Saturday, December 5, 2009

Resuscitating Tiger

Cansecos? No.
Rodruiguez? Don't care.
Bryant? Whatevs.

Short of "IF THE GLOVE DON'T FIT, YOU MUST ACQUIT!", I have never followed an athlete-related scandal. I'm a girl's girl and therefore couldn't care less about the sleazy shenanigans of self-absorbed, overpaid professional athletes.

HOWEVAH, I am finding the Days of Our Lives-esque salaciousness of the Tiger Woods scandal irresistible. What is not to love?

Tiger's PR is what's not to love. Who is responsible for this mess?!

For those of you who need a refresher, below is a timeline to bring you up to speed. Then we'll discuss.

November 25

The National Enquirer reports that Tiger is having an affair with New York event planner Rachel Uchitel. People don't care until...

November 27

Tiger crashes his Escalade near his Orlando, Florida home. It is reported that Tiger's wife Elin used a golf club to smash a window in order to free her husband from the car. (Allegedly, he was unconscious and bleeding from the mouth when police arrived).

November 28

Woods turns police away from his home and asks them to come back the next day. Rumors swirl that Tiger's injuries resulted from a 9 iron wielding Elin who, according to neighbours, "beat his ass".

November 29

Tiger releases a statement asking for privacy and calling the incident "embarrassing for my family" and again refuses to speak with police regarding the accident.

Later, the 911 call made by a neighbour is released. See above.

Rachel Uchitel, who days earlier had been named as Tiger's mistress, denies any affair.

November 30

Tiger withdraws from the Chevron World Challenge at Sherwood Country Club, California due to injuries sustained in the accident.

December 1

Woods is charged with careless driving and given a $164 fine.

December 2

Us Weekly reports that Los Angeles cocktail waitress, Jaimee Grubbs, alleges that she and Tiger had a 31-month affair and posts a voicemail on their website allegedly left by Woods on Grubbs' phone days before the car accident in which he warns that his wife may be calling her.

Apparently, Elin did call and left a voice message that said "You know who this is because you're f***ing my husband." OH SNAP.

Clip below:

That's not all. The same day, the media links a THIRD woman, a Las Vegas club marketer to Tiger.

Tiger releases another statement apologising for his "transgressions". He does not specify just how transgressy he has been.

Transcript of the statement below (from his website):

I have let my family down and I regret those transgressions with all of my heart. I have not been true to my values and the behavior my family deserves. I am not without faults and I am far short of perfect. I am dealing with my behavior and personal failings behind closed doors with my family. Those feelings should be shared by us alone.

Although I am a well-known person and have made my career as a professional athlete, I have been dismayed to realize the full extent of what tabloid scrutiny really means. For the last week, my family and I have been hounded to expose intimate details of our personal lives. The stories in particular that physical violence played any role in the car accident were utterly false and malicious. Elin has always done more to support our family and shown more grace than anyone could possibly expect.

But no matter how intense curiosity about public figures can be, there is an important and deep principle at stake which is the right to some simple, human measure of privacy. I realize there are some who don't share my view on that. But for me, the virtue of privacy is one that must be protected in matters that are intimate and within one's own family. Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn't have to mean public confessions.

Whatever regrets I have about letting my family down have been shared with and felt by us alone. I have given this a lot of reflection and thought and I believe that there is a point at which I must stick to that principle even though it's difficult.

I will strive to be a better person and the husband and father that my family deserves. For all of those who have supported me over the years, I offer my profound apology.

December 3

The media reports that Rachel Uchitel has met with and possibly hired celebrity lawyer Gloria Allred. People freak out.

Uchitel announces her intention to hold a press conference in Los Angeles but cancels shortly before the conference is scheduled to take place.

December 4

Claims emerge that Tiger offered Uchitel $1 million to cancel the press conference. Rumors circulate that Uchitel has gone into hiding because she fears for her safety.

Meanwhile TMZ releases an email exchange between one of Tiger's employees and Uchitel, dated November 9, details plans for the two to meet in Australia.

US Weekly magazine hits news stands featuring an interview with mistress number two, Jamie Grubbs, which clearly exposes her as a Grade A Dipstick. Yes, that's an official title.

December 5

A fourth woman comes forward claiming she had a long-term affair with Woods that began in 2004, the year he married his wife. Allegedly, the woman has hired a lawyer and intends to make a statement to the media. Uh Oh.


OH LAWD! Can't you just see Tiger slinking around his mansion, trying to avoid Elin's angry side eye as she menacingly waves a golf club at him while standing over a burning wastepaper basket containing their now void pre-nuptial agreement?

This is not the point, though.

The point is that Tiger Woods has failed to follow the basic rules of crisis communications as outlined by Vincent Covello, a prominent authority on the subject. According to Covello, the cardinal rules are:

  • Accept and involve the public as a legitimate partner
  • Plan carefully and evaluate your efforts
  • Listen to the public's specific concerns
  • Be honest, frank and open
  • Coordinate and collaborate with other credible sources
  • Meet the needs of the media
  • Speak clearly and with compassion

So, where has he failed?

Tiger is in serious violation of rules number 1, 4 and 7. He has not acknowledged that the public has a right to know anything of substance, which makes him come across as insincere. He is taking for granted that his fundamental right to privacy exempts him from having to offer any direct explanation or sincere apology. He has consistently been standoffish and, in my view, condescending, which has resulted in unflattering reports of his behavior (ie: he is rude to service staff, refuses to give his autograph to eager children and is a poor tipper). Keep in mind that nobody ever talked shit about Tiger before a week ago.

The public feels, on some level, that they have been personally deceived. Here is this person who we put up on a pedestal and he turns out to be no better than a deceitful philanderer.

The fact is, Tiger Woods is not just a man who made (humped) a mistake or four. He is a brand. He is the single highest paid athlete in the world. His squeaky clean image made him an ideal spokesperson for, well, anything really. He has accepted the role of public figure because he has reaped the rewards of that status and therefore he cannot just decide that his fans have no place in his life. The sooner he accepts this, the better.

Tiger is not sorry enough. The public is simply not going to accept his continued silence or inaction on this matter.

Your move, Tiger.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Guest Post- Jill f*cks up.


Hey, bitches. Allow me to introduce you to my second guest poster, Jill, and her biting sense of humor. Enjoy...

There have been times in the jobs I've had when I've fucked up. It doesn't matter how it happened, really. There's the Inverted Number Sequence Catastrophe of aught three, the Wrong Address Paper Mix-Up of ninety-nine... I'm sure you've all had your own. Oh, the stories I could tell! But there's definitely a special chapter in that particular book of fables for the collective fallout of these mistakes. 

This may shock you, but as a woman, it is a big deal when I mess up at work. When a man makes a small computing error he is “only human”, for a woman mistakes are a symptom of feminine silliness. It's frankly a wonder we can get through a full day without blowing something up, right ladies? For men it's a one-time thing, for women just another in a string of airhead moves.

I can't count the number of times a male supervisor has tried to make me feel stupid over something that's as natural to humans as breathing: fucking up. I have news for you, superiority-complexed male supervisors: one wrong digit does not an idiot make. I've sat there patiently, having the simplest tasks explained to me over and over again. I've put up with your condescending tone. I've refrained from screaming “I AM WAY SMARTER THAN YOU, ASSHOLE!” But no more. 

Right now, I am outing you publicly. All you smarmy middle managers with your dull-witted cries of “you must be pregnant!” when I feel sick. All you limp-wristed, fleece-vest-wearing jokers who make lame comments about PMS when I am legitimately pissed at your incompetence. 

I am smarter than you. That's right, I said it. 

No longer will I leave the house feeling crisp and in control, only to return eight hours later feeling  bedraggled. I have your number, middle manager man. 

I  demand you take me seriously from now on. I will not laugh at your PMS jokes. I will look at you like you have six heads when you suggest I am pregnant. 

Most of all, when you explain something simple to me for the three-hundredth time, because you just can't get over that one time I got it wrong, I will say: “Thank you, but I figured that out already. If you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

I can't stop making mistakes. I have faith that I will find new and challenging ways to fuck up in the future. But you know what? So will men! 

YUPB readers, don't be trapped by the middle manager man. He's an idiot. You just keep on walkin' in your fab, fab shoes.  

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

B.I.L.F.- Dr. Mehmet Oz


Photo Originally uploaded by David Berkowitz

I have what you might call a bad case of White Coat Syndrome. That means that any time I am near a medical professional, I want to run screaming from the building. I mean, let's be honest here, where else do you go but a doctor's office to put on a paper dress backwards and then have a near-stranger ask banal questions about your life while they speak directly into your crotch? Yeah, almost nowhere. Exactly.

Don't get me wrong; I respect the work that doctors do. I can't imagine what it must be like to have to pinpoint what is ailing a person while they anxiously relate a laundry list of obscure symptoms. Even more difficult, I think, must be to retain empathy and, especially, a sense of humour.

Meet Dr. Mehmet Oz, a Harvard educated cardiologist, author, and humanitarian  who happens to manage to do both of those things while acting as Oprah Winfrey's personal physician, which, btw, is the modern day equivalent of the guy from the Tudor court who had the prestigious job of collecting the king's poo everyday. I mean that in a good way.


He is not your typical pill-pushing MD. He strongly supports energy-based therapies, such as acupuncture, yoga and meditation; he studies "blue zones", geographical areas where residents have higher life expectancies than developed countries and he serves on the Board of Trustees for One Voice Movement to promote healthier dialogue between moderate Israelis and Palestinians.

 Intelligent, open-minded and selfless?

*Sigh* Love him.

Have you ever seen him on Oprah? He approaches even the most disgusting things with such a happy-go-lucky attitude that he could almost be the biology professor you had a crush on back in Uni. And while he is somewhat simian, I can't help but be turned on by the way he can take a dismal medical prognosis and make it seem like someone has just handed you your VERY OWN UNICORN. 

I want to put him in my pocket and carry him around for those days when I need to be talked out of laying on the floor and eating cheese. Don't you?

Word of the Week- Bovarism

Bovarism (BO-vuh-riz-em) .n.     An exaggerated or glamourised estimate of oneself. Conceit.   From  the French Bovaryisme (after Emma Bovary, the title character in Gustave Flaubert's famous novel 'Madame Bovary'.)
For example:    
" When she speaks, she literally looks down her nose at you whether you are taller than her or not. Everything about her body language and mannerisms belies unreasonalbly high self-esteem. This woman's bovarism practically oozes from her pores."

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Identity Crisis: Shabs Jones?

Darlings, forgive me for the hiatus, but I have just returned from world's most insane interprovincial road trip. I promise, I'll never leave you like that again. We good? Great. Love you more.

Okay, before I get started, let me just throw this one down: Vegas is Satan in municipal form. If you plan to travel, go somewhere (ANYWHERE) else.

Moving on...

Lord help me, YUPBs. I am trying to buy a house this week and it is a jungle out there. Apparently, the real estate market has recovered just in time for Mufti and I to purchase a house in one of the most expensive markets in the country.

House shopping is most definitely an exercise in restraint, which has never ever been my strong point. I am exceedingly sorry to tell you that I have found myself nose to nose with perhaps the biggest dilemma facing a Young Urban Professional Bitch.

I think Willie Shakespeare posed the question best when he wrote:

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...

Or, as pertains to my case: To keep up with the Joneses or not to keep up with the Joneses. That is the question. And, in this story, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune are vanity and greed. More specifically, my vanity and greed.

Because here's the thing: while I didn't grow up wealthy, I certainly didn't suffer materially. We were middle class. Sure, I did some coveting, but who hasn't? That said, I am not a materialistic person nor have I ever been. My husband has cited this very attribute as one of the main reasons he married me. I don't really care about things so much as about experiences and have never put down "be filthy rich" on my life to-do list. Furthermore, I often openly mock people who need other people to know how much money they have or people who are ultra-secretive about how much money they have/make. I really think that level of seriousness on the subject is pretentious. Yet, there I was, agonizing not about the price of the house or the location but mostly about what other people would think of it and whether the house would accurately reflect where we are financially.


That's right boys and girls, throw me a comb-over and an extended length reality show that nobody gives a f*ck about because I have officially entered a level of douchebaggery reserved for the Donald Trumps of the world. I am a greedy white man. I am the female version of Dick Cheney. If this experience were a vintage Super Mario Brothers game, my outlook on it would be the warp zone to Social Climbing Bitch Land.

The thing is, I know that you are never supposed to admit that kind of thing out loud, which is precisely the reason I'm doing it. Because, while I know that those things don't really matter, I can't help but care about them all of a sudden. It was a huge eye-opener to realize that I actually give a shit about this kind of nonsense.

I think I know where it came from, too: living in Alberta. 

You see, one of my major problems with living in the wild rose province is that the government and many, many individuals I've met here (most, but not all) seem to think that money is the most important thing in life. If you have more money than the next person, it makes you better than them, so they seem to think. Albertans value money over much more important things: the environment, health, truth. If you think I'm wrong, just look at the effects of the oil sands and the way most people defend them, as if the money they generate excuses anything at all.

So, I'm running for my life and hoping that a return to my kinder, gentler home province of B.C. will erase my newfound love of money. However, if you see me driving around in a jacked up diesel truck with testicles hanging off the back hitch, just do me a favour and lobotomize me.

Monday, August 10, 2009

In Which I Invite My Readers to Unravel a Mystery of Great Cultural Importance Part 1

Once again, I spent this past Friday night surrounded by smart and gorgeous YUPBs. This time, we chose a small Moroccan-decorated Greek restaurant where the food was small but delicious and the house wine is made by...Wayne Gretzky. I got the feeling that the restaurant was having an identity crisis and they weren't the only ones. Several of us were having a "crossroad day" as well.

This night didn't stand a chance, do you see where I'm going with this? Everything was a little strange right off the bat.

After a couple of bottles and some appies, we decided that we should go to a place that was a little more happening where we could dance, do some shots and get our crayzay on. When we got there, one of the first things I noticed before we skipped the line (we're KIND OF A BIG DEAL- sorry, I have been waiting for an opportunity to get all Kanye West Caps Lock on yo' asses...) was a very tall girl in a very tiny outfit. Too tiny. I don't just mean that she was violating actual decency laws, this outfit was outrageously short AND unflattering. I wondered aloud to my friends why this girl's companions hated her. They must; otherwise, they would never have let her wear that out of the house. Poor girl. Whatever, though, that was not the point of the night, right? I went ahead inside and followed the girls to the bar.

I spent the next few minutes rooting through my stupid purse for bills and when I looked up, I had a definite WTF moment: 

Were my friends and I the only women in the bar wearing pants?

When did fashion shift to the pantsless variety?! Suddenly, I was swimming in a nauseating sea of doughy white, cellulite-laden thighs. There were dresses so short that I'm pretty sure that they should have been shirts and shorts so short that they barely escaped dimpled bum cracks. Ew, gross, I thought. How tacky (Speaking of tacky, fast forward a couple of hours to us in a cab, opening the door to a group of girls outside a bar and demanding to know where their pants are).

Okay, I decided to focus on something else and settled on the music (and the cheesy bouncer standing on a chair and waving his crotch around). I started noticing that most of the songs were strikingly similar, Cher circa 2000 kept coming to mind. You know, that song "Believe" where she sounds like a robot. I started to listen to the songs: Black Eyed Peas, Kanye,  Sean Kingston...all the same. Ah, the 808 (a synthesizer used in music production). That's what it was.

How strange that, all of a sudden, music sounds the same and nobody is wearing pants. I started to ponder this: could it be that it was not a coincidence? Could it be that the decline of pants popularity and the increased usage of the 808 in Top 40 music were somehow linked? 

But who would stand to benefit from such circumstances?

I am back from Vegas on Sunday. I will give you until then to enter your guesses. Stay tuned for part 2...

Guest Post from LilMissFemmeFatale


Hey Everyone, Shabs here. As I am away in Vegas this week, one of my fellow YUPBs has generously offered to post in my absence. Enjoy, or don't- but let's hear what you think of her POV! 

Nature Vs. Nurture: Professional Edition

It’s a strange world we women live in nowadays. Our biological nature tells us to “be nice, especially to your fellow woman” and “help people” and “think of yourself last” and all that shit. Meanwhile, feminism and the women in the work-world that are a product of feminism are telling us “do what you have to do to get ahead” and “you deserve to succeed” and “think of your professional future first” and all that shit. Seriously, what’s a girl to do?! Working women are having an identity crisis, and we don’t even know it. 

I like to think that I’m a nice person. I want to have good relationships with other people, especially other women. Women these days have to deal with far too much other crap to turn on each other: rape, sexual, physical and mental abuse, prejudice, racism, the list goes on. (And that list doesn’t even include the less mentally-, physically- and emotionally-damaging crap, like pregnancy, cellulite and trucks with testicles hanging off them.) If we want violence against women to end we have to fight against it as a united front, both in and out of the workplace. Especially when violence and prejudice against women in the workplace is still, after all these years, a problem.

(Sorry, mini-rant there. My “pet” cause is violence against women. But I’m sure you picked up on that.)

However, while I do want women to cultivate good relationships with each other and be united and all that, I really do want to get ahead in my professional career. I’m a competitive person, and my professional life is no different. Between 9 and 5 I will work my ass off to be better than her, whoever “her” may be. Be a better writer, be more creative, be more charming, get more clients, get more money, get more promotions, get more recognition, more, more, more. And because I want to be nice, I won’t be upfront about it. I’m sure most people don’t realize how competitive I actually am, because all this is going on in my head. I’m constantly secretly working out how to do better than you. If you ask me for help I’ll purposefully give you just enough to make you think I’m helping…but not enough to help you succeed, because I don’t want you to. Isn’t that bitchy? But I don’t apologize. My identity means that I’m nice until we’re in a boardroom together. It’s easy for me to separate how I feel about you personally to how I feel about working with you.

So yes, I love my female relationships. But if you get in my way in the job setting, I will take you down. And I’ll smile sweetly while I do it.

- LilMissFemmeFatale