Daily Dalliance

The L.A. Times had a dress code we account execs exceeded, preening ourselves in designer suits and $100+ neckties, while clerical staff dressed 'to the nines' and only the artists could adorn themselves in glorification of their creative spirits.


The sexual harrassment code was expressed, regarded serious enough to require annual training recertification for, as incredible as our $900 million in yearly ad sales volume was, the paper would never tolerate an expensive settlement and ensuing scandal to the glee of other dailies in the L.A. basin.


I don't know what she wore to her interview or who hired her, but from day 1, Marsha's centerfold-beauty was constantly clothed in plunging necklines and micro-miniskirts, accented by 'CFMs' ("come fuck me pumps," the other office women spat in reference to them, resenting her beauty and undue(?) attention paid).


Marsha flirted at every opportunity, shook her moneymaker on routine swings through our rows of mini-cubicles, and turned alot of heads that--on occasion--flipped males' fantasy switches to the highest hormonally-induced needle-pegging 'hubba-hubba' readings, often causing sweat rings on twitching, wedding banded fingers.


The beer cart was flying up the aisles as we pushed Friday deadline one night, prepping ads for Saturday, Sunday and Monday editions, when I shook my head and rolled my eyes at Marsha's attire prompting the shimmering beauty to lean over, plant the heels of her hands on my desk (risking bilateral mammary fallout onto my ad proofs) and say, "Know what, Joe-banger? One of these managers is gonna say or do the wrong thing (patting her own buttocks with a freed hand), and I'm gonna be one, rich-for-life girl."


Monday morning at 7AM, I no sooner put my briefcase on my desk than my private line rang and it was a sobbing Marsha, "Richard was at Kim's desk, heard me talking to you, and he just called from his car phone to tell me I'm fired..." just as my head snapped to see Richard entering the office, scratching at his full body rash from a stress-worsened skin disorder, which was my cue to point at the mouthpiece and cover it, shouting at him across the cubicle canyons, "RICHARD! Marsha's bra snapped and she got hurt bursting through her blouse buttons so she won't be in today," which drew his all-time-best death glance and made him scratch himself nearly bloody all day.