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Wanna Work for Me?...

Wanna Work for Me? Musings from the Corner Office

I don’t mean to complain, but …

Yeah, who am I kidding? This bitch loves nothing better than a good bitch session.

But just to prove BB is an equal opportunity offender, I thought I’d dish a little dirt on myself for a change.

No, I’m not cooking the books (or anything else for that matter—just ask my boyfriend!). I simply thought it would be healthy to dispel the myth that yours truly is the model corporate citizen she appears to be.

Perhaps the person most familiar with my collection of quirks is my long-suffering assistant. I admit I ask her for frivolous personal favors with such regularity it’s becoming routine. It’s not that I’m such a mean person—it’s that she’s such a nice person, and through the years she’s added a rather random range of requirements to her job description.       

Of course her day-to-day duties aren’t exactly those of the typical admin; I’m way too much of a control freak with a capital type A to let anyone else answer my phone, schedule my meetings, or sort my mail, after all. Instead I prefer assistance with much more practical things, personally speaking. 

Lie to my mother. Why? Well, I hate to lie to my mother, but the truth is that I can’t always arrange to be in a meeting when she calls and I already travel enough without adding a Mommy Dearest guilt trip to the agenda. So when the magic number pops up on caller ID, I SOS my PA to pick up and provide an alibi. No, she’s not here. No, she’s not screening. Yes, she is still single.

Pick up my meds. Indeed, I farm out pharmacy duties to my assistant. Is this legal? Who cares? She is motivated by enlightened self-interest and regularly volunteers to retrieve refills, lest she face the consequences of a ride on the mighty mood swing …

Escort me on errands. It can be lonely at the top, and on occasions when I actually have to leave my gilded corner cage, I always take my assistant along for company. She holds my blackberry while I bank, plays along with the double mani/pedi, and orders my cocktails when I am in the loo. And while her fundamental function on these outings is to provide companionship, she doesn’t mind taking part in a little trash talking about the people we pass along the way.

Give me gossip. My assistant has to feed my need to be in the know, no matter where I go. I require regular e-updates on ridiculous celeb rumors to spice up otherwise mundane meetings. Posh and Becks, Lilo, TomKat … She can’t understand why I am so interested in getting the star gossip and honestly, I can’t explain it myself. But since she works for me, I don’t have to!

Perform postal duties. I know, who goes to the post office anymore? Thankfully, not me. The place is truly the epitome of inefficiency, staffed by a bitter bunch whose idea of customer service is going postal. But sometimes a girl’s gotta mail a gift or get a stamp, and who better to deal with the drama than my own personal postal worker? Unlike me, the naturally skinny pick doesn’t need the extra exercise, but she says she likes the fresh air, so who am I to stop her?

Let’s see, what else? Lots actually, but just looking at this list is starting to make me feel like a bad boss. Think I’ll send my assistant to Starbucks to get me a cup of pick-me-up …

Remember, if you don’t have anything nice to say—even if it’s about me—my door is always open …

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