Miranda

Well I got one of those Miranda bosses from The Devil Wears Prada. She happy about my work because I hear people tell me that, so I must be worth something, but she's always complaining whenever I'm around.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Not unless I'm in your Will, honey - I thought to myself.

She was complaining about all the files I put on her desk for her tons of meetings she had that day. She wants them in her InBox. OK. Not a problem.

She shoots out her requests of me for one hour straight - order this book from Amazon, look for this and that on the Internet, answer her emails, file this and put this on the agenda and look through her hundred pages of notes, read her emails, answer what I can, write papers for her, prepare for her meetings, edit this, figure out what she has to do in the next hour, day, week and year, and write it all down in a list, categorize everything and all this has to be done in less than an hour before she leaves. And I do it.

alas - I'm no longer the princess slave I used to be.