Lala. My temp, my thorn, and the reason my stomach hurts from laughing at the end of every workday. She's impossible to supervise, sassy as heck, and ridiculously proficient at any work I give her. She sings along to her ipod while filing, pours five buckets of flavored creamer into her coffee, makes me weigh myself with her every morning on the scale in the women's room ("Take off your SHOES, Ro-Ra! It's a whole POUND!"), and describes everything as 'hella gay.' Today she asked me, in the throes of despair, what one does when they don't have evening plans: "I never spend time with just me. What should I do? I have hours until bed!" You would've thought she was being drawn and quartered, so great was her angst. "Rent a chick flick and draw a bubble bath! Make yourself a nice dinner and relax with a good book!" I suggested, trying to generate some enthusiasm at what could develop into joyous, newfound independence. Instead, she just stared at me with utter distaste, as though I were speaking a foreign language: "Book?"Man, I wish I could bottle her up and keep her.
1 comment:
Rona, I guess we're old. Lala just doesn't understand the joys of alone-time. One day...
By the way, do you know anyone who isn't gorgeous?
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