dinner.
“Well, I’ll come too. It’s not like I have anything better to do. Rufus still doesn’t know I exist.” She sighs, and I sigh with her.
“But we did kind of have a breakthrough today,” she tells me, brightening. “When he said, ‘The usual?’, I said, ‘No, Rufus, today I’d like the whole-wheat muffin with cinnamon and raisins.’ And then he actually looked at me. So that’s a good thing. I mean, at least he’s paying attention to me now and won’t assume that I’ll just have the banana-granola muffin every day.”
At this point I am rolling my eyes and wondering how many varieties of muffin Tish and Rufus will get through before moving on to the different flavors of decaffeinated coffee.
“Well, it’s certainly a move in the right direction,” I tell her, not wanting to sound pessimistic about her chances of gettingan actual date with Rufus this side of the next century. And then I remember that, unlike my cheating-rat ex -boyfriend, Rufus is coming to my ex-engagement-birthday un-party. Maybe I can give them both a push in the right direction. After all, just because I’m back on the spinsterhood shelf, there’s no reason why I can’t lend a helping hand to my best friend. Oh God, back on the spinsterhood shelf…how retread that sounds.
“Oh Emma, I’m being selfish. After all you’ve been through today, sweetie.”
And then Tish gives me her opinion about my job options.
“Well, I agree you should wait until you get another job before you walk out. Can’t you get a transfer to another department?”
This is an excellent idea.
And Tish tells me what to do about being homeless.
“Ditch Adam and move back in with me. It’ll be like old times. It’ll be fun.”
Only problem is that when I moved out of our rented apartment, Tish bought a one-bedroom shoebox in Hoboken just around the corner from Rufus’s deli. (This was no accident—she scoured the real estate agencies for two years before she found this one.) And although I’m small and don’t take up much room, there isn’t enough space in her shoebox to swing the proverbial cat.
Right. One thing at a time. One problem at the time. The first problem is how I get out of this powder room and out of the building?
After another chat with Daphne-the-ivy, I feel a bit better. I wash my face and carefully reapply my makeup, and you know, I don’t look too bad. And I know what I’m going to do.
Swiftly sneak back to my cubicle and copy all my idea files to diskette before deleting them from the hard drive.
Ditto with hard copy—remove all personal papers relating to work ideas. As it happens, I have a fabulous idea forStella Burgoyne’s company but don’t see why she should get this, as well as getting my man. I hope her toilet-paper sales slump!
Slip up the back stairs (four flights, but don’t want to ride the elevator in case I’m presented with more pity smiles and comments) to Human Resources before Tracey leaves for the weekend. Find out if there are any other secretarial jobs vacant within the company. Or resign.
Go to Chez Nous and meet my lovely, supportive friends who will pour Australian Shiraz down my throat in medicinally large quantities, and generally staunch the blood flowing from my wounds.
4:55 P . M .
Point one of my plan works perfectly. As it is Friday afternoon, most employees have slunk off early to enjoy the weekend with significant others and/or family, reminding me that as of now, I am yet again single and have no one to wake up with.
When I make it up the stairs to Human Resources, thankfully without seeing another soul, I am disappointed that Tracey has also gone for the weekend. And I remember that she and Dwayne, her fiancé, spend most of their summer weekends down at the shore, and I feel like an utter, abject failure. A retread.
This is a major blow, because (yes, I know this is unrealistic) I was hoping to arrange a quick transfer before Monday. At all costs I want to avoid
“Well, I’ll come too. It’s not like I have anything better to do. Rufus still doesn’t know I exist.” She sighs, and I sigh with her.
“But we did kind of have a breakthrough today,” she tells me, brightening. “When he said, ‘The usual?’, I said, ‘No, Rufus, today I’d like the whole-wheat muffin with cinnamon and raisins.’ And then he actually looked at me. So that’s a good thing. I mean, at least he’s paying attention to me now and won’t assume that I’ll just have the banana-granola muffin every day.”
At this point I am rolling my eyes and wondering how many varieties of muffin Tish and Rufus will get through before moving on to the different flavors of decaffeinated coffee.
“Well, it’s certainly a move in the right direction,” I tell her, not wanting to sound pessimistic about her chances of gettingan actual date with Rufus this side of the next century. And then I remember that, unlike my cheating-rat ex -boyfriend, Rufus is coming to my ex-engagement-birthday un-party. Maybe I can give them both a push in the right direction. After all, just because I’m back on the spinsterhood shelf, there’s no reason why I can’t lend a helping hand to my best friend. Oh God, back on the spinsterhood shelf…how retread that sounds.
“Oh Emma, I’m being selfish. After all you’ve been through today, sweetie.”
And then Tish gives me her opinion about my job options.
“Well, I agree you should wait until you get another job before you walk out. Can’t you get a transfer to another department?”
This is an excellent idea.
And Tish tells me what to do about being homeless.
“Ditch Adam and move back in with me. It’ll be like old times. It’ll be fun.”
Only problem is that when I moved out of our rented apartment, Tish bought a one-bedroom shoebox in Hoboken just around the corner from Rufus’s deli. (This was no accident—she scoured the real estate agencies for two years before she found this one.) And although I’m small and don’t take up much room, there isn’t enough space in her shoebox to swing the proverbial cat.
Right. One thing at a time. One problem at the time. The first problem is how I get out of this powder room and out of the building?
After another chat with Daphne-the-ivy, I feel a bit better. I wash my face and carefully reapply my makeup, and you know, I don’t look too bad. And I know what I’m going to do.
Swiftly sneak back to my cubicle and copy all my idea files to diskette before deleting them from the hard drive.
Ditto with hard copy—remove all personal papers relating to work ideas. As it happens, I have a fabulous idea forStella Burgoyne’s company but don’t see why she should get this, as well as getting my man. I hope her toilet-paper sales slump!
Slip up the back stairs (four flights, but don’t want to ride the elevator in case I’m presented with more pity smiles and comments) to Human Resources before Tracey leaves for the weekend. Find out if there are any other secretarial jobs vacant within the company. Or resign.
Go to Chez Nous and meet my lovely, supportive friends who will pour Australian Shiraz down my throat in medicinally large quantities, and generally staunch the blood flowing from my wounds.
4:55 P . M .
Point one of my plan works perfectly. As it is Friday afternoon, most employees have slunk off early to enjoy the weekend with significant others and/or family, reminding me that as of now, I am yet again single and have no one to wake up with.
When I make it up the stairs to Human Resources, thankfully without seeing another soul, I am disappointed that Tracey has also gone for the weekend. And I remember that she and Dwayne, her fiancé, spend most of their summer weekends down at the shore, and I feel like an utter, abject failure. A retread.
This is a major blow, because (yes, I know this is unrealistic) I was hoping to arrange a quick transfer before Monday. At all costs I want to avoid
Similar Books
