Rejected headline: Club Dead, bad memories go hand-in-hand
Today at Club Med/Club Dead/Veggie Patch (take your pick — they’re interchangeable!), we are having a retirement party for a 42-year veteran of the hellhole. I will miss him. We don’t talk much, but he’s a sweet fellow who always has a smile for you.
Other than the fact that I am appalled that half the association decorated the conference room yesterday in black (sweet jesus — black is for death or “over the hill”! Retirement parties should be in primary colors, you morons! < / party planning expertise >), I am dreading the fact that I am expected to attend such events and take photos. And I hate that.
Let me tell you why.
I started working at Easter Seals on my 24th birthday (it’s a theme, really, because I started my next job on my birthday, too, but I digress). We were hosting a graduation party for the kids in our school program. I was handed a beautiful Nikon and told to cover it for our newsletter, which I was in charge of. I was already somewhat nervous about acting like an idiot in front of the kids (as I had not really interacted with children with disabilities before that), but the kids were the highlight.
What was not the highlight was this derelict clown they hired (I have photos of the whole ordeal). He was in an orange-and-yellow clown suit, but with no hat, no wig, no makeup (and no brain, but again, I digress). He had a mullet and needed a shave.
He was frustrated with the kids, who understandably couldn’t pay attention well or even get his stupid jokes. So he started frothing over all of us young ladies, as the schoolteachers were all about my age. He decided to play a game, and long story short, I ended up blindfolded and having a whipped cream pie thrown at me.
Luckily, I saw enough movement to know that I was in for something, so I ducked, but I ended up with cream all over the side of my head and part of my suit. And as it was my birthday, I was planning to meet friends at the Funny Bone after work, so I had hoped to not have to take the bus all the way home to change. But I did.
After the incident (which my colleague Sheela caught on tape — she was so stunned, she didn’t know what to do but keep snapping photos). I stalked out and took my lunch hour right then and there. I went to CVS and sprayed myself with body splashes, as it was 90 degrees and I was smelling like a wet cow, thanks to the dairy delight in a foil pan.
I had to stay the whole workday, with my Eau de Spoiled Milk scent. Everyone at work was surprised when I came back. So was I. But I left at 5, cleaned up at home and met my friends and family late. My employer eventually stopped payment on the clown’s check and contacted the magazine they had found his advertisement in, Pittsburgh Parent, to announce that he was a flake. The magazine pulled his ad immediately. So I did get justice, although I still have a hard time laughing about the situation. 😉
So, long story short (as if it were possible) is that I have a physical, negative reaction to any event in which I am required to be staff photographer. Last event we had (our president’s going-away party), Shan suggested I grab my camera, and I said “NO” with such vehemence that she almost fell over. I realized, after a few minutes, that I associate taking photos with that horrible event in 1998. And sorry Tiff, but I hate clowns because of it (except you, of course! lol).