A Million Miles, A Million Miles

My office is reorganizing, which turns out to be a reason to do the Happy Dance. I used to nest in the middle of the room, where I was forced to eavesdrop on my co-worker who can’t trust her grown sons to call their own banks, not to mention feel the whoosh! each time someone ran past my desk to bang on the copier. Obviously, using my powers for Good has its limits. I was so sick of the running I was planning to put down tire spikes, and if you think I wouldn’t, think again. Fortunately for everyone, I ended up in a cubicle in a remote corner of the room, where no one notices my hair standing on end like a plasma ball. Two conversations, this week:

Mary: What’s with the pottymouth on Poor Impulse Control?
Tata: I am a foul-mouthed wench, duh!
Mary: Sure, but every paragraph? What’s up?
Tata: I’m testy with piquant hostiility.
Mary: Will you help me and my divine daughter learn how to can fruit?
Tata: Okay, if you don’t mind an attitude that might shatter glass.

And Wednesday morning, 8 a.m. in the ladies room:

Beth: I’ve been meaning to ask your help with something.
Tata: Who, me? I do three stupid things before breakfast every day.
Beth: I have this problem and I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe you could –
Tata: Maybe I could eat cheese and wear at least some of it. What’s bothering you?
Beth: It’s just so weird and I don’t really know –
Tata: Spill it!
Beth: I glued my foot to my flip flop and I can’t get my foot unstuck and –

Beth curls her toes. They are stuck to nothing.

Beth: Oh! Never mind!
Tata: I need coffee…

No, really. I’m doing the Happy Dance.

One response to “A Million Miles, A Million Miles

  1. Pingback: Strange How the Night Moves | Poor Impulse Control

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