, "Maybe I'll have to sit in Justin Timberlake's seat while he accepts an award and when I get up to give him his seat back his hand will graze my boob a little."

We arrived at Universal Studio's King Kong for a noon check in. We were IDed, tagged and agreed to stay for the entire filming of the show, until 8pm. Then lined up with the other Seatfillers. There are two classifications of Seatfillers: Boobs and Unfuckables. I'm sure you can conjure an image of each. Now bake that image at 110 degrees for four hours. As soon as the shadows stretched to make the wait comfortable, they moved us to another holding zone. Like feeder mice hoping our next spot would be more spacious, we pushed and shoved hoping to get picked.

Once inside the theater, we were placed under the jurisdiction of an MTV Lackey fittingly named "Douchebag." Douchebag told us to jam ourselves into the back of staircase until we could "smell the guy next to you's armpit." After four hours in the sun, we could smell each other’s armpits while maintaining a modest personal bubble. Then Douchebag began selecting people to go down and sit in seats that will be visible on camera. Groups of Boobs were extracted while the rest of us tried to convince ourselves it was an honor just to find the craigslist post. Even if we could only watch B-list celebrities walk past, thousands of people would love to be in our position. Thousands of people are idiots.

NSLP and I are not very competitive people unless there is some sort of trivia game involved, so we waited for the crowds to dwindle down to Unfuckables before making our play for Douchebag to select us. But then the Boobs came back, told to get comfortable until their turn was up again, and then immediately sent back to fill Paris Hilton's seat.

If we could just see the show from the holding area, we would have been content. But our view was blocked by Douchebag scanning a field of Unfuckables for any stray Boobs. NSLP turned to me and said "It couldn't be worse then this, let's just try." So we conjured our inner-Boobs, and hopped in line before Douchebag noticed.

Twenty of us were led down the middle aisle, and then told to squat behind a row. After ten minutes of squatting and thanking God that I wore opaque leggings under my short dress, we were told to get back to the seat filler section. "I was wrong before," NSLP whispered.

We strutted back to the holding section, past the Unfuckables to the exit in the back, where a guard was stationed to keep Seatfillers from sneaking to good seats. "But I have to use the bathroom." He allowed us to pass.

We gnawed through our Seatfiller bracelets in the bathroom stalls. Like rats sacrificing a leg to flee a trap, I would have gladly chewed through NSLP sunburned-arm to spare two more hours of comparing ourselves to Boobs.

With false-confidence and the little dignity we had left, we walked out the front door, across the red carpet, through craft-services, a loading zone and security check point. We crossed an invisible barrier between the glossy world of MTV and a theme park (a poor man’s Disney at best). In a seething crowd of fanny packed parents smearing sunscreen on screaming children we were finally Boobs.

Fat Ass-essment

2007-04-25T17:55:00.000-07:00

I tried losing weight the easy way with two colon cleanses. First, an eastern practice called "Korean Barbeque." Then I bought pills at the grocery store. The former was much more violent and effective then the latter. Neither showed long term results.

So I joined a gym yesterday. Learning from past experiences when I've worked out for two months, then shook my fist every time I drove past the gym for the next ten months of my contract, I chose a three-month plan. This obviously offended every employee of the 24-Hour Fitness, who stopped by the membership table to tell me I was making the worst decision of my life. I think taking a job that requires mesh shirts is a worse life decision, but I have the decency to keep my opinion to myself-- 'til now.

Today I met with trainer Chelsea for my "complimentary assessment", which is their term for "pinch my fat and make me feel bad." After opening the pincher to the jaws-of-life setting, then squeezing it around my arms, bellybutton and back fat, Chelsea declared that I am 32% fat. I am 56 lbs of fat and 114 lbs of moisturizer and nonsequitor stories. Then she presented me with a graph that a chimpanzee with excel could create and asked me to find myself on the chart. Not only are we assessing my fattiness, but we are testing my vision and counting skills as well.

"I see that 25-years-old and 32 % body fat is 'overweight', bordering on the 'at risk' column." At risk of dying at young and leaving a corpse they can't fit through my front door.

"How does that make you feel?" Chelsea asked. Why is she trying to sell me on the need to workout? I walked into the gym, slapped my debit card on the counter and volunteered to join. This is not an intervention after I asphyxiated on Crispy Creams but couldn't call for help because I was wedged in the ass groove of my couch. I know I need to workout.

"Just as fat as I felt when I decided to join a gym, yesterday." She does not care for me.

"So what's your fitness goal?"

"To look better naked." Obvioiusly, isn't that everyone's goal? That's not what she meant though.

"Can you find where you'd like to be on this chart?" I pointed to the word "healthy" and "20 to 24-years-old."

"Just 'healthy', you don't want to go for 'in shape'? You're going to put in all this work and say "No, I'm not going to take it to the next level. I just want to be healthy."" Here, I thought healthy was a good thing. I had no idea it was considered so revolting and possibly unfuckably fat. But now I'm forced to stand by my statement because I hate 24-Hour Fitness employees and all the uneccessary piecharts they believe in

"I don't know what these numbers look like. Do you have pictures?" She did not. So I chose "24" as my goal. "24" is my birthday and the day my gym membership expires.

Then she questioned why I didn't go to the gym for the last 18 months and how I let myself get this fat as she filled out a form and filed it in my permanent record that a chimp in a mesh shirt will eventually throw away.

Dear John Stewart's Balls

2007-04-24T23:26:00.000-07:00

Nice to see you, tonight. Usually you let the brains shove you back under the desk before getting too offensive. But not tonight. You punched the brains in the face, leapt over the desk strangled John McCain before he could further defend Bush's troop policy.

I hope The Daily Show's new studio has a reinforced floor to hold your extra weight.

Love and Respect,
Apocalypstick

Dear Bravo TV Executives:

2007-03-21T22:24:00.000-07:00

First of all, love your work. Thank you for filling my wednesday night void left by the passing of Jerry Orbach. Specifically, Project Runway was brilliant. I made my own dress inspired by a Santino Tent. I understand that you can't run Runway 52 weeks a year. I appreciate the bone you threw me called Top Chef. It inspired me to carefully place pears on top of spinach to make an avante garde salad. You lost me with Workout. I don't want to work out and no gorgeous lesbian is going to make me.

Then you got greedy or lazy. I don't know if you were determined to keep me tuned in after a season finale or it is your corporate mission to employ every catty gay men that led you to Top Design. Either way, see you later, decorator.

Next up you have Shear Genius about hairdressers. What's the elimanation saying? "You're cut," or "Curl up and dye" or a simple "You blow."

After Shear Genius how will you distract us from the fact that Project Runway is still not back while providing career placement services for gay men? Who Wants to Manage a Retail Store? Top Gigalo? Bottom Gigalo?

Auf Wiedersehen,
Apocalypstick

Get out of myspace

2007-03-21T17:19:00.000-07:00

Myspace is a brilliant invention for inventorying and ranking relationships. Changing one's status to "In A Relationship," deserves a small, private ceremony involving witnesses and a Shins song. Likewise, changing one's status back to "Single' is the ultimate act of closure. For that ceremony I recommend vodka, cigarettes and Loretta Lynn.

Sometimes, like four different times this week, myspace is the gossiping bitch in high school who takes joy in watching me squirm. Ultimatley, its just too easy to find out that exes' and crushes' statuses have changed from "In A Relationship" to "Married" or from "I'm not sure if I want kids" to "Proud Parent."

As my status remains firmly on "Single" and "Considering kidnapping if I don't have babies soon," I wonder why some girls change my guys' status when I never could. Myspace lets me research.

Upon surveying the girls who are marrying guys I've liked I have found a few common factors:
1. They don't wear blush.
2. Their photos are oddly cropped, beer-in-hand, posed-candids from house parties.
3. Current Top 40 hits are the best way to express the contents of their souls.
4. None of their friends are funny and don't know the difference between a message (only she can see) and comments (everyone can see).
5. They live in towns I wouldn't stop to pee in.

Is that all it takes to get married? Move somewhere with no decent work, nightlife or fashion.
Oh wait, I already live there. Now I just wait.

Time Travel

2007-03-09T02:17:00.000-08:00

Fall Daylight Savings Time is obviously superior of the two. I don't use it as an hour to catch up on sleep, but instead an hour to do things I wouldn't do in this space-time-continuum like take a bath or wear UGG boots.

But finding the virtue of Spring Daylight Savings Time is a little harder. I am planning on going for a jog and scooping cat shit. Like 2:01 a.m. on March 11, 2007, that's never going to happen.

My secret pleasure

2007-02-17T00:54:00.000-08:00

My store has one window the is often mistaken for a door. I know I'm going to hell for laughing about it now or at the time: but hell is worth the hilarity of people walking into the window.

At our grand opening party, a gorgeous caterer (one of a set of twins) was so bent on geting away from a bartender with a bad weave that he walked into the window while the whole staff watched.

I was waiving to an adorable Asian baby girl when she ran towards me and slammed into the window.

Today, the Brinks armored gaured crashed into the window so hard his glasses flew off. He's never going to become real cop with that intuition.

The common denomonator between them all: the look of absolute betrayl they flashed me. It's as though I lured them into the glass only to point and laugh when their bodies fell backwards into the mallbenches.

Breakfast of Runners Up

2007-01-26T00:38:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago, I went into the ’bucks. That’s nothing new, I hit up the ’bucks every morning for a Triple Grande Nonfat Vanilla Latte and a Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake. With tax its $6.05. I know, I’ve done the math and that equals my car insurance every month. But I don’t use my car insurance. I would have to get into a car accident every day to deliver the same joy as my not-too-sweat, slightly-diety breakfast.

But they did not have my Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake that day.
The shit hit the fan. I asked to speak to the manager. Is there some sort of suggestion box? Can I email someone from corporate? Don’t they know that Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake is the best breakfast ever? (that’s hyperbole, Vegetarian McGriddle is better, but more for special occasions (like hangovers)).

The manager did come out (just as I would come out if some irate customer was hassling my associates over a discontinued eye shadow). He assured me that he too loved Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake, and that it wasn’t being discontinued. And he gave me another breakfast treat for free. (Oh, he’s the sort of guy I could introduce to my parents and he’d bring Sunshine Cupcakes (a Spring-seasonal treat)).

Its time for confession.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned: I have a crush on a Barista. It’s been 10 months since I liked another Barista. We broke up four months ago.

But, every time I go to that ’bucks, I find myself talking about Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake. “Glad you got Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake back in.” Or, “ I see you got Reduced at Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake again.”

It’s a miracle I’m not a 800-pound virgin.

The Scent of the Afterlife

2007-01-23T23:37:00.000-08:00

A woman purchased a bottle of perfume on Monday. I admired her conviction; most customers need to hear about every note before consenting to try a sample. Most customers tell me a horror story of migraines and sneezes, and therefore I should just give them a free bottle because they won’t like it anyway. But not this woman. Not this Monday. She was ready to take home some perfume: scent on smelled.

On Wednesday she called, having been to hell and back, wanting a refund. Here is her story:

“I would like to return a bottle of perfume, I was allergic to it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, we can exchange the product for something else. But we do not do refunds, it’s our store policy printed on the receipt and at the register.”

“You don’t understand. I sprayed it last night and went into anaphylactic shock and passed out. When my husband came home he found me unconscious in the bathroom and called the ambulance. They pumped my stomach, did a chest tube, and shocked me. I actually died for three minutes. My soul was above looking down at my body, and it smelled the perfume and my soul got a headache. “

“Wow, I’m so sorry to hear that. I wonder what you’re allergic to, so I can divert any other clients who may have that allergy.”

“I don’t think anyone will ever know. Allergies are so hard to figure out. They’d have to run tests.”

“I would think if you almost died, you’d want to know what your specific allergy is. And maybe get a bracelet talking about it. But, I’ll make an exception this time and refund your money.”

Honestly, I don’t believe her. And I don’t want to believe that a near death experience makes you realize how important seventy bucks is. But, she had the best story this week.

I'm not even here

2007-01-18T21:19:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry I've been ignoring you for so long. But, I've been in my happy place for a couple weeks.

You should come to my happy place sometime, there's lots of wine and pizza. How do you get there? Repeat after me... "It's just fucking soap, it's just fucking soap, it's just fucking soap..."

It works anytime. Like when your coworkers find you at a resturant to ask a question, or when your boss finds out you lost two deposits two months ago and never told him.

Seriously, its just soap.

Is it hot in here? Or is it just earth?

2007-01-09T17:39:00.000-08:00

You can stop worrying, Al Gore, HSN has the answer. I wil quote from the source, "If your cashmere wardrobe seems to warm because of the global warming, this Vneck acrylic sweater is the solution." The XXL fits polar bears and the deep V neck really elognates and slims.

I didn't want to go anyway...

2006-12-13T16:19:00.000-08:00

Despite being single and miraculously baby-free, I'm at the point of my life when I have to go to friends' kid's birthday parties. Usually they are a nice excuse to wear a funny hat and get a beer-buzz while gossiping with the other non-moms about which kids are the funny-looking and soon-to-be-gay.

But my neighbor, who I'll call "G", has gone seriously overboard for his son "J"s birthday party.

As you can see from the camera angle, I'm not invited.

Christmas Wish

2006-12-09T19:06:00.000-08:00

I wish Christmas could last forever. Not all of it: I could do without the six-day workweek, or the decorations masquerading as religion. But I do like the mall Santa. Who better than St Nicholas's local reincarnation to plead my karmic case to?

"Santa, I've been really good all week: I resisted the urge to write something really funny but a little evil in my blog, and I did a crusty-looking woman's makeup. Can I please have the mechanical bull from Brookstone to round out my robot-arc?" I've attached a photo so you don't get me a thigh-master by accident again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDZnvkqClmA

It would look so good next to the monkey I got last year for being nice to my boyfriend-at-the-time's mom after she started a rumor that I was pregnant.
http://www.sharperimage.com/us/en/catalog/product/sku__WW258

Oh, and it would be great if people could be nice to each other all year too.

Two women walk into a store

2006-12-07T19:55:00.000-08:00

One woman, who I'll call Sidekick, sniffed soap.
The other, who I will call Spanky, asked if we have a bathroom.
“No,” my coworker answered, even though we have an employee restroom. We don’t like it when other people use it: we don’t poop at their workplaces.
“That’s okay I’ll just do it here.”
Time stood still while Spanky took off her jeans ignoring the customers and window looking out at the street packed with shoppers. I got an eyeful of taupe bloomers, turkey neck thighs, varicose veins and tall black socks. Sidekick was the only person not staring open-mouthed as Spanky slipped on the world’s ugliest pants. They looked like Kiki, my patchwork baby blanket, was captured and sewn into pleated pants tucked into camel toe and seven-inch cuffs.
Now Spanky turned to me and asked, “What do you think of these pants?”
I tried to clear my mind in case this woman practiced Occlumency. But I couldn’t shake image of Kiki being hunted by a delusional seamstress on the farm my parents took her to.
I answered, “They’d look better hemmed.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. But please be honest, I may buy them off a woman on the street?”
Honestly, unless Nanette Lapore is having a garage sale, you don’t buy pants off a woman on the street.
“Well then,” I scrambled for a polite answer, “I don’t know what you’d wear them with.” A paper sack?
“Okay I’ll take them back.” Then Spanky dropped hideous trou again. This time I got the front view of years of neglect. She slipped her jeans and Birkenstocks back on and said “goodbye” to Sidekick.
Sidekick chose a couple bars of lavender soap and headed to the register. She said nothing of her friend flashing her crotch to the whole store.
When Spanky returned, Sidekick presented her with a bar of the soap as a gift.
“Keep it,” Spanky said, pushing the soap back to Sidekick. “Call me weird, but I like cheap soap.”
Yeah, that makes you weird.

Drive-Thru Salvation

2006-12-04T23:33:00.000-08:00

Maybe it’s the inconvenient truth, maybe it’s the war in Iraq, maybe its because I leave work so deliriously exhausted I’ve confused the mega-church’s Christmas decorations as St Peter’s gate, but I’ve been thinking a lot of the apocalypse and my place in it.

My dad, and spiritual advisor, recommended attending a service/filming at the Broadchurch Network to quench my thirst for salvation. He thought I should bring my busted vacuum in case it too can run on the power of prayer. But, I’m camera shy and work Sundays. Instead, I drive past the church with my vacuum and whisper, “Through the power of Jesus make my vacuum suck and my life not, Amen.”

Night Cream of the Living Dead

2006-12-03T22:39:00.000-08:00

As an elderly woman in a Juicy Couture jumpsuit approached the skincare section and demanded moisture, I thought to myself "I wonder if she can blink." I reached for the tiny jar that costs more than my car payment and explained the pure ingredients blended by virgins then flown to the store in a temperature-controlled helicopter by chanting Buddhists.

She had tried it before, but didn't find it hydrating enough. "I have very dry skin," she explained, as though I should give up on trying to sell her moisturizer. She's just too dry to be helped.

"I'm really surprised to hear that. I have dry skin as well, and I use a embroidery needle to scoop out a fleck to spread across my entire body once a week. Its the only moisturizer I need."

Not to be done by hyperbole, she responded, "This jar lasted me one week. I use a pancake spatula to tap it around my eye area and scars." At this point she pointed to her chest, which was unnecessary because they were pointing back at me. "Then I sprits Pam cooking spray all my skin to set it."

"Perhaps you're not drinking enough water. If you're not getting enough water no amount of moisturizer will help."

"Oh, I drink enough water," she said. "Every night I lie in a bath tub of pudding and drink bottles of water. I go through two twelve packs of Evian every night --I can't drink tap, of course-- then toss them into a trash bag. Then my husband hooks me up to my IV bag before I go to sleep in a cocoon made for me by a butterlfies we harvest in our backyard."

"Wow, that must be really hard for you."

"You don't know the half of it," she went on. "I have a handicap parking pass because my skin cracks when I walk. My doctor had to reattach my leg after I walked to the grocery store."

"I've actually seen this before." She scowled-- as much as she could. But I continued, "I think you're actually dead and completely reanimated by moisturizer. I'd recommend the moisturizing oil, it penetrates deeper."

"Oh so that's how it is? Every time I come in here you're going to try to sell me something."

Well, it is a store.

Hello Blogreaders

2006-12-01T00:34:00.000-08:00

Are you searching for anything special today?
Too bad, I'm going to talk about what I want to talk about.

I feel I should introduce myself. I'm the girl who helped you make the major life decision to try a sample of a product that you have no intention of buying, but asked me to name every ingrediant in. Hi, nice to see you again.

I've spent the last five years selling stuff that-- I must mention in case anyone makes me-- I truly love and use everyday. But, in real life, I went to school for writing. However, haven't written since I graduated college. Absolutely nothing deeper than to do lists, and thank-you cards flowed from my pen in four years. I wish I had a beter excuse than laziness and the fact that managing a retail store pays more than writing. But I don't. However, retailing it involves mopping and corporate visits. Both of which I suck at.

I'd like to get back to writing, because you all (my dad and one friend who will read this) don't care that I'm drunk and my floor is dirty.

Here's what I can promise in upcoming blogs: generalizations about shoppers, introspective anticdotes about my sad sad life, and typos. I will be very generous with the typos.

Here's what I expect from my readers: a publishing deal and a rich man, both of which are so dazzled by my mediocre writing that I can quit my job and never mop again.