I don’t want to get bogged down in the facts – as one does – but I’ve been working for a little more than 100 years now.
What? Sure I’m including the door-to-door selling of greetings cards in second grade.
I’m also including the clarinet-polka stylings of my misbegotten teenage years.
As my father once confided to me over a can of Pabst (his, not mine), “You work and you work and then you die.Are you writing this down?”
I was not - I was six, after all - but I recall the words as if spoken yesterday; and I relay this to you now:HELP ME.
Not big help.Not pay-my-bills help.A joke, maybe.A Netflix recommendation. Because if there’s one thing I think we could all use, every now and then, is a distraction.
My new boss has been wonderfully distracting.
We are in our honeymoon period, and I'm thinking of buying her flowers.
“Can I just tell you that I feel we could be friends outside of work?”
I grin at her.“And can I just tell you that I feel that we are friends, inside of work?”
She smiles.Rochelle is attractive and slim, a quick-witted chick. She stands. "I know this is our touchbase, but can I leave you here while I run to the bathroom? Sorry."
"Of course," I say.
She leaves. I rifle through her drawers, take out a credit card in her name, and send her husband a picture of my feet.
"Sorry about that," she says. "I have no bladder."
"Really?" I say. "None at all?"
She sits down at her desk, frowns at her phone and puts it back in her purse. "Not really," she says. "I am just the peeing-ist person you'll ever meet."
"We should do a Happy Hour," I say.
"In the bathroom," she beams.
We laugh; and for a moment, we're both distracted.