pick up. “I just saw quite the sick puppy.”
“Hey, Jule,” I say into the receiver. Some veterinarians probably take notes between patients, but Julia prefers to call me to debrief. I’ve told her at least a hundred times that I’m not free to chat at hourly intervals throughout the work day, but her calls keep coming. And I always pick up.
“That poodle must’ve gotten into one very emotional eater’s stash of chocolate,” my wife says. “Seriously, his owner weighed like three hundred pounds.”
“Julia, I’m really kind of slammed right now.” I take in the pileup on my desk, a paper trail of everything we’ve paid out for the August issue: writers, photo shoots, clothing and props, models, intern stipends, and a dozen other things. “I can’t really talk.”
“Oh, come on, did I offend you? I’m just joking. I resuscitated the little doggie, I promise. And this morning I extracted a penny from a cat’s stomach.”
“Yuck.”
“So how’s the tabulation going?” It’s Julia’s usual question; she likes to poke fun at what she views as my very dull job. It just so happens I am midcalculation. I’m only halfway through the issue’s expenses, and we’re already $250,000 up from the July issue.
“Not great, actually. We’re grossly overbudget. Although all Mimi seems to want me to do is track what comes in and what goes out, not make any actual changes based on the numbers. I’m like a Monopoly banker.”
“Or an Excel spreadsheet.”
“Very funny.” Money matters were a different story with Louisa. Every year Corporate kept shrinking our budget, and we’d have to scrimp and scrounge and practically work magic to make the show go on. I scrutinized expense reports line by line—a midafternoon latte while on location was not a valid professional expense, I’d tell the staff—and I unearthed up-and-coming photographers who hadn’t yet realized they could charge the going rate for shoots. It was a real challenge, but a gratifying one.
“So you’re a big spender now?” Julia teases. “Hard to imagine from Target’s number one customer.”
“You know how it is, always living large at Hers. ” I’m not being as facetious as I sound. The thirtieth floor mysteriously hasn’t called us out on our new free-for-all spending sprees, despite no news of an expanded budget. I’ve heard rumors of this kind of thing: Corporate turning a blind eye when a new editor in chief steps in. I’ve learned to not push my questioning with Mimi, but it makes me feel inconsequential to have so little control over the finances, which I’m supposed to be in charge of.
Erin tiptoes into my office and sets a frothy drink down on my desk. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Huh?” Julia says through the phone.
“Sorry, the intern just brought me coffee, but—”
“Oh, the pretty little intern has a thing for you?” Julia asks.
“Mimi thought you might like a Frappuccino,” Erin whispers.
“Of course she did,” I say to Erin, who smiles, then steps out.
“By the way, check your in-box,” says Julia. “I’m sending you more profiles.”
“All ambitious, sporty, and upbeat?” I ask.
“Triple check, and with green eyes, too.” I roll my brown ones—I don’t know what Julia’s obsession is with having a green-eyed child. “Just read them, OK?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lately I feel like I moonlight as an examiner of sperm donor profiles. The process makes me uneasy, and I’d just as soon let Julia pick the guy, but she insists I be involved.
“You have to go, don’t you?” she asks.
“How can you tell?”
“I can hear you fretting your brow from here. It’s deafening. I’ve got a German shepherd waiting on me, anyway. Ta-ta, my love.”
I hang up, then poke my head out of my office to survey the scene: I’m not surprised to see that the desks are all dotted with Starbucks’ signature green straws stabbed through clear cups. I lock eyes with Mimi, who raises her drink
“Hey, Jule,” I say into the receiver. Some veterinarians probably take notes between patients, but Julia prefers to call me to debrief. I’ve told her at least a hundred times that I’m not free to chat at hourly intervals throughout the work day, but her calls keep coming. And I always pick up.
“That poodle must’ve gotten into one very emotional eater’s stash of chocolate,” my wife says. “Seriously, his owner weighed like three hundred pounds.”
“Julia, I’m really kind of slammed right now.” I take in the pileup on my desk, a paper trail of everything we’ve paid out for the August issue: writers, photo shoots, clothing and props, models, intern stipends, and a dozen other things. “I can’t really talk.”
“Oh, come on, did I offend you? I’m just joking. I resuscitated the little doggie, I promise. And this morning I extracted a penny from a cat’s stomach.”
“Yuck.”
“So how’s the tabulation going?” It’s Julia’s usual question; she likes to poke fun at what she views as my very dull job. It just so happens I am midcalculation. I’m only halfway through the issue’s expenses, and we’re already $250,000 up from the July issue.
“Not great, actually. We’re grossly overbudget. Although all Mimi seems to want me to do is track what comes in and what goes out, not make any actual changes based on the numbers. I’m like a Monopoly banker.”
“Or an Excel spreadsheet.”
“Very funny.” Money matters were a different story with Louisa. Every year Corporate kept shrinking our budget, and we’d have to scrimp and scrounge and practically work magic to make the show go on. I scrutinized expense reports line by line—a midafternoon latte while on location was not a valid professional expense, I’d tell the staff—and I unearthed up-and-coming photographers who hadn’t yet realized they could charge the going rate for shoots. It was a real challenge, but a gratifying one.
“So you’re a big spender now?” Julia teases. “Hard to imagine from Target’s number one customer.”
“You know how it is, always living large at Hers. ” I’m not being as facetious as I sound. The thirtieth floor mysteriously hasn’t called us out on our new free-for-all spending sprees, despite no news of an expanded budget. I’ve heard rumors of this kind of thing: Corporate turning a blind eye when a new editor in chief steps in. I’ve learned to not push my questioning with Mimi, but it makes me feel inconsequential to have so little control over the finances, which I’m supposed to be in charge of.
Erin tiptoes into my office and sets a frothy drink down on my desk. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Huh?” Julia says through the phone.
“Sorry, the intern just brought me coffee, but—”
“Oh, the pretty little intern has a thing for you?” Julia asks.
“Mimi thought you might like a Frappuccino,” Erin whispers.
“Of course she did,” I say to Erin, who smiles, then steps out.
“By the way, check your in-box,” says Julia. “I’m sending you more profiles.”
“All ambitious, sporty, and upbeat?” I ask.
“Triple check, and with green eyes, too.” I roll my brown ones—I don’t know what Julia’s obsession is with having a green-eyed child. “Just read them, OK?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lately I feel like I moonlight as an examiner of sperm donor profiles. The process makes me uneasy, and I’d just as soon let Julia pick the guy, but she insists I be involved.
“You have to go, don’t you?” she asks.
“How can you tell?”
“I can hear you fretting your brow from here. It’s deafening. I’ve got a German shepherd waiting on me, anyway. Ta-ta, my love.”
I hang up, then poke my head out of my office to survey the scene: I’m not surprised to see that the desks are all dotted with Starbucks’ signature green straws stabbed through clear cups. I lock eyes with Mimi, who raises her drink
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