Becoming A Businesswoman….

As we know, I spent the majority of my years raising a husband and children. No offense to my mother-in-law, but it took almost as many years to raise the husband into something I could live with as it did the kids. As you also know, the job that paid, past tense, the bills was eliminated just before the holidays. Many friends have pointed out the extraordinary kindness of my employers to do so just before the joyous season. But if bitterness were a pill I chose to swallow, I’d be a dried up lemon by now. I am a businesswoman after all.

And Amour is a business. Though it is not thriving per se, it is up and running and people are interested. The bags are beautiful. The blog is getting some notice. The book is almost finished. By the way, visit the new website, amourhandbags.com, and buy a bag or two so I can feed the cats and buy wine and Grey Goose. Please don’t make me buy Popov.

I had never heard of the vodka offering until I ventured to Alabama to see Baby Chicken. Roll Tide.

Older and Middle Chicken laughed and laughed that Alabama kids drink this vodka. Of course, my Baby Chicken and her friends do not as they are under age. They’ve just heard about kids drinking vodka under age. Really. And if you think I am actually that mother, stop reading now and call your college aged child. It’s Sunday afternoon. They’re still sleeping because they were studying so late at the library last night. Evidently, Popov is what you drink when you’ve had a downturn in your economic status; like moving out of your parents house and into a college dorm.

In plotting my new economic downturn budget, wait, my further economic downturn budget, I am looking at all my expenses and it seems some of my income goes to cocktail consumption. I figure that since I probably won’t live up to a silly vow like not drinking at all, perhaps I could simply go for a cheaper brand. I enter Popov vodka in my internet search and here is what I find. There actually is an entry: “Is Popov vodka really that bad?” Here is the answer, no lie, verbatim.

“It’s just vodka! I have used Popov many many times while being a broke 21-year-old, years ago, and never had any issues with it. Some people say they will get a headache from cheap alcohol but its probably all in their head. (Really? A headache in your head? Hmm..) I like the idea of putting it in an expensive bottle and fooling everyone but if you don’t have one, then just don’t show the bottle and tell everyone its Grey Goose or Kettle One, if they say anything just laugh them off. The important thing is to mix the vodka, don’t drink it straight. Mix it with vanilla coke or cranberry juice or any fruity beverage. Orange juice would be perfect, that really masks the taste. Grapefruit is amazing too. Good Luck!”

This girl’s garish grammar aside, I fully expected to see a smiley face and a wink wink at the end of her entry. I guarantee the Goose is not amused. Pass it off as Grey Goose? Pfft.

Here’s another. “It’s cheap and disgusting. You could easily light it on fire.” No smiley. No wink wink.

Okay, so the Popov is probably a no. I did a cursory check at the grocery store. It comes in a plastic bottle. Really. And you do get a lot for your money. But as those of us in the dirty martini club know, we aren’t really mixing with vanilla coke, cranberry juice or amazing grapefruit. Partly because we don’t find the taste horrific and we’re not in high school anymore. Dirty girls need a vodka that can stand up to, well, itself. Please, please don’t make me buy Popov. I offer a list of things I can forgo whilst I find another job and build my business.

I can give up dresses. I can. I have quite the collection and I vow not to buy another until I have a job. I soaked my nails in full acetone last night removing my gels and so will go nail nude until I get a new job. I am renegotiating my cable tomorrow morning–le sigh. I don’t buy meat so I can’t give up that shit. Hmm… what else? I vow to cook for myself–whaaaa? At home, no eating out. Yes, I am in full whine mode now. Isn’t the life of a businesswoman fancy?

Lest you imagine me wearing one of my beautiful dresses, perfect makeup tapping away at my keyboard, laughing to myself as I amuse you, let me dash your illusion. Grey sweatpants, The Norwegian’s shirt sans bra, puffy green slippers, no makeup. I guarantee you don’t want to pop by for a visit. But here’s what I’ve accomplished; applied for about twenty jobs, queried at least fifty agents including the bitch from New York with whom I generated a twitter war, wrote two blogs, ate some mac and cheese and devised a budget for my impending poverty. Which brings me back to vodka dammit.

There may be no better life than that of a businesswoman. The pay is great. Benefits are inclusive. Paid vacation time. And I read this morning (internet, not newspaper, cancelled that money pit last year) that the president approved a pay raise for Congress in 2013. That is such good news. I’m really happy for them. If I could get each one of them to take a piece of that raise and buy a handbag, I just might make it through the year. Call your congressman please. Don’t make me drink Popov.

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