Read Online A Total Waste of Makeup by Kim Gruenenfelder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kim Gruenenfelder
Ads: Link
Drew’s face suddenly turns serious. “We need to talk.”
Nothing good has ever come from a conversation that begins with, “We need to talk.” And, frankly, what it really means is, “You need to listen.”
Drew continues, “I met with a fortune teller in Maui, who was brilliant by the way, and we need to spend more time together.”
Uh-oh.
“We already spend sixty hours a week together,” I calmly point out.
“Yes. But that’s as employer and employee. We need to start hanging out as friends.”
I’ve never been so scared in my life. Is there such a thing as friendly harassment?
“Starting with Thursday,” Drew continues. “I’d like you to be a guest at my dinner party. Of course, I’d also like you to organize the party. Now, we’ll need a cheese course—I read somewhere that this year everyone’s doing cheese.”
I open my work notebook (not to be confused with my advice notebook) and jot down “cheese course” as I remind him, “You’re not allowed to have cheese.”
“I’m not?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“No. Your doctor told you to cut down on your meat, and to cut out bacon and cheese entirely.”
Drew looks at me like this is the first he’s heard of it. “Why?”
“Because your cholesterol’s two-twenty.”
“Well, isn’t there a pill or something I can take for that?” he asks.
The question must be rhetorical, because before I can answer, he gets up from the rocking chair and begins pacing around the trailer like a caged jaguar. I can hear the grass mats crunching underneath him. “Get Phil to cater, and have him include Brie. I love Brie.”
I write down “Brie” in my notebook. “What if Phil isn’t available on such short notice?” I ask, hoping this will dissuade him enough to cancel the evening.
“Then get the sous chef he had—what’s his name?”
“Dante?”
Drew jerks his head toward me and stops mid-pace. “Dante? Seriously? Greek?”
“No. Upstate New York white bread, but with hippie parents.”
“Dante.” Drew stands lost in thought for a moment. “What do you think of the name Dante Stanton?”
“I think your mother would kill you.”
“I don’t mean for me. I meant if I ever had a son.”
“I think you’ll have enough to fight about with your son without adding his name to the list.”
“Olives!” Drew points to me accusingly, and I recoil, startled. He begins pacing again. “Greeks do the best olives! Let’s have an olive platter.”
I puff out my cheeks, and breathe out slowly, trying to relax as I write down “Olive platter.” This has red flags all over it. “What do you want for the main course?”
“I don’t know. What’s Dawn’s favorite food?”
“Martinis,” I say sarcastically.
Drew stops again. “You know, I’m picking up a negative vibe here.”
I put down my pen. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m not sure if Dawn is available Thursday night.”
“Oh, she is. I called her, and actually it’s the only night she’s available this week. So I booked her.”
Rats.
Drew pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. “As a matter of fact…she said there was some reason for you to be the guest of honor.” He reads the scrap of paper. “Yeah, here it is! Turns out you’re turning thirty next week.” He says it like, “Wow—did you know fourteen percent of Americans go to McDonalds on any given day?”
He stuffs the paper back in his pocket. “Do you think I should get you a cake?”
What I want to say is, “I think you should get me a Valium the size of a donut.” But instead, I sit in a stunned stupor.
Drew points to me and says—in a tone I swear to God is exactly like my mother’s—“You know, you’re not getting any younger. It’s time we found you a man.”
That shocks me out of my silence. I stand up. “I hear George Clooney’s looking for a new assistant. Been nice working for you.”
Before I can get to the door, Drew takes my arm and spins me back
Nothing good has ever come from a conversation that begins with, “We need to talk.” And, frankly, what it really means is, “You need to listen.”
Drew continues, “I met with a fortune teller in Maui, who was brilliant by the way, and we need to spend more time together.”
Uh-oh.
“We already spend sixty hours a week together,” I calmly point out.
“Yes. But that’s as employer and employee. We need to start hanging out as friends.”
I’ve never been so scared in my life. Is there such a thing as friendly harassment?
“Starting with Thursday,” Drew continues. “I’d like you to be a guest at my dinner party. Of course, I’d also like you to organize the party. Now, we’ll need a cheese course—I read somewhere that this year everyone’s doing cheese.”
I open my work notebook (not to be confused with my advice notebook) and jot down “cheese course” as I remind him, “You’re not allowed to have cheese.”
“I’m not?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“No. Your doctor told you to cut down on your meat, and to cut out bacon and cheese entirely.”
Drew looks at me like this is the first he’s heard of it. “Why?”
“Because your cholesterol’s two-twenty.”
“Well, isn’t there a pill or something I can take for that?” he asks.
The question must be rhetorical, because before I can answer, he gets up from the rocking chair and begins pacing around the trailer like a caged jaguar. I can hear the grass mats crunching underneath him. “Get Phil to cater, and have him include Brie. I love Brie.”
I write down “Brie” in my notebook. “What if Phil isn’t available on such short notice?” I ask, hoping this will dissuade him enough to cancel the evening.
“Then get the sous chef he had—what’s his name?”
“Dante?”
Drew jerks his head toward me and stops mid-pace. “Dante? Seriously? Greek?”
“No. Upstate New York white bread, but with hippie parents.”
“Dante.” Drew stands lost in thought for a moment. “What do you think of the name Dante Stanton?”
“I think your mother would kill you.”
“I don’t mean for me. I meant if I ever had a son.”
“I think you’ll have enough to fight about with your son without adding his name to the list.”
“Olives!” Drew points to me accusingly, and I recoil, startled. He begins pacing again. “Greeks do the best olives! Let’s have an olive platter.”
I puff out my cheeks, and breathe out slowly, trying to relax as I write down “Olive platter.” This has red flags all over it. “What do you want for the main course?”
“I don’t know. What’s Dawn’s favorite food?”
“Martinis,” I say sarcastically.
Drew stops again. “You know, I’m picking up a negative vibe here.”
I put down my pen. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m not sure if Dawn is available Thursday night.”
“Oh, she is. I called her, and actually it’s the only night she’s available this week. So I booked her.”
Rats.
Drew pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. “As a matter of fact…she said there was some reason for you to be the guest of honor.” He reads the scrap of paper. “Yeah, here it is! Turns out you’re turning thirty next week.” He says it like, “Wow—did you know fourteen percent of Americans go to McDonalds on any given day?”
He stuffs the paper back in his pocket. “Do you think I should get you a cake?”
What I want to say is, “I think you should get me a Valium the size of a donut.” But instead, I sit in a stunned stupor.
Drew points to me and says—in a tone I swear to God is exactly like my mother’s—“You know, you’re not getting any younger. It’s time we found you a man.”
That shocks me out of my silence. I stand up. “I hear George Clooney’s looking for a new assistant. Been nice working for you.”
Before I can get to the door, Drew takes my arm and spins me back
Similar Books
