SAm do

I rolled my tired body out of bed, dreading the day ahead of me. One shouldn’t dread going to work. Work is such a big part of our lives; it should be something you look forward to. Perhaps that is just my naive way of thinking. 

I am tired of doing the same thing day after day after day. My computer is going to lock up at least five times before lunch. I am going to get a headache trying to explain stuff I don’t fully understand myself to my project slave. I say she is the slave but in reality I am the slave (or as we like to say tobey) in this relationship, for lack of a better word. 

SAm do this.

SAm do that. 

It gets old. I know she puts her hose on the same way I do. Though she acts superior to all of us. And I know she wears hose. I can see that line going across her big Yankee fat toes. 

Damn, I got a run in my hose. All the way up my leg. Nothing upsets me more than opening a new pair of hose and there’s a run in them. Wouldn’t you know it, that’s my last pair. Now I have to change. I bet Tori has another pair. 

Normally, I don’t have a problem with people of a different background. I can understand what they say. If I don’t, I will ask them to repeat it. Sometimes my southern ears can’t pick up that thick accent. She will tell me to do something, I will do it but it will be the wrong thing. Her command of the English language sucks. What she says isn’t what she means and I will end up having to do something five times before I understand fully what she wants. That gets old. 

SAm do.

Sam do. 

She is the only Yank I know. I hate to judge a whole subculture by one person. But it’s hard. I find myself speculating if all Yanks are like her. 

*Author’s note. I had an old satchel under my night stand; covered with 20 plus years of dust. It contained page after page of stories I had started. This is one example.