bad about his overly feminine name. Second, the double Jennas was confusing to my friends and acquaintances, who, until the name change, believed that I had an annoying habit of referring to myself in the third person whenever I wanted to eat, take a walk or go to the bathroom. Finally, Jenna II got his nickname because, while he’s a sweetheart, he has a bit of a short temper around animals such as cats, birds, squirrels and other vermin. He does not chase other animals in a playful sense. The hair on his back stands straight up, he bares his teeth and goes for the kill. I have no doubt that Sonny ensures natural selection is accelerated in my backyard. Sonny is biracial. When people ask what kind of dog he is, I reply “Brown.” It’s easier than explaining that he has the howl of a beagle, size of a Lab, tongue of a chow, hair of a terrier, temperament of a pitbull and intelligence of a shoe.
I had a hard time sleeping. My nerves finally got to me and I spent the night alternating between feeling giddy at the prospect of becoming a pro cyclist and anxious with the dread of winding up in jail for fraud.
At 5:00 a.m., I finally gave up on sleep. I arrived in the office at six-thirty a.m., so my first order of business was to send an email to David so that he could see, by the time stamp on my email, my extreme dedication to the firm. David walks past my office every morning at exactly eight-fifteen am. As a result, I make it a point to get in by eight-ten am so that I am at my desk “working” when he walks by my office. On days when I’m in my office on or before seven a.m., I’m always sure to send David an unnecessary email. My hope is that he assumes I get to my desk around seven a.m. each and every day that I’m in my office before him, as my early arrival is how I justify my four-thirty p.m. departure to ride my bike.
After an hour of procrastination, I started working on the assignments that I had billed for the day before. At 10:30 a.m., David came by to check on me. “How are you doing?”
“Good,” I said.
“What’s that?” David asked, pointing to the jar on my desk labeled “tip jar.”
“A tip jar,” I said, making a point to read right from the jar.
“Why do you have it?” he asked.
“It’s mostly a joke,” I said, “but some people feel obligated to tip every time they see a jar, so it’s a joke with an opportunity for profit.”
“That’s very unprofessional,” David said.
“I agree, but clients rarely come to our office, let alone this floor, and never my office, so it’s pretty low-risk,” I said.
David threw it in my garbage can. Some people can’t take a joke. I took it out and waited for his head to get beet red with anger before I said, “Relax, I’m just recycling it.” I set it down next to my purse, smiled charmingly and said, “What can I do for you David?”
“Nothing, I’m just checking on how you’re doing with your pregnancy.”
“So far so good,” I said.
“You know,” David said conspiratorially, “I find the female naked pregnant body to be one of the most erotic sights. My wife and I had an obscene amount of sex during her two pregnancies.”
Goddammit, I was going to vomit. Did thinking about baseball help you avoid vomiting? I stood up and made it three steps before projectile vomiting.
David said, “Are you okay? My wife was really lucky when she was pregnant, she never got sick.”
The mere thought of his wife being “lucky” during a time she was having an “obscene amount of sex” with David Greene nearly set me off again. I excused myself by pushing David out of the way and hauling ass to the bathroom.
For a brief second, I was actually happy about the vomiting, as it validated my story, which I was paranoid someone would see through. I was in first grade the last time I threw up due to non-alcohol related causes. Granted, David’s story was nauseating, but my stomach had held up under worse conditions. My body had
I had a hard time sleeping. My nerves finally got to me and I spent the night alternating between feeling giddy at the prospect of becoming a pro cyclist and anxious with the dread of winding up in jail for fraud.
At 5:00 a.m., I finally gave up on sleep. I arrived in the office at six-thirty a.m., so my first order of business was to send an email to David so that he could see, by the time stamp on my email, my extreme dedication to the firm. David walks past my office every morning at exactly eight-fifteen am. As a result, I make it a point to get in by eight-ten am so that I am at my desk “working” when he walks by my office. On days when I’m in my office on or before seven a.m., I’m always sure to send David an unnecessary email. My hope is that he assumes I get to my desk around seven a.m. each and every day that I’m in my office before him, as my early arrival is how I justify my four-thirty p.m. departure to ride my bike.
After an hour of procrastination, I started working on the assignments that I had billed for the day before. At 10:30 a.m., David came by to check on me. “How are you doing?”
“Good,” I said.
“What’s that?” David asked, pointing to the jar on my desk labeled “tip jar.”
“A tip jar,” I said, making a point to read right from the jar.
“Why do you have it?” he asked.
“It’s mostly a joke,” I said, “but some people feel obligated to tip every time they see a jar, so it’s a joke with an opportunity for profit.”
“That’s very unprofessional,” David said.
“I agree, but clients rarely come to our office, let alone this floor, and never my office, so it’s pretty low-risk,” I said.
David threw it in my garbage can. Some people can’t take a joke. I took it out and waited for his head to get beet red with anger before I said, “Relax, I’m just recycling it.” I set it down next to my purse, smiled charmingly and said, “What can I do for you David?”
“Nothing, I’m just checking on how you’re doing with your pregnancy.”
“So far so good,” I said.
“You know,” David said conspiratorially, “I find the female naked pregnant body to be one of the most erotic sights. My wife and I had an obscene amount of sex during her two pregnancies.”
Goddammit, I was going to vomit. Did thinking about baseball help you avoid vomiting? I stood up and made it three steps before projectile vomiting.
David said, “Are you okay? My wife was really lucky when she was pregnant, she never got sick.”
The mere thought of his wife being “lucky” during a time she was having an “obscene amount of sex” with David Greene nearly set me off again. I excused myself by pushing David out of the way and hauling ass to the bathroom.
For a brief second, I was actually happy about the vomiting, as it validated my story, which I was paranoid someone would see through. I was in first grade the last time I threw up due to non-alcohol related causes. Granted, David’s story was nauseating, but my stomach had held up under worse conditions. My body had
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