I hate little kids. Somehow, when you are a small person without manners you are allowed to ask any variety of probing questions. And for some odd reason, parents never feel the need to police their diarrheal mouthes.

Yesterday morning’s customers were no exception. The parents (the clients) were absently flipping through our products, so the little girls of the parents crowded around my desk, stole my pens, asked me a variety of questions and gazed in wonderment at an adult who didn’t give them their undivided attention.

As they clustered around my chair like so many tangled phone cords, allowing me to get absolutely no work done, one of the little ankle biters shoves her pudgy face in mind and suspiciously demanded to know “What is wrong with you face?!”

I thought about telling her I have allergies, that I am really, really tired or the unforgivable truth that I had been up all night working for their Mommy on a “really important” project. But I did a very horrible thing, I leaned over to them and whispered:

“I was run over by a truck on my way to work.” They laughed openly at me. I tried to shoo them in the direction of their parents but they came back like tourists to a car accident.

So I tried again: “I was mauled by a bear.”

They again screamed with laughter until they almost cried. Crikey. These were morbid little children. I tried a second time to buzz off, even tried bribing them with candy. But they were not to be moved.

I tried one last time: “Your Mommy hit me.”

At which, they nodded knowingly. One of the placed a dimpled finger to her cheek and asked sagely “Did you steal the remote?”

There are times when I really hate my job, morning, noon and night, for starters. But, more specifically (other than every waking minute) I was thinking this past Saturday.

In theory, I should have had the upper hand. Who doesn’t want to buy a car from a woman who appears through the sheets of rain, like a soaked and practically naked mirage, while offering assistance in any way possible? Apparently–no one. What I did discover is there are a plethora of people who are more than happy to make vulgar comments while you would like to do nothing better than shove a spike heel up their ass. But in the name of keeping your aforementioned monkey ball sucking job, you smile while trying to batt the mascara out of your eyes.

The helpful umbrella approach doesn’t work either. Apparently, most people find it to be too cumbersome to actually GET OUT of their car, UNDER your umbrella and walk INTO the building while you do everything but use your body to shield their leather soles from the wet pavement . Those THREE WHOLE STEPS RIGHT THERE? Yep. That’s asking too much. Instead, they find it much more agreeable to go squealing through the parking lot narrowly missing millions of dollars worth of inventory.

I think there was a point in time when I would have been good at this job. As in, several years ago. Back in the olden days when I was a nice person and enjoyed making conversation with people. Now I am simply a withered old shrew who simply wants to know: DO YOU WANT TO BUY A FCUKING CAR?!?! For some reason, the dominant answer is NO. Of course, this isn’t a neatly pre-packaged like Chef Boyarde. No, my friends, this only comes out after the filling out of paperwork, wheedling of numbers, hours of test driving and the entertaining of brats.

Apparently, in the womb, I pissed off the gods that be. Because as I discovered my general aptitude for wrecking havoc limited to any certain days, or certain boorish customers. Nor is it confined to the occasional customers who ask you to do things like get naked on the backseat of a car to “test the softness of the leather”. Today, was no exception. Since there was a lull in customers–as in NO CUSTOMERS ALL DAY– I thought I would make a quick Starbucks run. Nothing like a little yuppie fuel, to feed the yuppie hate. (That’s what I call irony.) By the time I had taken the orders of everyone who thought it would be fun to self medicate on caffeine, I had more than one full tray of drinks. I wasn’t too worried, I mean how hard is it to carry drinks?! I passed kindergarten repleat with sharing and playdough, I could handle this.

At Starbucks, as usual, they were delighted to see me. No real problems, except for the new girl who couldn’t really keep up with the rapid fire drink ordering. However correcting the incompetence of the world is not, unfortunately, my job. I balanced my trays of drinks out to the car, tottering along in my heels and suit. As I sit down and put the trays of drinks on the floor of my car, an icy venti caramel macchiatos flips over onto my lap and soaks it’s entire twenty-four ounces into my skirt. Thankfully, I was wearing all black, but I STILL had to go back into Starbucks order ANOTHER drink. Annoying, but not life threatening. While waiting for it to be made by the incompetent fool, I tried my best to soak up the milky goodness off my lower half, but didn’t have much success. By the time the drink was done, the blended drinks were rather melted and I felt rather guilty for the delay, as if I had personally decided it would be fun to douse myself in overpriced coffee products. I hurried back and as I did a careful deep knee-bend with a swivel, the heel of my shoe broke. My fabulous black high heels which make me the woman of everyones dreams. Not to be daunted, I limped back into work, doled out drinks and limped back to my car where I selected ANOTHER pair of black heels which had been rattling about in my backseat. One of the few moments in my life I was grateful I disdained my mother and happened to be a slob and had several pairs of shoes rattling around in my car.

After I amusedly watched everyone get hopped up on caffeine, I found a customer and trotted out to show him a truck. I’m awful at selling trucks, I can never remember the nitty-gritty of the statistics. I normally end up saying things like “it’s big and hauls alot” which is followed by a hail of perverse laughter from the customer. As I squeezed into the narrow space between trucks and hauled my caramel macchiato soaked butt up into the seat, I heard a familiar, but not welcome sound. The slit in the back of my knee-length black caramel macchiato soaked skirt decided to lengthen itself, oh, say, EIGHT INCHES.

So now, I am not only a car salesperson who smells suspiciously strong of coffee, but I have a whore-worthy slit, my ass waving in the breeze with faint wafts of coffee, should anyone get too close. This was much to the delight of my fellow car salesmen who already made eye-raping me a full time job. I will not even begin to bore you with the perversity of speech that followed for the remainder of the afternoon.

If caramel machiattos are not of the devil, they certainly reek suspiciously of him.

Exhibit A: I rolled something that looked very much like a joint of marijuana (which was simply rolled copier paper) and lit it, in my office.

Exhibit B: Once I was caught “smoking” in the building, I sprayed enough Coconut Lime Verbena air freshener to force all the coworkers at the opposite end of the building come down to my office and ask me if I was preparing for the beach.

Exhibit C: I took my (very convincing) joint outside to smoke with my boss and stood at the back of the building where cops frequently patrol and chatted amiably while puffing away.

Exhibit D: When a fellow employee asked me what I was doing, I told them my job had given me,a stress related disease and I had, a few weeks ago, been prescribed marijuana for medicinal purposes. The promptly fled.

Exhibit E: The owner stormed out and asked me what exactly I was doing, I calmly informed him I was carefully studying our latest report and absorbing it via smoke osmosis. Didn’t want to miss any scintillating details.

Exhibit F: After reluctantly stubbing my joint out, I crammed a entire milky way in my mouth. When asked what exactly I was doing, I said (through a mouthful of candy bar) “I have the munchies!”

Exhibit G: When I was told I would not be fired because it was obvious I was mentally unstable and because they “had pity on me” I threw myself across my desk, clung to their pant legs and begged them to reconsider.

I was never bothered for trivial chat, extra projects or menial tasks again.