All week I waited for an angry call from my boss, demanding to know when I'd be in. Lord knows I've had my share of them over the last year. Working full-time while parenting two children under age five had made me late so often that I literally snuck into work.
My boss's secretary had perfected the insulted sigh for her.
You're late again why? Siiiiggggggghhh. Hold on, I'll put you through.
I even had the excuses ready: ear infection, flat tire, vomit fest, sprained toe, fever, dead great-grandma (it's horrible to admit, but my great-grandmother has died 10 times in the last two years; it's too good of an excuse to give up. Think about it:
1) chances are your great-grandma's last name is different than yours, so if your hyper vigilant boss goes snooping through the obituaries looking for her and can't find her you can say, "Duuuh, her last name is Weinerpeckernoodle and besides, she lives in Cedar Rapids," and
2) no one expects you to be very close to your 110-year-old great-grandma (my God, she probably looked like Yoda when she died—she probably didn't even know your name anymore!), so it's okay if you saunter into work the next day looking completely unfettered by grief. As far as fibs go, it's golden).
Of course, the call never came. Nope, instead of a brrrrring, brrrrrring I kept hearing this delightful little tune:
Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low. Ding dong the wicked witch is dead. Falalalalalalala.
And I, um, don't mean my great-granny.
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