George, Your Spiritual Advisor is on Line One

And a quick note, before we start, that my chapbook “I Was Raised to be a Lert” is available. A PayPal link has been set up, or you can e-mail me.

Some of the stories in the book are re-worked posts from this blog, but some are previously unpublished. Makes ya wonder, duddin it?

“Be alert,” my dad always says. “The world needs more lerts.”

That’s what I’m trying to do here: raise lert awareness.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled silliness.


Prior to my current job as Data Base Freak and Office Eye Candy, I was an Executive Assistant, a position I held in various corporations for over 15 years. You shoulda seed me. Why, even now, I type like the wind, have the spelling and grammar of a woman much smarter than I am, and cut a dashing figure in the lunchroom.

And don’t forget the modesty. I’m crazy with the modesty.

As an Exec Admin I was acutely aware of the stress that goes into being the Vice President of Stuff. The people I supported were busy, expected to work 70 or more hours a week, and relied on me to keep their best interests in mind.

A job two or three back, I had an athletic boss with a bad hip, a man who needed to move about in order to stay flexible, a fabulous man we’ll call George.

When I first started working for him, George was required to be in two, back-to-back all-day meetings. Two days of serious nodding, of producing PowerPoint slides of sales figures punctuated with amusing anecdotes. Two days of being “engaged”.

Limited breaks, working lunch.

Yuck.

At 10:00 on the first day, and for the first time ever, I took a liberty.

I knocked briskly on the door of the conference room, walking in. A dozen suits turned to look at me as I strode into the room and handed George a note.

“Please see me immediately in the hall.”

George stood and nodded to those at the table as he left the room: “Gentlemen.”

When we got into the hall he looked at me expectantly.

“I thought you could stand to stretch a bit,” I said.

George stared at me and then smiled. Big. “Pearl, why you little…” he threatened.

“Why I oughta…” I countered.

Over the course of the afternoon and the next day, I popped in a couple more times:

“George, I will need to reschedule your elbow-bleaching appointment so as to fit in a visit with your aroma therapist. Please advise.”

“George, your office chair is on fire. Permission to put it out?”

And every time, George would stand, nod to those at the conference table, and say “Gentlemen”.

Then he would leave, walking the halls for 5, 10 minutes, working out the kinks in his knees and hips.

Good ol’ George.

Why I oughta…