Category: Pet Peeves

What Is It With Building Contractors? REALLY THO. (Plus a Lesson on Pre-Qualifying Your Clients Or Die.)

Okay, serious question: why is it that building contractors are the worst human beings ever worst business owners on the actual planet? What is going on here? Do I need to make an online course? Do I need to open the Ashley Ambirge School of Business for Contractors, Home Improvement Specialists, and Other Slippery Assholes? (That SEO could get interesting.) Guys. It’s killing me. I’ve had one window company and two different wallpaper hangers take allllllllll the time to get

“You Think Some Other Man is Going to Want You?” A Note on Standing Up to Bullies, Causing a Scene & Never Being Afraid to Use Your VOICE

“You think some other man is going to want you?” It was only one of the things I heard him say to her from across the mahogany that evening. He was fit and tall and tan—mid thirties, maybe—as if he’d stepped out of a look book from Charleston, and she, tiny and petite, with porcelain skin and long flowing brown hair. They were traveling by yacht, and had to dock here in Costa Rica for a few days because of

There’s a Difference Between What Something Appears to Cost You—And What Something Actually Does

“Ma’am…you don’t happen to have ninety cents on you, do you?” she asked, counting out change on a picnic table. “We’re just a tad bit short.” We were coming out of a Wawa in Clearwater Beach, Florida, just this morning. (And if you don’t know what Wawa is, this is the actual equivalent of never having seen the ocean.) “Sure!” I replied, rummaging around in my purse. I gave her a dollar, and started off on my merry way. When

So This One Time I Thought I Had Breast Cancer—And The Doctor Was a Huge D*ck

So today I placed my boobs into a giant, hospital-grade George Foreman grill and held my breath as the nurse took the X-ray. Let me tell you what, there is nothing quite like hoisting the flesh of your nipple onto a cold metal surface while a stranger watches. I mean, they’re definitely judging you. If not the size of your areolas, your dexterity. They’re there tapping their foot while you’re fuddling along with some necklace that never effing clasps when

I was at Pulse Orlando.

“Wait,” the stranger said, running his fingers through my freshly cropped ‘do. He pulled a stray piece of hair from my face and carefully molded it back with his hands. “Now, girl, now, you’re ready to strut your stuff.” His name was Juan. He was only one of the incredible people I met at Pulse Orlando that night. That night, only a few months ago in February, when it was also a Latino themed dance party night. That night, only

An HR Handbook for Dealing With Assholes

Here’s a pessimistic point of view: People are assholes. The older I get, the more I seem to notice them—which is either because the more time I’m alive the more I increase my odds, or because that god damn Certain Dri deodorant is actually some kind of dick magnet. Or, you know, maybe it’s the internet. As a tool that’s given a population of people one big, fat pink slip to run around screaming, “Me! Me! Me!” all the live

A Meditation on Shit Talkers

I got mad yesterday—like ear steaming, red hot, high-pitched, erratic kind of yelling mad. And, you know, I don’t get mad often. I’m generally very level-headed, very calm. Unless, of course, I’m drinking wine, in which case, “level-headed” might not be the best choice of words. Just ask the guy who filed a bogus chargeback on his credit card recently. I don’t play games. LET’S DO THIS, SON. But yesterday I got mad for a different reason—nary a fermented grape

Cowardly Business Owners: An Epidemic?

Yesterday, I got stood up. As you may know, I have my hands in a boating company, and yesterday, a brain surgeon from the Carolinas simply didn’t show up for a charter—despite having submitted a sizeable deposit, and despite the manager waiting for him at the marina, calling, emailing, iMessaging. One might be worried, if we hadn’t seen him later on that very afternoon at the local grill, at which point, hot-to-trot-fancy-free proceeds to completely ignore the manager—and our shouts

Hurling Macbooks, Clubbing Pet Hamsters & Other Sunday Pleasantries

I used to tell my mom everything—from my (entirely uneventful) thoughts on men, to my idealistic views on the world (ignorant conservatives should have their bibles switched out for a Spanish-only edition as punishment for being cruel to immigrants), to the many “what do I do?!” moments one has while attempting to be an adult. Or…something. Then, of course, she had to go and die, which meant a lot of things, but also this: My friends were doomed. I have

You Can Always Make More Money, But You Can Never Make More Principle.

I can’t help but wonder if the man seated in 22D has witnessed me biting my lip over and over and over and over again for the past 4 hours. There’s a cycle, you know. Bite, peel, move left. Bite, peel, move left. Bite, peel, command myself to stop. And then bite again. He must think I’m one of those people who gets anxious when they fly. I laugh at the thought. Somehow, being torpedoed through thin air in a