What Not to Wear

The F*bomb career is the modern day “Mrs.” degree from college which was the only reason my Mother thought a young woman should even consider attending such an institution. It is inconceivable in her mind why a woman would waste her good child bearing years with her plump booty sitting in a library with her pretty little nose stuck in reading material or paying her own bills when she could be at home trying to get pregnant. Although, I do agree with her on the point not much beats “trying to get pregnant’.

You can’t imagine her delight when I told her I had been chosen among the 600,000 applicants to join the exclusive ranks of an F*bomb. I now have the opportunity to meet very rich men or, even better, celebrities looking to date someone that can appreciate their hectic schedule and enjoy a personal life out of the ‘lime light’. (Btw, where does that come from?)

I do meet celebrities. None of them, so far, have bettered my life in any way. Although one of them has given me a false promise so I am feeling that I have indeed had a relationship with a man of power and prestige. I’m not sure if I can say his name because he might sue me for all my collector marbles so I’ll make his name up. Flinton Felly. He looks a lot like, Clinton Kelly, the host of “What Not to Wear”. I did tell him he was going to be on my blog so I feel compelled to post a picture of him.

In a moment of despair, he arrived. In first class looking tall, handsome, perfectly dressed and very charming. You know, one of those guys everyone else’s mother warns them about. Not my mother. My mother taught me to tell your problems to the man and give him the support that he needs to make all your dreams come true. This will make the man want to ‘try to get pregnant’. In order to make my mother proud, I went through with it. I marched right up to him, spun around, posed and said, “What the hell are we going to do with this mess?”

I do remember seeing pictures where the F*bombs looked darling in the perfectly trendy and flattering uniforms. Today we wear tents made of polyester and wool that not only would catch fire should we need to bounce ourselves off an inflatable slide, but also burns you as it rubs against your skin with every move. After tears of dismay and laughter, he agreed to have a chat with my CEO. Lets face it, if I can’t laugh at the way they dress us than nobody can and that kind of entertainment needs be acknowledged. Recently it was pointed out that I had buttons on my sleeves, but yet I still must have lost my mittens. The uniform is just ridiculous.

To this day, no letter to my CEO. Here is my letter to him. 'Dear Flinton Felly, I am disappointed in you. I do not want to try to get pregnant with you. Love, F*bomb.'