Another work story, perhaps?
My boss frolicked in to work this morning discussing Riverdance in order to prime us for his ultimate announcement - he’d like to be a Riverdance dancer. (Mentioning this to my dad at dinner, the response was “Kstati, ya tozhe.” They’d make a great team.)
He then took 3 lunch breaks, each time returning to the office in order to discuss his food. It turns out that although the Chinese place near the subway is not recommended for humans (according to coworkers), he enjoyed the “explosion of tastes and colors” that was his chicken.
Reflecting upon his productivity that day, he approached my desk around 6pm to solemnly inform me: “Rimma. Someone beat me with the lazy stick today.” I understood what he meant. However, something about my facial expression must have indicated otherwise, which prompted him to further illustrate the point. Lifting the imaginary bat that I like to keep in my cubicle and placing himself in the shoes of “someone,” he began violently beating the air. He then returned the lazy stick to its original position, behind my computer apparently, and asked me if I liked his haircut. I pretended that the extremely sudden topic change was not at all strange, and assured him that the sacrifice he made in order to eliminate his reliance on hair gel was worth it. Concerned that I didn’t quite understand the gravity of the situation, he explained that had the gel dependency continued, “What would be next? Manicures? Getting my back waxed?”
He then took 3 lunch breaks, each time returning to the office in order to discuss his food. It turns out that although the Chinese place near the subway is not recommended for humans (according to coworkers), he enjoyed the “explosion of tastes and colors” that was his chicken.
Reflecting upon his productivity that day, he approached my desk around 6pm to solemnly inform me: “Rimma. Someone beat me with the lazy stick today.” I understood what he meant. However, something about my facial expression must have indicated otherwise, which prompted him to further illustrate the point. Lifting the imaginary bat that I like to keep in my cubicle and placing himself in the shoes of “someone,” he began violently beating the air. He then returned the lazy stick to its original position, behind my computer apparently, and asked me if I liked his haircut. I pretended that the extremely sudden topic change was not at all strange, and assured him that the sacrifice he made in order to eliminate his reliance on hair gel was worth it. Concerned that I didn’t quite understand the gravity of the situation, he explained that had the gel dependency continued, “What would be next? Manicures? Getting my back waxed?”