Appearances

Cassie's been busy selling houses, but now she's back with a whole new look.

Skinny Bitch has been obsessed lately about how everything looks – the models, the sales offices, even our clothes. She’s decided it looks better, more professional, if we’re all dressed alike.

“That way people coming in will know right away who works there,” she said at the Monday sales meeting.

“Does that mean we have to wear uniforms?” Mandy Sherman asked. Mandy’s our resident fashionista and wouldn’t be caught dead in anything approximating a uniform, especially if it didn’t involve spike-heeled sandals.

“Not exactly,” Skinny Bitch said, her lips all pursed. “Men, you will wear dark suits, preferably black, with white shirts and conservative ties. Women will wear black skirts or pants with a crisp white blouse. Everyone needs to wear black closed toe shoes. And ladies, no low cut tops or short short skirts. Nothing too tight, either. We have an image to maintain. If you look professional, people will feel more secure, more trusting. Any questions?”

The room fell silent as each of us took a mental tour of our closet. I was thinking that my only white blouse might have been crisp once upon a time, but not anymore.

“When does this start?” somebody asked.

“This weekend,” Skinny Bitch said to a uniform groan.

“I can’t afford a whole new wardrobe,” Mandy said.

“Surely, you have some black pants or a black skirt and a white blouse,” Skinny Bitch said.

“Pants and skirt, yes, but I think I only have one white blouse,” Mandy protested.

“That’s what washing machines are for,” Skinny Bitch replied, looking down at Mandy.

A whispered undercurrent charged the room, but no one else spoke up.

“So, does everyone understand that?” Skinny Bitch said.

Heads nodded in grim unison.

“On to the next thing,” she said as she reached into a box she had on the table in front of her. “We are unveiling a new financing program that we’ll be advertising heavily, and to make sure your prospects know about it, I’ve had these made up for you all to wear.” She pulled out a saucer sized bright yellow metal badge, the kind soccer moms wear with their kids’ pictures. She affixed it with a magnetic strip to her filmy coral top with the deep v-neck. The words, “Ask me about our new loans!” formed a smiley face on the badge.

There was an audible gasp from the group. If visitors to our models couldn’t pick us out from our professional clothing, they sure weren’t going to be able to miss this.

Skinny Bitch stood before us smiling broadly as her badge tilted slowly sideways and fell with a loud clatter onto the table. The magnetic strip must have fallen into her bra, because she clasped her hand to her chest before she turned away from us and reached in to get it. Turning back around, she reattached the badge – upside down.

The room erupted in laughter, but Skinny Bitch’s frown matched her badge. The woman has no sense of humor.

“You get the picture,” she said stiffly.

Yes. Yes we did.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Be sure to pick up your buttons before you leave, and start wearing them today.”

“What are the terms of the new loans?” Jack Porter asked.

“I don’t have that for you right now,” Skinny Bitch said. “I’ll send an e-mail.”

So armed with a wardrobe edict and bright smiley buttons touting loans we knew nothing about, we scattered to our neighborhoods.

We’d been looking professional for nearly a week when the word went out that Skinny Bitch was making surprise visits to the sales offices. She’d take a quick tour of the models, make sure everyone was properly attired with smiley buttons in place then wheel her Mercedes off to the next place. By the end of the second week, Skinny Bitch sightings were on the wane and heading into the weekend, I forgot about the inspections. Skinny Bitch never ventures out on the weekends.

Sunday morning I was running late by the time I got dressed and checked myself in the full-length mirror. My black pants and crisp white blouse looked way perkier than I felt. Pink fuzzy slippers poked out below the pants, because I always kick off my shoes at the garage door and switch footwear there in the morning before I go.

Downstairs I had just grabbed my purse when the phone rang, startling me so much I tossed my purse in the air. The contents scattered everywhere. Sarah was calling to say she was sick. I called the temp service to line up a sub for Sarah, then picked up the stuff from my purse. I found everything except my car keys and spent the next fifteen minutes on my hands and knees until I spotted them behind the sofa. Crawling under the end table, I grabbed the keys and slithered clear of the table. I thought. When I stood up, my head cracked on the corner. Now I had a headache and my crisp white blouse was filthy. With no clean white blouses left, I put on a blue one. Who would care?

I finally pulled into the model parking lot twenty minutes late. A crowd waited at the door - a family of four, a couple on bicycles, and oh my God, there was a scowling Skinny Bitch. I looked down at my blue blouse and sighed. Late and out of uniform, I was busted.

With all eyes on me, I took a deep breath, opened the door and swung my legs out of the car. That’s when I saw, in all their glory, my very pink, very fluffy slippered feet. So unprofessional.

I braced for the wrath of Skinny Bitch, but when I looked up, she was laughing as hard as everyone else. Maybe there’s a real person in there after all.

Copyright 2010 by Liz Zuercher