B is for Baby Food (Josh / Donna)

The Strange Tale of The Assistants and the State of Union

"There's something weird going on."

"Weird?" Josh looked up to find Sam sat in his guest chair, a perplexed look on his face, "I don't know why you're so surprised. We're what," he glanced at his desk calendar, "72 hours away from the State of the Union. I'd have thought you'd be used to Toby pacing his office, howling and turning an odd range of colours by now."

"That I'm used to." Sam conceded. "Its Ginger. She's eating little food. All the assistants are."

Now it was Josh's turn to look perplexed, "Little food? Eerily little? Like for midgets or something?" He'd been half joking, but to his surprise Sam nodded.

"Well, almost midgets. Babies actually. They're eating baby food, from little jars."

Working in the White House, Josh thought nothing could surprise him any more, but Sam's latest piece of news managed to do just that. He looked at him curiously, "They're eating baby food? The mushy stuff?" He couldn't imagine anything worse, except for maybe his own cooking which tended to be a bit on the hit and miss side. "Why would they do that?"

Sam shrugged, "I don't know."

Josh stared out of the door to his office, to the bull pens beyond, and one bull pen in particular, "Donna too?"

"Donna too." Sam confirmed.

He got to his feet, moved to the door, and then out to Donna's desk where he found her on the phone, doing one of the many menial tasks he'd set her to do that day, in between eating spoonfuls of - he squinted to see the label - mango and pear puree. Yuck.

Her call continued, and so he opened her desk drawer for something to do, and found jar after jar of sludgy looking food mush. Odd. Very odd. And his actions must have irritated her because she quickly wound up her phone call and looked at him in a cross way that only Donna could,

"What are you doing?"

"Me?" he gestured to the drawer, "What are YOU doing? You're like 25 years too old for this stuff."

She said nothing at that point, just stared down into her pot of mango and pear goop, her cheeks turning an interesting shade of pink.

"Donna?" he tried again, "This is a conversation. I'm waiting for some kind of response."

Eventually she looked up, "It's a diet."

"A diet?" he was incredulous, "Baby food is a diet?"

She nodded, still blushing, "You eat 14 jars a day, and nothing else. Jennifer Aniston did it."

He looked at his assistant, his perfectly sized, perfectly petite assistant and shook his head, "Jennifer Aniston needs to. You don't."

At his words she blushed just a little bit more, "I'll be stood just behind you at the State of the Union. I'll be on TV. The camera adds 10lbs."

He laughed then. He didn't mean to, and instantly regretted it because he knew she'd think he was ridiculing her but he couldn't help it. It was insane. "Even if the camera does add 10lb, you'd still look perfect."

There was a moment of silence and he knew what it meant, it meant she was waiting for the funny. The wisecrack. But there wasn't one. He reached into her drawer, pulled out the various jars and dropped them into her waste bin.

She let out a squeal.

"That was my lunch! And my dinner!"

"No." he said, firmly and masterfully, because he knew that was how she liked him best, "We're ordering pizza for lunch, and I'm buying you dinner at Forman's. Same tomorrow. And then, at the State of Union I'll have you beside me instead of behind me, and you know what Donna?"

She looked at him quizzically, obviously taken aback by his show of manly dominance, "What?"

He grinned, "You'll still look perfect. You always do."