The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors (halfshellvenus) wrote,
The Coalition For Disturbing Metaphors

Real LJ Idol: "But Enough About You..."

But Enough About You...

The Real LJ Idol | week four | 661 words
What does narcissism have to do with me?


With what I have to put up with, sometimes it's a wonder I even get out of bed.

At breakfast, Dan started nagging me about using the last of the shampoo and not putting a new bottle in the shower. Honestly, I can't be expected to remember everything. He said it wasn't the first time, but the man loves to exaggerate. I'm sure he's wrong.

The traffic coming into work was slower than a funeral procession. Hello—some of us have places to be! We can't just lollygag down the freeway, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jessica Alba or Kobe Bryant or whoever. Move along, people. Stop stargazing and drive.

My office assistant forgot to pick up my dry cleaning today. She claimed she was distracted by having to take her mother to the emergency room last night, but how does that get my blue Chanel suit here in time for the shareholders' meeting? Plus, she started crying at her desk and making a scene. Talk about unprofessional! I fired her on the spot.

I ran errands at lunch (including a trip to the dry cleaner's, thank you very much), and some woman had the nerve to accost me about donating to a charity for homeless veterans. I told her I wasn't made of money, and I had a schedule to keep. As it was, I just barely managed to stop off and get a venti latte before my manicurist's appointment at one.

So now we're into the afternoon, and I have a ridiculous number of things to do. I have to put an ad together for a new assistant. So inconvenient. After that, I need to go over numbers with Accouting and—hold on, my cellphone's ringing. As if I have time for random interruptions in the middle of a workday!

Oh, it's my daughter, Cassandra. The one who never calls. Seventeen hours in labor and a lifetime of stretchmarks, and she can't pick up a phone once in awhile? Kids these days, I swear…

"Hello, dear, nice to hear from you," I say brightly.

"Hello, Mother. Do you have a minute? I'm calling about Christmas."

Not even, How are you? or How was your trip to Belize? "Christmas," I say.

"Yes." I can practically hear Cassandra fidgeting. "It's only six weeks away, and the baby's due in two. I'd like to get things settled."

"Settled?" I laugh. "What's there to settle—we're having Christmas at the house, of course."

"Mother," Cassandra says (and how I hate it when she takes that tone), "that's half a day's drive for us, and Rob wanted to invite his mother over."

Oh yes, the widow Francine. Dreadfully gloomy. "Well, I'm afraid there just isn't room—she'll have to make other plans. But don't worry about the trip, sweetheart. Babies adore car rides. You always did."

"I got carsick."

"Nonsense. That was just the excitement."

I can hear Cassandra sighing. Always so dramatic… "What Rob and I were really hoping," she says, "was that you and Dan would come here."

"Your house?" Good lord. "Well, I'm sure that's a very nice idea, dear, but it just wouldn't be home. And our house is much more comfortable."

"You've only been living in that house for four years. None of the rest of us ever lived there!"

"Yes, well, that's because your father got the other house in the divorce." Bastard. "But we'll have a lovely time, you'll see. I bought new sheets for the bed in the sewing room just last week, you'll love them."

My office phone buzzed—probably Accounting. "Well, darling, I'm afraid I must go. Promise me the baby won't cry too much while you're visiting? You know how I need my beauty sleep."


What the—? My own daughter just hung up on me. Unbelievable.

I'm sorry, I know how pregnancy can affect the hormones, but that's just rude.

Ah, well. I'm sure she'll call back and apologize later.

Tags: my_fic, original_fiction, real lj idol
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →