Category: Starting an Online Business

If you’ve ever seen me after a vodka cranberry or two, you know the one thing I get heated up about the most is BUSINESS. I start saying snippy things like, “What moron wrote that on the sign?” or “Estelle Getty could have designed a better website,” or, “Who the hell wakes up and thinks, ‘Oh, I know! I’m going to open a new restaurant and serve pizza AND sushi.’” The pizza and sushi thing really bothers me. Ditto the

So last night I did what any young lady would do whose internet has been down since Friday and, as a result, is staying in a randomly-selected hotel to mooch mega-bytes: Wondered what the fine would be for accidentally stealing one of these “firm” pillows–these things are fucking impressive. Side-kicked the air-conditioner upon discovering there was no mini-bar. (Random hotel selection = bad idea.) Contemplated how much a baby St. Bernard would cost, whether or not I could find one

When I was hired as Director of PR for AWeber, the VP of Operations called me into his office two weeks after I had started, and offered me $2,000 to leave the company. “You’ve been here two weeks now,” he started, “and you probably have a good idea if this is a place you’re going to enjoy working at–or not.” I nod calmly. “So,” he tells me, “if you don’t think it’s a good fit, I’m going to give you

Lather up. Choose the perfume-scented body lotion. Put every last hair into place. Rock your most exquisite piece of clothing. Wink at yourself in the mirror. Pull out the stops. Look fucking smashing. And then get to work. Because when you feel like a baller? YOU ACT LIKE ONE.

Ever jump in a pool fully clothed? You gotta try it. Borderline rebellious, without landing you a spot in jail, or any unplanned pregnancies. (Usually.) I’m pretty sure I’ve jumped into more pools clothed than the average human being, which must qualify me for something. Something other than the insane asylum. Or the WWF. My favorite occasion, since we’re clearly having a discussion about this, was at a national sales conference in Atlanta, Georgia. There we were, myself and the

So, I had this grand epiphany the other day. You see, I’ve always wanted a pet peeve. Everyone’s got a pet peeve. At least one. But me? Not so much. I’ve never really had a solid pet peeve of my own, which has clearly left me feeling pretty deprived. I mean, what kind of a person doesn’t have a pet peeve? A nice person, maybe, but we all know I’m not a nice person. Nice people are only called nice

Marriage scares the *#$^!&*(±*@&%^$*#@(±!!)!)!%&@# out of me. As a matter of fact, it scares me so much, there should really be some of these in there: ¡¿¡¿ (For once, buying my Macbook in South America, and having the corresponding Spanish keyboard, paid off. Look at that sexy upside down punctuation! You like them papayas? Do ya? I’m pretty sure I learned how to parallel park faster than I learned how to navigate this keyboard, just for the record.) It’s not

  Being your own boss is infinitely harder than having a boss, and by infinitely (which is a pain in the ass to spell), I mean 17,929,531.9045 times harder. Exact math. The next time I hear someone say that they want to be their own boss, I’m going to take the nearest rotten pork chop and slap them across the face with it because, in fact, that’s kind of what it’s like. Gone are the days when you just take

“Good afternoon, ma’am!” he cheerfully exclaims. I look up from my menu at the outdoor cafe, and I’m greeted by the eager, smiling face of a young boy. One of his front teeth is noticeably chipped in half, but that doesn’t stop him from beaming with uninhibited enthusiasm as he carefully lays down 5 sheets of Hello Kitty stickers to the side of my placemat without permission. Before I can say anything, he takes the lead: “My, your hair color