So I quit, and did what I swore I’d never ever do.
I took a job in corporate America.
Next thing I know, I’m shacked up in a Holiday Inn Express just off the Interstate, snuggling up to the most gorgeous PowerPoint presentation I’ve ever laid eyes on. It is irresistible in the way it succinctly makes a case for the product at hand, seamlessly transitioning from one slide to the next. I am bewitched. I want to read it again and again.
And the corporate phantom follows me home.
The other morning when Gus attempted to put on his jacket while clutching a mixed berry fruit and cereal bar:
Me: How about you put down the fruitbar.
Me: That way I can put your hand through the sleeve.
Me: Please do as I say.
Gus: (Glares and swats his lion paw at me) ROAR!
Weird Corporate Ghost Who Inhabits My Body: Gus. I am trying to position you to be successful. With your cooperation we can both achieve our objectives more quickly. Please, put the fruitbar down.
Watch out, toddlers. The boss is taking names.
And when our housekeeper Sherry (after an unexplained two-week absence) left a message on the answering machine saying she had just been released from jail and would be there to clean our house the next day, Larry groaned and gave me that “how many felons have our housekey now” look. To which I haughtily replied, ‘If you are so displeased with the vendors I’ve chosen to do business with, I suggest you take a more proactive role in the selection process.”
Take that, mister.
Don’t mess with corporate.
*Salary (n.): Snack-size bag of salted peanuts direct-deposited into your bank account in lieu of U.S. dollars