How To Disappear Up Your Own Ass

Another Cruella entry briefly. It’s not a funny one but it gives you some perspective about the level of evil we are talking about.

On September 11, 2001 some serious crapola went down here in Manhattan. You might remember it? Big, tall towers, planes crashing, stuff asploding, people jumping?

That morning I was on the subway when it all started. I got to work just a few minutes after the first plane hit the WTC and a few minutes before the second. We (Cruella’s four other assistants and myself) were all huddled round the TV in her office watching the news unfold, while Cruella herself, was still home in her luxury Park Avenue apartment uptown – she never graced us with her presence until at least 11 a.m.

Now a lot was going on. Chaos reigning. Everyone in the company was trying to reach family or friends who worked in the financial district and the WTC in particular. I was trying to reach The Boy who worked at the WTC site. No one was getting through to anyone. Our phones would work but we couldn’t get a line to anywhere. Cell phones were down because just guess where the transmitters were? People were understandably a wee bit stressed.

In the midst of this chaos, Cruella calls, furious because she’d checked her voice mail and had three new messages and Cruella rule number one is: you never let the phone go to voice mail, it must be answered. This crime is akin to murdering your own mother after first sodomizing her with Erik Estrada.

One of the other assistants took her call (it figures that most of NYC can’t get a line in or out yet the Devil manages to connect).

“Have you seen the news this morning?” this assistant asks Cruella. “Have you seen what’s going on?”

“Oh that World Trade thing…” Cruella said dismissively, “Yes, I heard about that. But this phone business is not going to be tolerated. I have important clients that have to be attended to!”

We finally got rid of her and all sat down on her designer velvet sofa and watched the news come in about the plane hitting the Pentagon then the Pennsylvania plane. Most people had already left to try to get home. Cruella had called again around 10:30, right as the first tower at the Trade Center was falling.

“There’s a man I need you to call…” Cruella says. “He’s a jewelry designer. He has an ad in Cosmopolitan. He makes this sapphire ring in a platinum setting. I want one.”

At this stage only three of us assistants are left, the others having gone to rescue their kids from daycare. One of the assistants has been IMing her friend who worked on one of the higher floors at the World Trade and the connection just went dead. We’re all freaking the hell out. So, we’re all a little speechless at her request.

Her personal assistant, who was still there with me and the other girl took the phone and said, “Look. Everyone has gone home. We are about to leave. There is no public transport. There are no cell phones working. All the bridges and tunnels are shut down. Everything below 14th Street is an emergency zone. The ARMY are in the street with guns. People are throwing themselves off a 110 story building rather than burn to death and you want us to buy you jewelry?”

There was that silence you get when everything stops at once.

“But…who will answer my phones?” Cruella whined, clearly unhappy.

“Voice mail.” said her PA and hung up.

When work resumed the following Monday after a six day hiatus, Cruella was hyper and irritated because we were “out of the loop”. One of my fellow assistants’ best friend was a fire fighter who went in to the WTC and never came out. She was at work but understandably freaked. Cruella berated her all day about all the things she was messing up because her mind was elsewhere.

The part that really got me was all day long she had us write thank you notes to “important” clients who’d been calling her on her cell to make sure she was ok.

I guess they had no idea she was four miles away, uptown when this stuff happened and as soon as it got serious she got her family in her SUV and made her driver, who had to eventually find a way back to Brooklyn, take them to her Connecticut farmhouse. Of course she was fucking “ok”. If that woman ever went below 42nd Street she’d die from the cooties.

This is who Cruella is. Completely free of reality or scruples of any sort.

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18 Responses to “How To Disappear Up Your Own Ass”

  1. pistols at dawn Says:

    I can’t believe my dream woman is already taken.

  2. The Guv'ner Says:

    Hahaha,well don’t let that stop you. I mean she got her dream man that way. I believe the story is her now husband/then lover was married to a lady dying of cancer or some other terminal illness when he left her for Cruella.

    So you’d totally be in with a shot. šŸ™‚

  3. Catherinette Singleton Says:

    Christ, she sounds hateful and evil. Perhaps she would mentor me?

  4. The Guv'ner Says:

    I think she got where she is today by the method of “hateful and evil” šŸ™‚ Not everyone has the stomach for it. I’m always amazed no one of her former employees ever went back with a mask and a sawn off shotgun…

  5. katrocket Says:

    It’s times like this when I’m tempted to reexamine my opinions about heaven and hell. I hope she ends up in the burning lake of fire.

    I would also settle for some good old fashioned irony. Maybe she’ll get cancer and her husband will leave her.

  6. The Guv'ner Says:

    The truly astonishing thing is, she is a cancer SURVIVOR. You’d think that whole episode would’ve driven a LITTLE empathy or humility into her life but I guess not.

  7. T Says:

    I’m a cancer survivor and I’m still as charming as before. What Miss Cruella has that most people don’t have the balls to be like is the ability to base everything in life on herself, or ultimate selfishness. I wish I had that ability, but then I would never get laid, -just ask my wife.

  8. The Guv'ner Says:

    True words Sir. I’m very happy YOU are a survivor, her, not so much. Boy that was mean. Oh well.

    She gave many examples of her feelings of self-worth during my stint with her but that one just iced the cake for me. I mean really. It was extreme. Even the Guv’ner (who talks about herself in the third person, hello!) is a little aware of the suffering of other people and the fact it’s more important than what she wants on her sandwich at lunch. (egg salad)

  9. pistols at dawn Says:

    I’m going to start wooing her and cutting her hubby’s brake lines. I’d be the icing on her cake, by which I mean I’d use her untold millions to purchase, build, and eat massive cake forts.

  10. The Guv'ner Says:

    Honestly, every woman needs a man like you, who worships the cake.

    Even though I read that as a ‘cake FARTS’ which had me slightly repulsed. (and a little turned on)

  11. Leonesse Says:

    I saw Farts too, and was a little put off. While Cake Farts may be preferable to, say… chili, I will still pass.

    One (and only one, most likely) reason Pistols and I would get along would be that I don’t particularly like cake. But have a fondness for baking. Not that I have time lately.

    I have the dream man. I just wish he came with the money he was supposed to. From his wonderful invention to save third world countries from hunger. And the tiara. I need these things along with a lifetime supply of beer from every brewery in the world. He didn’t come with that either. DAMN that fairy godmother. DAMN HER.

  12. The Guv'ner Says:

    Your fairy godmother is a BITCH!!!

    Although, I think that the reason she didn’t grant you the entire wishload was the fact you admitted yourself: you don’t like cake. What sane person doesn’t like cake? That’s not normal behaviour. You don’t like cake, you don’t get the COMPLETE dream man. Tsk!

    Wait…your dream man is supposed to come with a tiara?

  13. Leonesse Says:

    The tiara is for me. The Pretty Pretty Princess!

  14. Bert Bananas Says:

    See? This is why I spend my money as soon as I get it, thus saving myself from its corrupting force. My gawd, the thought of a rich me sends chills all the way down to my tail! Not to mention that if I had the kind of money you hint at in your story, you’d very likely being carrying my whelp or raising it in modest affluence.

  15. Josh Says:

    tell them all about our cat licking up breast milk for cruella’s baby!

  16. The Guv'ner Says:

    Bert: That’s sort of what I do too although I don’t really spend the money as soon as I get it so much as it’s sucked out of me by Con Ed, Time Warner Cable and my scary landlady but same difference.

    This woman (Cruella not my landlady!) is married to a guy who was a bigwig at a major global company. He was basically wiping his ass with hundred dollar bills before she met him and she had a modest sum herself which quadruplified after her alliance with him so in the end she had no context of the value of money. She thought nothing of buying a basic white ribbed tank top for $400 with a designer label on it that you could get at GAP for five bucks for the same quality (minus the label). It horrified me. Some days all we would do was spend her money because she wanted stuff all the time. I guess a therapist would have a field day analyzing that behaviour. She was obviously lacking something important in her life. Hard to sympathize with that level of selfishness however.

  17. Chris Says:

    Sadly, in order to maintain behavior such as hers — behavior that is completely out of what we consider the norm — she must have a network of people who reinforce that behavior. People who DO consider that sort of behavior the norm.

    In other words, I bet her friends are just as bad. And doesn’t THAT just suck?

  18. The Guv'ner Says:

    her friends were all either corporate ladies with testicles or ladies-who-lunch. She considered herself part of that socialite set that really she wasn’t. All her friends were horrible whiners who spent money like it was going out of style and called to gossip several times a day about mutual friends. Lovely.

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