I work for a company owned by Russians.
No, wait. That’s not entirely correct. I work FOR a company owned by Americans, but I work AT a company owned by Russians. I am on site with a customer and therefore sometimes feel like a governess in 19th century England — not quite family, not quite the help. By the way, if you got that reference: you are my new best friend. Take a bow.
Since I work on site, my boss likes to call me from time to time to check in. I like these conversations because he already knows I can do my job well, he just wants to touch base and inevitably catch me up on office gossip and goings on. Today he mentioned that the Russians were coming to visit the office, so if I see any strangers wandering around that’s probably who they are. My response? “Yum.”
Now, you are probably thinking the same thing as my boss was, “When did she become a cannibal?” and “What makes Russians so delicious?” But, because he’s classy, he didn’t say either of those things out loud. He ignored my statement and continued talking about business related topics, although with a slight hesitation in his speech. Who can blame him?
But here’s the deal: when the Russians are in town, they sometimes order in lunch. The person that does said ordering sits on my floor in the office building, so if there are any leftovers they get brought to our common area. Therefore, when the Russians visit we sometimes get to stuff ourselves with their leftovers. Nothing breaks the monotony of a Wednesday like choosing what you are going to eat among things other people didn’t want.
My poor boss. I’m probably just going to leave that comment hanging out there, even though it may have emotionally scarred him, because it may be more complicated to explain it. No need to dig the hole any deeper…he may think I am making a human BBQ pit.