I am your sales representative...

Dear Colleague,

I am your sales representative and as such I represent our company's brand, services and employees in the public realm.  Every day, I meet with potential customers.  I  tell them about our company.  I convince them that if they have a need for a service we provide, that we (you and I), are better equipped than our competitors to deliver that service.

When I'm successful at my job, we all win. If I am not successful, we both lose our jobs.  Wait, you might be thinking, why should I lose my job because you suck?  Well, if we don't have any customers, we don't really have an immediate need for your services, do we?  Have you worked through that equation?  "X (me) + Y (customers) = Z (our jobs).

Let's recap, shall we?  I am regularly in public making first impressions on your behalf.   We both need those impressions to be positive.  Our continued employment depends upon it.  Therefore, it would seem to behoove you to alert me to anything off putting regarding my appearance.  Green things hanging out of my nose, for instance, or a skirt stuck in the waistband of my underwear, would be examples of things I need brought to my attention.

Do not tell me, dear co-worker, that you did not see the hunk of spinach in my teeth today.   I know you saw it.  How could you not have?  We stood face-to-face discussing your awesome social media skills for at least five minutes.  "I rule at twitter and by the way you  have something in your teeth", was all you needed to say. Were you waiting for me to leave so you could tweet about it?  #gross #shouldisaysomething? Yes, you fucking should. Must we now crowd source the merest courtesy?

Your lack of common sense is not going to keep us paid and laid.  I don't care how many twits follow you.

Thank you for your future cooperation.

Your sales representative

Let Twilight Come...

Let twilight come.
Let it settle, now,
gently over our shoulders
and between the pines.
Let it slide down
softly, now
flowing around fingers
entwined between our chairs.
Let it brush the backs of dragonflies
that swoop and hunt
so fierce
so fragile
above our heads.
Let it set the stage, now
for fireflies
and let me pin it
here
to the corner of your slow, sweet smile
with a kiss.

K.M. B. (aka Green Girl)

Awhile back, I said I would post my best friend's (award winning) poem once I had permission. I got permission but lost the poem.  I just found it again.  So here it is.  My friend is shy, so I haven't used her real name.  Around these parts, she is known as GG or Green Girl.  I'm not sure why she's so shy.  If I wrote poetry this good I'd be plastering my name all over it.  Then again, that's always been the difference between us and, maybe, why we work. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Chicken out

This blog might be armed and dangerous...

My blog has gone rogue and might be lurking around a corner near you.

It escaped through a broken link. Is there something odd about the fellow on the bar stool next to you?  Could be my blog. Do yourself a favor.  Get up, nonchalantly, mind you, don't make a show of it, and stroll away, quick-like.  Whatever you do, don't look it in the eye.  If it tries to bum a cigarette, you don't smoke.  If it wants a ride home, you're going the opposite way.  If it wants to buy you a drink, you ain't thirsty.  Got it?

Because my blog is just waiting on a reason to kick your blog's ass.

I don't know what I did, who knows....maybe I didn't feed it enough in its formative years.  It's true-there were times when I'd go months between postings.  I didn't know, for Pete's sake. I didn't know blogs could be such pricks.

Now I'm hearing the stories:  Readers turned away at the gate, false membership mandates, domain names denied, unresponsive blog rolls, and thousands of followers lost.  Okay hundreds.  Hundreds of followers gone.  Fine, like a hundred, okay?  A hundred followers vanished without a trace.  And not only that, but we have a severe case of failure to update.

I think my blog may have skipped the country.  Yesterday I received a message comprised of magazine cut-outs that read

"You're a mean old wanker, and I ain't comin' back ever".

And it's spell checking in the King's English.  Right now, It's probably sitting in some seedy London pub eating fish and chips, drinking warm beer, and bragging to Keith Richards about all the chat rooms it trashed back in the states.

Any minute now I expect I'll start seeing random Instagram postings of my blog behaving badly all across the UK.  Maybe it's sporting a beard, several new tattoos, and is thinking of joining the IRA.  It's probably developed a fake accent.

You know, I'm sure there's no cause for alarm but just to be on the safe side, if you see my blog, text blog control and seek shelter. It might be rabid.  Seriously.

Have you seen this blog?  Oh, wait, that's just George Michael.  Nice eyebrows, George Michael.

Chicken out