Year of the Chick Read Online Free PDF

hour?”
    “Since finding out I’m screwed if I don’t finish this damn report. Same time and place tomorrow?”
    “Sure. We can start with lesson one: how to smile at guys in the elevator.” Amy tossed me her patented giant smile as she started to walk away, while Eleanor’s ass followed bouncily behind.
    “Whatever!” I shouted after them. “The guys in this office are gross!”
    I hope no one heard that .

    ***

    A wrap-up of November-December sales was due by three p.m.
    Where to begin?
    As an Advertising Analyst, this wrap-up meant a lot of things. Things like: finding out how much dog food we sold, how much toilet paper we sold, how much dish soap we sold, and of course how these numbers fared against my expert predictions. If we didn’t do as well as I’d thought, or as well as we’d done last year, I needed to find a scapegoat. Anyone but me and I’d continue to have a job.
    It would take a bit of time for the numbers to appear from the database, which left me with a chance to get things started on the presentation slides.
    Not surprisingly I lost my focus, in favour of a stare-down with the far off CN Tower. I wondered how many men there were in Toronto. One and a half million? I wondered how many of them were single. Eight hundred thousand? I wondered how many of the single ones were under forty. Three hundred thousand? I wondered how many of the under-forty ones weren’t freaks, jerks, or extremely unattractive. Eighty-three? And how many of the eighty-three would actually fall in love with me? Two?
    Well two wasn’t bad. I only needed one after all.

    ***

    Somehow the clock shifted forward to two p.m. The database had gathered all the numbers by now, while I’d sat here simply staring out the window.
    I read through the numbers for a couple of minutes, and discovered that our sales had sucked. Seventy percent of my forecasted sales to be exact. It was not the kind of number that would work on a report card, and it was not the kind of number that would work on big executives. So I would simply explain it away. Somehow...
    I searched real hard for the brainwaves that made up my excuses. I came up empty. I spent the next twelve minutes saying “hmm” and twirling my hair. I then stopped to eat a granola bar, which I considered an allowable two-thirty p.m. snack.
    Shit, it’s two-thirty. Where are my excuses?!
    And then, in a sudden burst of light, the powder-puff knowledge spewed forth and I filled up the slides:
    “Our sales took a hit in the final season, due to several external market factors. These included winter storms that affected our weekend sales on five out of nine occasions. With these decreases in traffic and Walmart’s unexpected below-cost killer prices, we were not equipped to meet 100% of our forecast this year.”
    I added in the snowstorm excuse when I remembered all the snow I’d been shoveling in November and December. And Walmart was always a bastard with their cost-efficiencies, so that one had to be true as well. Once that was done I referenced some products specifically, so they would know I had actually studied the report.
    It felt good to put my writing skills to use, even if the cause was a bullshit one. The added confidence was enough to make me drop in some pie charts. Who doesn’t love pie?
    I sent the file to Todd with one minute left.
    Phew.
    With no more Monday deadlines, my brain switched off and I sunk into office down-time mode. This meant some Hollywood gossip online, my eighties Madonna playlist for a soundtrack, and a key recollection of the things I’d learned today: showcase my younger right hand, cross my legs, and use my friends to help me find a guy...

Chapter Four

    Should I eat before the gym? Or should I starve?
    I recalled a Leafs interview from at least ten years ago. In it the star forward described his pre-game routine, which included eating boatloads of spaghetti before every hockey game: “You have to pack it in before you play. Otherwise