BK

When it comes to ribs, or any meat for that matter, I'm usually willing to pay more than $1 for it.  I think it's just a good rule to live by.  But thanks for the gross offer, BK. 

Study Finds Cubicles To Be Soundproof

A recent study has found that when you take personal calls at your desk, not a single one of your cubicle neighbors can hear a word that you say.  Acoustical engineers from several leading universities have determined that an invisible, soundproof, barrier rises up out of the floor, encases you in a bubble, and prevents everybody in the immediate vicinity from hearing about your plantar fasciitis and your gambling addiction, and even that one time you may have been talking about having murdered someone.

According to researchers, it is a widely held misconception that if your cubicle neighbor is sitting on the opposite side of a one-inch-thick fabric wall, they will be forced to listen to every second of your annoying, bullshit, personal conversations.  When in truth, the study finds that you can say whatever gross, disturbing, and totally weird thing that you want, and your coworkers will just think that you're working really hard and doing your job.  They won't have heard a thing.  Not even the part about how you had diarrhea all last night.
 

The totally soundproof chambers

The rising of the invisible, soundproof, barrier may be triggered by speaking the words "Jiffy Lube," "What are we doing for Thanksgiving," and/or "Let me get on Expedia and give you a call back," although some evidence suggests that repeatedly clearing the phlegm from ones throat may also be effective.

While the invisible, soundproof, barrier has been confirmed, further research is needed to determine whether or not people standing outside of your cubicle can still see you scratching your ass.

Performance Evaluation Asks Secretary About Accomplishments, Goals

In a totally uncalled for, dick move, Human Resources has asked a secretary to complete a Performance Evaluation detailing her accomplishments from the past year.

"Are they kidding?" asks the secretary, squinting at her computer screen because she can't believe that's an actual question that anybody would ask of someone who routinely empties the K-cups out of the Keurig machine. "I mean, they've seen my job description, right?"

The Performance Evaluation, which is distributed to all employees regardless of how depressed it will make some of them, is due on November 16th.

"I haven't killed myself yet. Does that count?" sort of jokes the secretary as she tries to just click Submit without filling in any of the comment boxes. "Crap, that doesn't work."

The secretary, who has mentally run through all of her typical tasks, numerous times, is unable to pick a single one that could non-sarcastically be referred to as an accomplishment.

“Answering the phone, opening the mail, bringing the Fed Ex packages outside to the Fed Ex box. Could that be one? I mean, I always get it out there before the 6:00 p.m. pick-up time.” Upon being informed that, no, that is not an accomplishment but rather a regular duty that a Golden Retriever could perform, the secretary returns to staring despondently at her computer screen, only to find that the next question asks about goals she plans to set for the coming year.

“Christ.”

While it would seem reasonable that HR develop separate evaluations – one for employees who work on important projects and make actual decisions, and one for employees that print out Google Map directions to Town Hall – they have consistently failed to do so.

“Do they really need to rub it in my face like this?” asks the secretary, catching out of the corner of her eye the stapler that she once spent two hours trying to un-jam. “I guess I’ll just say that I plan to ‘catch up on my filing’ and maybe ‘take a class in Word’ or something.  That shows ambition, right?”

After drumming her fingers on the keyboard for several seconds, the secretary decides to type a single period into all four comment boxes before hitting Submit.  As of press time, the secretary was seen heading home to work on her second novel.

How We're Celebrating Halloween At The Office

1.  Switching to an orange highlighter.
2.  Imagining each of our coworkers dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.
3.  Wearing the black cardigan that eternally hangs from the back of our chair.
4.  Abandoning giant bag of Necco Waifers in the break room.
5.  Listening to Thriller until asked to stop.
6.  Coughing from flu virus.
7.  Egging boss's house on our lunch break.
8.  Bringing glow sticks to status meeting.
9.  Changing ringtone to Monster Mash before setting it to vibrate.
10. Leaving early.

Classroom Notifications

One of the worst things about preschool is receiving the dreaded Classroom Notification email.  These emails never notify you about anything good.  It's never "Surprise! We're keeping the kids for the weekend plus here's a coupon to Mohegan Sun!"  Usually it's about an outbreak of lice, foot & mouth disease, or conjunctivitis.  This past week I received one for a confirmed case of Fifth Disease.

Fifth Disease?  Anyone ever heard of this? I hadn't, so I consulted Wikipedia which said:  The name derives from its historical classification as the fifth of the classical childhood skin rashes (preceded by Measles, Scarlet Fever, Rubella, and Duke's Disease).  I can picture it now:

Scientist #1:  Well fellas, we've got another case of that mysterious rash.  I think it's time that we gave it a name.

Scientist #2:  Where's Duke?  He always comes up with the best names.  Well, except for Duke's Disease, he kind of just mailed that one in.

Scientist #1:  Shit, Duke's out sick today with Rubella. Now what?

Scientist #2:   I dunno.  How 'bout we call it Fifth Disease, since it's like the fifth one on the list.

Scientist #1:  You have a brilliant mind!   

According to Wikipedia, the disease is also referred to as slapped cheek syndrome, slapcheek, slap face or slapped face. There is a disease referred to as SLAP FACE?  Now the idiotic disease name makes a bit more sense, because clearly the scientists were these guys:

 

Slap Face.  As my son would say, "Real??"  Yes, real.  There is a chance we will have to take you to the doctor for a case of Slap Face.  Then, I think, I will get questioned by someone from Child Protective Services.  I can't wait for next week's notification about a confirmed case of Rotavirus - also referred to as Stinky Butt Syndrome, Poop Butt, Poopy Buttcheeks, and Stinkbum.

It's going to be a long winter. 

Pinterest is the Devil

A lot of my son's preschool friends are having birthday parties at those places that are filled with bouncy castles.  If you don't already know what that is, I don't really know how else to describe it.  I mean, it's a big room and it's filled with bouncy castles and parents stand around awkwardly in their socks trying to make small talk with other parents.  And I think they might have Wi-Fi.  Anyway, we considered having my son's party there this year, but since we are also going to Disney World we decided to just have an at-home family party instead.  Of course this morning he asks me if we're going to the bouncy place for his birthday.

Me:  "Not this time, buddy.  We're having your party at home because we're going to Disney World."
Him:   "And because that's going to be more fun than the bouncy place?"

Shit, I hope so.  I mean, you can bounce all day for about eleven bucks.  Maybe we should have discussed this before we booked the big fancy trip.

But anyway...we're having the party at home.  And in the spirit of our fun but apparently not as fun as a bouncy castle place vacation, I decided to do a Disney theme.  At first I wanted to do a Classic Mickey Mouse theme - red, black & white.  You know, this guy:

I figured I could find some decorations to buy online and then get some red and black plates & napkins.  Done and done.  But do you know what actually happens in the year 2013 when you Google the phrase "classic mickey mouse party"?  Fucking Pinterest happens.

Things started out bad:

Cupcakes with bows and Oreo cookies on sticks with at least five removable parts.  Is it even fun to eat an Oreo cookie off a stick? It seems like it would immediately crumble and fall on the floor. 

Then things got even worse.  Now we're talking homemade subway signs.  Homemade bottle labels.  HOMEMADE STRAWS.  I'm not sure what's going on in that bottom righthand picture, there seems to be a can of Coke and some Redi Whip.  Probably a special "signature" drink.  These types of parties always have a signature drink. 

And worse:

Exactly how many sets of lollipop molds do I need to invest in for this party?  Is that even a thing?  I take solace in the fact that every kid leaving this party is in for a boatload of cavities. 

And worse still:

Now they're bringing mason jars into it.  Totally uncalled for.  Never mind that I'll need to get out some sort of drill in order to make the straw holes.  You may as well ask me to make corn on the cob in the middle of the afternoon. 

Then there's the popcorn buffet, because to throw a party like this you need to have invited at least 350 people:

I'm not sure why Goofy is pulling an American Pie on that bowl of caramel corn.  Pull yourself together, man.  This is a children's party.  Of course there are also take away bags for the popcorn with three different stickers to hold it shut:

Don't get me wrong, all of these parties are gorgeous and I would love to do them if I had unlimited time and money.  I obviously write all of this out of total and complete jealousy. But I'd also love to be able to buy some of this stuff from Party Express if it were an option.  It's not an option.  If you want to do any of this you have to craft it yourself.  Or you have to hire someone to craft it for you and spend the equivalent of a small Bar Mitzvah.  Unfortunately, most of us can't do either of those things. Yet Pinterest bombards us with these pictures of what a "good" Mickey Mouse party should look like. It used to be that we only saw these pictures in magazines, and we knew that real people weren't actually doing it.  But with Pinterest, we start to think it's the norm. 

Fortunately for my family, what was an option at Party Express was this 8 pack of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse cups (or "goblets," if you will):

And these bags of chips from Stop & Shop:

And these favor bags with a star on them from Target:

The only signature drink that we will be having is a packet of grape Kool-Aid that my son is super excited about.  I think it will be okay.  And if not, who cares? We're going to Disney World.

Ridiculous Food Art

When I titled this post "Ridiculous Food Art" I didn't mean it like "Woah, that food art's ridiculously awesome!"  I meant it like "That food art's ridiculously stupid."  I found the article in the October issue of Parents Magazine while eating breakfast one morning (having just served my son a peanut butter sandwich with a side of grapes).  The tagline read:

 Turn simple ingredients and techniques into adorable meals that will wow your picky eater. Here's your permission to play!

Hey Parents Magazine, I know you want us moms to really live it up and go nuts, but if you think carving flower petals out of cucumber skins is our idea of "playing," you can take a flying leap out of the parenting magazine business.    

Here's idiotic food creation #1:

My first reaction is - when did my kid go on Weight Watchers?  A few carrot sticks, half a hard boiled egg, a leaf, a few scraps of cheeses?  It's not even supposed to be a snack - this is supposed to be a meal.  And, according to the article, this "meal" has 197 calories.  I found recipes with similar calorie counts on a website called "3 Fat Chicks."  But whatever, that part's secondary.  My main annoyance is that I should stand there in the kitchen pissing away twenty minutes crafting this thing to a) present it to a 3 year old, and b) present it not only to a 3 year old, but present it to a 3 year old who will immediately disassemble it.  

Here's idiotic food creation #2:

This is one of my favorites because it involves having to make corn on the cob.  Not only will I have to make corn on the cob in the middle of the afternoon, but I will have to make corn on the cob just so I can slice off two small pieces.  Then I also have to make an omelette.  I bet those paper thin carrot slices and dry bits of pita bread are real filling.  My son totally won't be looking for snacks after this meal is over.  

Idiotic food creation #3:

Now we're back into Weight Watchers territory.  31 calories!  Nice.  Your toddler will have that coveted thigh gap in no time.  And what kid wouldn't want to be presented with a plate full of grass from the backyard? Those are actually chives there under the mushrooms.  Have you ever eaten a pile of chives?  No?  THEN WHY THE HELL WOULD MY KID?  They could have at least fashioned a little pool for the ladybugs out of ranch dressing. Jesus.  So let's see what my kid would eat here - okay, hang on a minute, carry the two....NOTHING.  The person that wrote this article seems to have forgotten that these were all intended for A PICKY EATER.  Guess what?  A picky eater would eat absolutely nothing from this dish, unless the yellow spots on the ladybugs are made out of mini M&M's.  But something tells me they're made out of quinoa or lentil beans or something equally revolting.

Idiotic food creation #4:

This is where my growing toddler eats a meal consisting of 16 Cheerios.   I won't even pretend to know how they carved that grass out of a cucumber peel, or whose kid actually eats cucumber peel.

And last, but not least, idiotic food creation #5:

The worst part of this one is the link below it that says "Our juggling monkey would be perfect for a birthday party with a circus theme."  OH REALLY.  Am I supposed to make ten of these for all his friends? Why are they even here for breakfast? Are they sleeping over?  Fuck that.  You know what kids actually want for breakfast?  Chocolate chip pancakes.  Or munchkins.  Especially if it's their birthday.  God, this thing is like a punishment.  "Here's a plate full of weird smelling cheeses and raw red peppers....we love you buddy!"  

In conclusion, I will never make any of these things ever.  When I was little and my mother wanted to get me to try new foods, well, I actually don't remember what she did.  Which might be my point.  Your 3 year old will never remember if you made him or her any of these fancy looking dishes.  If you feel like they simply must eat mozzarella balls and arugula, just throw it on a plate like a normal person.  Because this, Parents Magazine, is not normal.  This is the kind of shit moms see on Pinterest that makes them feel bad about themselves - right next to the pictures of birthday parties where everything is made from scratch using twine and chalkboards and upcycled vintage bathtubs.  

Cool it. 

Bath Time

I apologize to anyone reading my blog (there is someone, right?) for writing a bunch of posts about my kid rather than work related subject matter.  Now that I've gotten the apologies out of the way, here is another post about my kid.

Bath time, also known as I Can't Believe Our Bathroom Floor Is This Dirty, generally begins around 7:30 p.m.  In a previous phase of ones life, the words "bath time" might have brought to mind wine, an eye mask, and a CD of soprano saxophone music.  In the current phase of most parent's lives, the words "bath time" bring to mind utter fucking chaos.

The announcement of "It's bath time!" is typically followed by the child announcing "I want a snack!" and rifling through the snack cabinet for the most inconvenient food possible.  After wrestling a box of Zatarain's Spanish Rice mix out of his hands, we compromise on a "squirt applesauce" and head upstairs.  And by "head upstairs" I mean my husband holds the child by the armpits while the child walks horizontally up the stairs.  It's totally safe.  I don't know why, but I am always reminded of the Randal walk from Clerks, which I will now force you to watch because it's my favorite movie and everything reminds me of it:



Now that we've managed to Randal to the top of the stairs, squirt applesauce is being successfully squirted into his mouth, and we've almost made it into the bathroom where the cat who likes to drink out of the toilet is now drinking out of the bathtub.

Child:  "Aah!! Cat hair in the water!!"
Me:  [Swishes the water around a bit.]  "All gone!  Time to take your clothes off!" 
[After a good five minutes of running back and forth into the walls, child begins to remove clothes]
Child:  "Watch this!"
[Child works his underpants down to his foot, kicks his leg, and flings the underpants across the room like a burlesque dancer]
Me:  "Very impressive.  Now let's get into the tub."
[Child works his shirt up onto the top of his head and parades back and forth down an imaginary runway]
Child: "Look at my beautiful hair!"
[Husband raises concerned eyebrow]
Me:  "Okay buddy, it's time to get in the tub or we won't have enough time to read books!"
[Child finally undresses and rolls around on bathroom floor in exact spot where he drops his pee soaked Pull-Up every morning]
Me:  "I can't believe our bathroom floor is this dirty."

This seemingly quick exchange actually takes a good ten minutes.  Eventually, under the threat of NOT HAVING ENOUGH TIME TO DO STICKERS, he gets into the tub.  Then he gets back out because he forgot to use the toilet.  Then he gets back in and we spend the next few minutes negotiating water temperature (which is basically a ploy to get me to turn the tap back on so he can fill/dump/fill/dump the rinse cup).  Then we throw in all of his bath toys (see Exhibits A & B below).

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

The next step is for the child to yell "IT'S IN MY EYES!" before I've even come near him with the soap.

By the end of it all, my hair is frizzed up like I've been riding around on the Maid of the Mist, my pants are soaked, and my hands are totally dried out.  Of course the other end result is a fresh smelling four year old in Spiderman pajamas who really, really, wants to give you stickers.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

He Eats What We Eat

He eats what we eat is yet another one of those statements that moms make in order to make other moms feel inadequate. I'll tell you what my son eats: peanut butter sandwiches. He is very close to existing solely on peanut butter sandwiches. Not even peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, just peanut butter. He’s apparently had some sort of falling out with the jelly, which I might pursue further if it was say, broccoli. But it’s not, it’s jelly. It's okay if they stay mad at each other. So he’s been having peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast and dinner quite a few times per week. He gets on these kicks. The same thing goes for t.v. shows. Like last week he watched probably two hundred consecutive episodes of Peep and the Big Wide World, but if I even suggest it to him this week it's like I asked if he wants to watch the extended version of Lincoln. 

He eats what we eat. Right. I usually at least attempt to get him to eat what we're eating, but you tell me how you think this will go:

Me: Dinner’s ready!
Child: What are we having?
Me: Sausage and Escarole soup!
Child: What?
Me: Sausage soup.
Child: I don't like soup.
Me: You like sausages.
Child: I want a peanut butter sandwich.
Me: You should try some soup.
Child: I can walk like a crab!

Maybe it’s my own fault for serving something that contains leafy greens. Or beans. Or “on-yongs” (onions). Or, God forbid, carrots that aren't "school carrots" (Really, what is that preschool lunch lady doing with the carrots? Apparently she's some kind of culinary genius). So unless I make something standard like spaghetti or chicken, I'll let him have a peanut butter sandwich. It just makes life easier. He eats what we eat. Are you guys eating Toaster Cakes with grapes every night? If not, how did you accomplish such a feat? When he was a baby did you throw a bunch of baked stuffed shrimp into the food processor? Eat at the all-you-can-eat Indian buffet before breastfeeding? Coat his binkie with guacamole? I mean, my kid won’t even try a taco containing nothing but meat and cheese. And he's suddenly got this grudge against dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets.

Child: Is that a T-Rex?
Me: No!  It's an oval!  See?  (bites the head off)
Child: I don't like ovals.
Me: You're in luck, this oval has legs and a tail!
Child:  I want a peanut butter sandwich.

I don't know. If your kid seriously eats what you eat, and eats more than one bite of it per evening, good for you. I don't know how you did it.  Maybe you arrange everything on his plate to look like a scene from Jake and the Neverland Pirates.  I don't have the time, the talent, or the mini toothpick swords for that kind of thing.

Or, and this is my real theory, you just never allowed your kid to taste a peanut butter sandwich.

The Time Goes By So Fast

“The times goes by so fast” is what they say about raising children.

Yes, the time certainly does go by fast when you have exactly fifty minutes to get your three and a half year old ready for school in the morning. I won’t even get into the Carol Bradys who insist that we “enjoy every moment” of it. Obviously those people have never had to read a thirty-two page book about Dora the Explorer rescuing King Unicornio.  But I digress.

The morning typically starts out with me entering his bedroom.

“Good morning, buddy! Time to wake up!” I chirp, turning on the lamp.

“No! Too sunny!” barks the child. I turn off the lamp.

“Ahh! Scary eyes!” The scary as hell illuminated eyeballs of our cat, who is standing out in the hallway, are glaring at us. The cat is actually trapped behind the safety gate at the top of the stairs (too fat to fit through) and starts tearing the carpet to shreds.

“It’s ok, it’s just Patrick,” I say, taking a brief intermission to chase the little d-bag down the stairs.

“School today! School today!” I say in my beautiful sing-song voice, closing the door behind me. If anybody ever came into my bedroom, early in the morning, singing "Work today! Work today!" I would probably rip their arms out.

“Too tired!” Child sits up, rubs eyes, and flops forward onto face.

“Ok, you can lay there while I pick out your clothes.” I take one step in the direction of the closet.

“No! I WANNA PICK OUT MY CLOTHES!” With zero transition between the two, the child shoots from a laying down on the face position straight into a standing up position. He starts to climb out of the bed, but is distracted by the fact that the raised piece of wood that keeps him from falling out of bed also makes for a great motorcycle.

“Vroom! Vroom!” and other related noises ensue.

“Ok, buddy. Time to pick out your clothes!” Request is ignored.

“Vroom! Vroom!”

I physically remove him from the motorcycle and place him on the floor.

"It's time to get dressed now,” I say, firmly. Definitely firmly. It is at this point, when the child is completely under my supreme authority, that his eyes roll back in his head, his legs give out, and he starts to perform the African tribal dance number from Coming to America.



“Stand up please.”

She’s your Queen –to be!

“Please help Mummy.”

A Queen who’ll do whatever his highness desires…..

"Ok, I'm going to come back when you're ready," I say, leaving the room and shutting the door. Two seconds later a naked from the waist down child emerges in a state of utter and complete panic.

"HAVE TO GO PEE!!!"

Much to the delight of our other cat, who is obsessed with drinking out of the toilet, the child proceeds to pee, not flush, and leave the toilet lid up. I flush, close the lid, eject cat. We march – or log roll – back to the bedroom where we then get down to the business of dressing.

One of my son’s favorite past times is to inch backwards after each item of clothing is fitted onto his frame. Since I am on my knees during the whole getting dressed process, by the time we get to the socks I am practically face down on the carpet. Unfortunately I am not able to shoot back into a stand-up position with the same ease as the child.

“Time to go down for breakfast!” I say, snapping the extremities back into place and brushing cat hair, fuzz balls, and wood chips off of my black dress pants. Down the stairs we go, stopping to ask every single day why the first spindle on the railing spins while the rest of them don’t spin. “Because it’s broken,” I answer, for the thirty billionth time. “Please don’t spin it or it will break even more.” Child spins the spindle.

I won't bore you with a play by play of the rest of the morning.  It simply consists of assembling breakfast and getting him to eat breakfast while zoned out in front of Peep and the Big Wide World.  It's on a good day that he wants to watch Peep and the Big Wide World.  On a bad day we have an argument over him wanting to watch something along the lines of Spiderman versus Nazi Germany.  I mean, come on Netflix, can't you put in some filters?

Once eating is accomplished we then get together his much needed school supplies. School supplies at the age of three and half include an assortment of stuffed animals and whatever small toy he is able to fit into his pocket. Almost all of the stuffed animals that he brings to school were won from a claw machine, and almost all of the toys that he brings are from a gumball machine. His teachers must think that we’re made out of quarters. The child then fills us in on which of the basement steps is the dirtiest, and we all pile into our respective cars and head off into the big wide world.

That’s basically it. Well, until we get home. Then it’s pretty much the same routine except in reverse order. Dinner, bath, pajamas, cats drinking out of the toilet, “I can’t sleep because I’ll have a bad dream about the cat’s scary ass illuminated eyeballs,” etc.

So yes, “The time goes by fast.”  So fast, that by the end of it, I’ve only got like thirty minutes left to watch t.v.

Handy Manny

You know you're bored with your job when you come home at night, watch Handy Manny with your three year old, and find yourself jealous of his career choice.  I mean, look how happy he his hanging out with The Tools and heading out to a different job every day where he actually helps people in the neighborhood.  Not to mention that he's a small business owner.  And today I even saw him make a time capsule.  A TIME CAPSULE.  He built it because the one the townspeople were going to use was too small to fit all their stuff.  So he grabbed a bunch of scrap wood and built this really nice one so they could fit all their stuff and be remembered for posterity.  What the hell did I do today? Oh that's right, I ate Wendy's in my car.

An interview with all the crap on my desk

Me:  Good afternoon everybody, thank you all for being here.  It's been a hell of a ride, hasn't it?

[Applause]

Me:  I thought it would be nice to get all of us together and just sit down and have a chat about what it's been like working together all this time.  How we've all learned and grown, and basically, correct me if I'm wrong, come to regard each other as a family.  Stapler, I thought we might start with you.  How does it feel to have worked at this same desk for so long?

Stapler:  Let me just say that I've become very attached to everybody, especially to 20 lb bright white copy paper over there.

[Laughter]

Me:  That's for sure.  Tell us about a typical day for you and the challenges that you face and overcome with the help of your team.

Stapler:  Well, some days I get punched in the head a hundred times in a row.  But then other days I don't get touched at all.  Once in a while I get so jammed up I can hardly tell my foot from my anvil.  It's a real roller coaster ride.  I'm just happy I have tape dispenser by my side to talk with. I can tell her anything and I know that her lips are sealed.

[Laughter]

Me:  Tape dispenser, how does that make you feel to hear stapler say those things about you?

Tape dispenser:  It feels wonderful.  People often wonder how two forms of fasteners can be such good friends, but when I look at stapler all I see is another piece of office equipment.  I'm also good friends with a glue stick, a gold tone paperclip, and a brass fastener.  Diversity is beautiful.

[Applause]

Me:  So there's got to be times when you're having a slow day.  What do you guys do to keep entertained?  Yellow highlighter?

Yellow highlighter:  Sometimes when we all need a good laugh, rubber band will get down on the floor, like right in the middle of the cubicle, and just lay there for like seven hours.  He's nuts!  And we're all like "He did not just do that!"  Unbelievable.

[Laughter]

[Rubber band shrugs]

[Applause]

Me:  Let's get serious for a moment.  DRAFT stamp, has there ever been a time that you've thought "Why must I always be a Draft? When will my time come to go Final?"  

DRAFT stamp:  Of course. What red-blooded rubber stamp hasn't thought about that? But then I realize that there is no FINAL stamp.  If I were to become Final, I would cease to exist.  I've discussed these philosophical musings quite a bit with FILE and FAXED _____ .  Thanks for putting up with me guys!

[Applause]

Me:  So, I've heard a few rumors about, how can I put this delicately?  "After hours" relationships between some of you.  Any truth to this?

[Ooooooh!]

Stapler:  Bottle of Advil, do you want to answer this one?

Bottle of Advil:  I knew you were going to do this to me.

Me:  Come on guys, the suspense is killing me!

Bottle of Advil:  Okay, fine.  I will admit to a brief affair with Bottle of DayQuil back in the winter of 2010. Remember when you were taking that?

Me:  Oh my God.  I do remember that.  I left it out for like three days and then I brought it back home.  I had no idea!

Bottle of Advil:  That was hard, you know?  Having him ripped away like that when you still seemed pretty sick.

Me:  I'm sorry, I had no idea.  I just didn't want to get addicted to that shit.  But I think I may be able to make it up to you.

[Produces box of Benadryl from purse]

[Applause]

[All contents of desk commence singing Vitamin C Graduation Song as we embrace]

End scene.

FML

Know Your Competition

Imagine my surprise when I arrived at work this morning to find a whole crowd of folks waiting to interview for my job.  A bit perturbed, I pushed my way through, grabbed their resumes off the printer, and had myself a read.  Interesting bunch.  I can't say I blame my bosses for exploring their options.  Here are a couple of the top contenders: 

A cabbage with headphones - Apparently this guy came prepared to show off his transcription skills.  I'm not quite sure how he plans to type, seeing that he's made out of cabbage leaves instead of the necessary appendages- but we don't discriminate around here. I mean, I have fingers and hands and I haven't typed anything all day. I'd probably be more productive if I had cabbage leaves. Okay, that doesn't make any sense. My point is that we are an equal opportunity employer, and if a direct relation of the collared green wants to answer the telephone and make coffee, then he has every right to apply for the job. And with a personality like a cabbage, he'll be rolling his way up the corporate ladder in no time.  

Inspector Gadget - Sure it's a step down from the fast paced world of chasing Dr. Claw, but there comes a time in every cyborg policeman's life when he realizes that it's time to settle down with a nice desk job. According to his resume/packaging, Workplace Enhanced Inspector Gadget comes with "Go-Go-Gadget-Hole-Punch!" "Go-Go-Gadget-Conference-Call!" and "Go-Go-Gadget-Word-Document!"  That's some efficient shit.  I suppose I saw it coming.  I mean, it's like I always said:  If you can't keep up with modern technology, your job will be outsourced to a 1980's cartoon character.    

Secretary Barbie - Alright fellas, I know what you're thinking. Why should I choose a cartoon character with a pair of robot arms coming out of its head, when I could have this stiletto wearing, Cindy Crawford mole sporting, little number parading around the office giving me the old come hither stare? And to that I say...you win. But I will tell you one thing - judging by the amount of eye makeup this broad feels the need to put on every morning, you do not want to see her the day after the office Christmas party. Also, her fingers are glued together so you’d better have a damn good reason for choosing her over the hand-less cabbage who had the dedication to show up wearing transcription headphones. 

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As it turned out, management has decided to keep me around.  Inspector Gadget got called away mid-interview on some "really urgent" matter by a guy named Quimby, the cabbage kept doing this really weird thing where he maintained eye contact for way too long, and to everyone's disappointment, Barbie farted.