I'm not totally sure how it happened, but somehow, during my adolescent years, I became known as simply "Assistant".
You see, my older sister (who is two years, one month, and 7 days older than me) and I were thrown together a lot as children. We were always paired up with the responsibilities around the house. We also shared a room together, which didn't work out very well. Let's just say that tape was adhered to the middle of our floor to separate our sides. She always got the side of the room with the closet, though. I would have to ask permission to cross the room to get some clothes. Ah. Good times.
Anyway, back to the story. We were often assigned cleaning jobs together, such as washing the dishes. I always had to wash and she rinsed. I got the bummer end of the deal. But seeing as how she was two years, one month, and 7 days older than me, she was the boss. (or so she explained to me)
Often times, we were asked to prepare food for lunch, or a snack after dinner. I've always enjoyed cooking, so this should have been delightful. Such is not the case when you are "just the assistant'. Kim was older and wiser, as she often told me, and when we were working in the kitchen together, I was subject to her authority. I was just the assistant. My job was to do everything she, the Cook, asked me to do. We'd be making cookies. This is what I'd hear.
"Assistant! Get me three eggs!"
"Assistant! Wipe up this mess!"
"Assistant! Grease the cookie sheets!"
"Assistant! Measure the shortening!"
Now I can honestly tell you, my hatred for scooping out shortening, measuring it, and then scooping it out again while trying your hardest to get it all out so it stays true to measurement, stems from these moments in the kitchen making cookies with my sister. (I'm a smarty pants now and buy the sticks of shortening. No measuring!)
Have you noticed that I got stuck with all the crappy jobs? I mentioned that to my sister one time. "It is the job of the assistant to do whatever Cook asks her to do, and not to complain! Just for that, Assistant, you get to wash all the dishes by yourself!"
Sometimes we would get to make scones for lunch. We called them Indian Fry Bread, and served with butter and honey, they make a very delicious snack. Again, I would have to scoop out the shortening, knead the dough, and then roll out individual circles to be then, fried by the Cook. Of course, she was the recipient of all the praise too. She was titled "Cook" after all." I was "just the Assistant!", she would tell me. I still don't know what exactly she did when we were cooking together. It seems like I did everything, and she got the credit.
With all this, however, we became best friends. I've learned my place in this world. I am the Assistant. I make a very good Assistant. I don't grumble about all the crappy jobs anymore. I relish the times we are together and I easily revert back to my position of being the assistant. Kimmie, I'll measure shortening any day for you!"
I have to tell you one more quick story about Kim. When she started driving, and I was still two years, one month, and seven days shy of getting my drivers license, I was always the passenger. One day, I reached my hand up to switch the radio station, only to find it slapped away by her just as fast. "I am the driver! It is the privilege of the driver to pick the radio station! When you, Assistant, are the driver, then you will get to decide what to listen to."
Flash forward two years, one month, and seven days later.
I am sitting in the driver's seat and Kim is the passenger (although I would never dare to call her "Assistant". I reach over to flip the radio station. She slaps my hand away just as fast. I am about to tell her that I am now the driver and it is finally my privilege to pick the station when she says "You are too busy driving! You shouldn't be occupied with the radio! Do you want to cause an accident? The passenger isn't busy watching the road. The passenger gets to pick the radio station!"
So it ends. I will never best the boss. Oh, I think I hear her now... "Assistant! Stop jabbering away and end this post so I can make a comment..."