Monday, March 1
My assistant, Mitzi, cancelled the office waiting room subscriptions to Vogue and Elle and replaced them with Fit Pregnancy and American Baby. I realize now that I should have appreciated it when she was only giving me fashion advice.
Frankly, the one magazine Mitzi should be allowed to read is her signature publication, Harperâs Bizarre (sic).
My name is Whitney Blake Andrews, and today Iâm starting a new volume of my personal journal. Itâs been quite a ride since that first day two years ago when I began keeping what I fondly call The Whitney Chronicles. My best friend, Kim Easton, has overcome breast cancer, and her son Wesley has turned three. Iâve been made vice president of Innova Software, located in downtown Minneapolis, and been married for almost two years to Dr. Chase Andrews, the most incredible husband in the universe. Thatâs my personal bias, of course.
And Mitzi Fraiser is still the most aggravating person on this planet, but sheâs my aggravating person, so I love her anyway. Most of the timeâ¦at least some of the timeâ¦in brief spurtsâ¦Hmmâ¦I do remember having a pleasant thought about her sometime between last Christmas and New Yearâs Eve. I think.
Kim stopped over after work tonight so that we could debrief each other on our day at the office. She likes to come to my house for three reasons. There is no LEGO embedded in the carpet, Ernie and Elmo are not the anchormen during the evening news, and there is always chocolate.
Iâve been sacrificing myself in the name of medical science, researching the curative uses for chocolate. It has the same health-promoting chemicals as fruits and veggies. Itâs the least I can do for the good of mankind. How often did I dream Mom would tell me to eat my chocolate cake instead of my Brussels sprouts?
Oh, yes, thatâs another thing I donât understand about Mitzi. She hates chocolate. This is another indication that she is an extraterrestrialâsomething Kim and I have suspected all along.
âWhatâs up with Mitzi these days?â Kim curled her feet beneath her on my overstuffed couch, looking all of fifteen, instead of her actual thirty-three years. âSheâs been acting weird lately.â
âMore than usual? How can you tell?â
Kim grinned and took a piece of milk chocolate with almonds. âThe magazines, for one thing. I got a copy of Pregnancy in my mailbox this morning. And the fact that sheâs turned into the food police. Did you see her whip that Twinkies out of Bryanâs hand yesterday? Youâd have thought he was having a toxic-waste sandwich.â
Bryan Kellund was my assistant before Mitzi was assigned to me. Heâs the only person Iâve ever known who can disappear in plain sight. He fades into the background as though heâs wearing wallpaper camouflage. Thatâs why Iâm so amazed that he found a girlfriend whoâs even more inconspicuous and retiring than he. They cook tapioca pudding to spice up their dessert menu.
Bryanâs current idea of subterfuge is sneaking into the office break room and substituting decaffeinated coffee for the fully leaded stuff and then patiently watching and waiting for Harryâs and Mitziâs energy to wane. Iâve caught him a time or two, but I never say anything about it because Iâve done it myself. Anything that makes Mitzi and Harry a little less hyperactive is fine with me.
âIâve learned not to attempt to figure out what Mitzi is up to,â I said. âFrankly, Iâm more curious about Harry.â
My boss, Harry Harrison, is a software genius and our office mascot. Okay, Harryâs not our mascot, exactly, but his hair is. Two or three years ago he discovered the curly perm and heâs resembled a Chia Pet ever since.
âI think heâs depressed,â I murmured, more to myself than to Kim.
âHarry? Donât you think Iâd recognize it if Harry were depressed?â
Kim has battled depression much of her life. She now has it under control with medication and lots of exercise to get those endorphins moving.
âWouldnât you be depressed if your claim to fame was being washed down the shower drain?â I persisted. âHave you looked, really looked, at Harryâs head lately?â