"I'm in here... with us."

Sybil is completely obsessed with my boss.  I don't know, maybe "obsessed" isn't the right word.  Maybe she has some serious issues revolving around routine... All I know is, when he's not at work, the whole office is at risk for not only a potential form of gross torture, but, at the very least, a day of eye glowering and excessive moodiness.  Any conversation with a co-worker that does not involve her, but can still be heard as some form of conversing sets forth a system of hers that I like to simply call: Tantrum.  (Sybil's Tantrum = the throwing of pens, slamming of notebooks, kicking of chairs and/or garbage cans, pounding on her desk, and more scary, glary eyes).  

Today, my bossman called out "Sick" with a very serious family emergency.  My boss... o man, I could dedicate a whole blog to his worthlessness, but I'm going to wisely save that for the day of my departure out of this realm of Corporate USA.

My bossman is usually an hour late everyday.  This does NOT give ME the right to be an hour late everyday... and the one time I mentioned to him that we start at 8am daily, he got all RuPaul and told me that I was more than welcome to stay with him til 7 every night.  I naturally laughed and said, "I don't have to stay until 7, I'm here at 8."  (This made things uncomfortable for a couple days because he is wildly feminine and petty sometimes, and his feelings got all hurt, and I was insubordinate or something).  So, I never brought it up again. 

Though, when 9am rolls around... then 9:30, I started to get a little antsy because hopefully this meant he was working from home today (another thing I am not allowed the right to do... but ok).   And bazzzzziiiiing, there it was.  He logged on to email from home and was looking great to his bosses for actually being out of the office and contributing to nothing in particular but a green IM light that was lit to signify his presence on our network.   I am amused because as his second-in-command (i.e. glorified secretary), I have heard nothing from him about not coming in, but that's not unusual.  That's just bossman being the inconsiderate jer-, I mean, being the busy, driven worker he is... (insert cheesy smile and thumbs up here).

Anyway... so bossman decides he must go with his wife to save his daughter from a very serious disease called "fever" and get her some emergency care for "sore throat" and he absolutely had to be there with his wife because of this thing doctors are still mystified about (we know little of it, but the government code word for it at the Pentagon is "coughing").   We are currently holding prayer groups and lighting candles with bossman's picture held high as a shrine in the air because he has the hardest luck ever when it comes to his daughter's health.  Common cold should never happen to anyone, and we currently taking up a collection.  I hear the Make A Wish Foundation is also stepping in.

This does not instill the love of boss in Sybil's eyes, however.  This installs a panic that makes the rest of us sit uneasy, quietly tip-toeing around, and whispering so not to upset any kind of land mine she has deep in that brain of hers.   The first symptom of her crazy is the conversing with herself.  Whenever bossman is absent, they appear, and they communicate, loudly, through only one channel: her voice.  My favorite part of this is when she shakes her head, and she's going off on one of them in there. She goes all Sherquita sans snapping of the fingers (and darn for that, I would LOVE that even more).

Everyday, she usually stalks his office, standing up and looking over the cubes with her creepy eyes at every sound coming from the direction of his office.  The later he gets everyday, the less fluid her body motions become.  She is noticeably off kilter and nervous.  She goes into the beginning stages of tantrum, and while, again, it's scary to know the apocalypse is probably coming from her, we all can't help but be amused at the talking to herself in an almost ghetto tone.

After bossman lets us know that his daughter is terribly, terribly ill with the acute viral rhinopharyngitis (for God's sake, google it) Sybil then starts firing of instant messages to the team to "slyly" ask for information.  "Have you talked to him directly?!"  Even if I have, I always leave my responses to her very one dimensional and vague.  Yes, ok, I am mean for that, but sheesh... why is it my fault that I'm exposed daily to someone who is obviously on the edge of a breakdown at any glitch in her matrix???  I don't look at it as if I'm egging on the emotional distress, but more of a "making her stronger" exercise.   After, this, the atmosphere in the whole building changes as we now can call in a priest to give us our last rites - the end is near. 

She continues to talk to herself, but she wants nothing to do with any of us real people.  Any questions to her are answered with snappy responses of "Yes" "No" or "I don't know" (which all interpret to "I'm gonna eat your brains").   She also begins the tantrum process times 200 in the slamming of things on her desk.  Today, she even banged her fist on her desk as icy fear ran through my spine... she was losing it for real, yo.  

Any polite questions to her are simply ignored (I once, once asked her if she was ok...).  You can always tell when Sybil skips her medication for a few days, but the days bossman is obviously absent, it doesn't matter what kind of tranquilizer she has pumping through her blood... we are all on our way to becoming mere statistics on the local news. 

As the day winds down, and we are all notified that bossman will be out for the rest of the day (said with one of his patented catch phrases that sucks butt: "out for the balance of the afternoon"), Sybil seems to withdraw into her world of blackness.  Her eyes remind me of that of that season of True Blood when everyone was under a spell of a witch...   We know the day means nothing to her now without the love of her life (Note: there is a back story to insert here... and trust me, there is one, but not now...).  Sybil aimlessly walks through the building with her stretchy pants on (with knitted flamingos decorating the legs geriatric style), not making eye contact with anyone, sadly sighing at her desk, wishing for her love to come crashing through the door like an REO Speedwagon song... 

Meanwhile, I enjoy the peace and quiet with unease as we all avoid eye contact with her.  Well, it's all peace and quiet like until I actually talk to a co-worker about, you know, work. Then the slamming, clicking, feet stomping begins...  Though, today, I kinda lost my cool... she started slamming her crap around on her desk like it was her pen's fault he decided to call in, and I couldn't help it.  I picked up my notebook and began to repeatedly bang it on my desk. Louder and louder, just banging it on the desk until some of my papers actually fell off the wall from the high velocity winds.  The harder I slammed, the better I felt...

Until I realized, that if I wasn't before... I probably moved myself up to first on her list... 
bummer.

The Girl Who Never Grew Up

I missed a day of work. As soon as I walk in the building my first day back, people who needed stuff from me the day before line up at my desk before I can even log on to my computer. I have a long list of "biggest pet peeves". This is one of them. It reminds me of my parents when I was little. They would walk in the door, and because we were waiting all afternoon to see them, we charge them like we are about to run a blitz on a quarterback. My mother would always yell, "Can I at least get in the door?!"

I quickly answer questions, and begin logging on to my computer. Sybil appears like the weird ghost she is. She always does this. She has an odd way of suddenly appearing in a really creepy way. A pal of mine deals with this on a daily basis. She skulks to his desk quietly, and then suddenly pops up over the wall of his cubicle. He described it as: brown afro, then thinning grey hair, buggy eyes, then sinister smile. All appearing chronologically, in slow motion.

((shiver))

Anyway, so she appears at my desk this morning. She starts talking about something I have NO idea what she is talking about:

Sybil: That email about [blah, blah, blah], I went ahead and did [this, this, and this].

Me: I'm sorry, [Sybil], I haven't even opened my email, yet. I don't know what you're talking about.

She suddenly changes...

Sybil: JUST FORGET ABOUT IT!

(Practically takes cube wall out while storming off). This reminded me of her:

From here, I get to hear my favorite sound of the day: She starts talking to herself. I've come to realize she is likely telling me off, but not to my face.

The comes the sound of her butt hitting her chair as she angrily throws herself in it. Then I hear the chair whirl around in anger, and then she begins picking up her mouse and slamming it down, picking up her phone, slamming it down, I hear the sounds of heavy sighs, and the occasional loud groan. My Instant Message instantly blinks from a neighbor who says, "WTF did you do already? You just got here!" I was just asking for five minutes to actually read her email, but... I guess I insulted her. I don't know.

The tantrums are her MO (modus operandi). This is what she does. She slams stuff around and sighs heavily in her chair. She cusses out the air. Sometimes I just ignore her. I'm kind of used to her at this point. But, sometimes, if I'm busy or having a bad day, I just want to scream, "O MY GOD! You're as old my mother! GROW UP!!!!". But, I know, I JUST know, she carries some kind of shovel in her bedazzled handbag, and I don't have quick enough reflexes to dodge her swing (i.e., I'm too lazy).

Her tantrums continue for hours. It's like a bad movie that just goes on forever without a climax. It reminds me of my little sister (Amy, not the other one you may know). I remember one time she asked our parents for something. My parents, naturally said no, because they hated us, and "no" was their favorite word - unless it involved some kind of chore, in which "yes" was the most hated word in our house. Anyway, so they told Amy no, and she stormed up the stairs to her bedroom and slammed the door. We all stopped for a picosecond, and then it was business as usual. Kids flipping over chairs, my parents arguing, my brother microwaving a cat - you know. The usual. Amy didn't like that she wasn't chased or begged for forgiviness, and her door opened and slammed again. And again. And probably a fourth time. Suddenly my family was united in the living room, listening to the sounds of slamming, laughing, and then someone whipped out a guitar and we all sang a song about Jesus.

Ok, we made fun of Amy for YEARS (to this day), about slamming the door for attention.

And this is what Sybil reminds me of. I hear her throwing her mouse into a coma, and her pen at the wall, and I know that as much as I want to tell her to grow up, the only way she will learn is if we ignore her. I feel like we are teaching her life lessons she maybe skipped as a child. I don't know. Maybe one day, if I'm feeling extra maternal, I will pull her aside and tell her, "Sybil, come on. If you keep this up, they're all gonna laugh at you."

Then again, that reminds you of a certain horror film doesn't it? And we know how that one ended...

And, again... we're already laughing, so we may as well, you know, LIVE in the process. Let it be.

I want bells to ring, a choir to sing, the white dress, the guests, the cake, the card, the whole darn thing...

I eloped recently. Yep. We just did it. By "it," I mean, we went to work one day, decided it was time, went to lunch, saw a mayor of a nearby town (and conveniently placed equally between our two work locations), said, "I do/ I do", smooched, became a Mr. and Mrs. Him and Her, and went on back to work.

When my team at work found out about the nuptials, I received cupcakes, a nice picture frame, and some cards. It was so nice. The other night, my husband (wow, feels SO awesome to call him that), opened the card from my whole team and snickered. In the card were comments like "Congrats!" and "You are very blessed!". The one comment that stood out was very small (thus overlooked by me). It simply read, "Good Luck. [Sybil]"

Good luck? Really?

Well, I don't want to assume I know what Sybil thinks. I mean, who could know with so many personalities in that gigantic Earth sized head of hers (which supports a whole head of fro that has layers of color just like Earth has layers of minerals the closer you get to the center...). But, Sybil DOES seem to epitomize the very definition of everything that would drive people away from someone. Ok, ok, let me give you some examples.

1. Last night, I watched Family Guy. Meg is the daughter that everyone ignores, talks bad about, is mean to, and is sure she is hideous and disgusting. So when Peter's paralyzed friend Joe allows Meg to be his nurse when his wife Bonnie goes out of town, Meg takes the slightest kindness Joe gives her and develops a crush. Not just a mild, "aww, he's so cute" crush but a "He likes me, I want to be with him, and we will be married forever and have babies and I will kill his wife" crush. I even told my sexy husband (sorry, I'm still a newlywed) last night that the episode reminded me of Sybil.

Sybil takes kindness to be bestfriendshipness. If you show her a slight bit of nicety, she will cling to it so tight, it can be suffocating in that movie Misery kind of way. One day, I came in to work and said a special, "Hello, [Sybil]." She chirped back a hello. I went back to my cube, and proceeded to open a 20oz bottle of Barq's Rootbeer. Next thing I hear was a "Hello" in my ear. Literally, right there. I looked up, and she was standing practically so close, our noses could touch. She startled me enough that I dropped my pop, and the thing exploded in sticky messness all over the floor. Angrily I said, "What do you need, [Sybil]?!" Her response? "Nothing. Just wanted to come say hello." Psh. Didn't I JUST say hello to her?? One tiny ounce of kindness means she will be up my butt or in my face. No. Thank. You. I need my space.

2. The day of my hitchin', Sybil was especially mean, and was so noted by everyone on my team. She did not look at me, nor talk to me all day. Fine, Ok, I was getting a lot of attention. But, I sensed a rudeness from her. Whenever I would walk in a room, she would glare at me, and then look away. One of my friends even noticed. I finally told a friend, "Maybe she's mad because I've found two people to marry me [I was married before] and she's still a 60 year old virgin." I felt bad right away. But... judging from a FB status I've since read, I'm pretty sure there was a case of sour grapes centralized on her specific cubicle latitude and longitude.

The status? (paraphrased) "I think it's so annoying and childish for someone to brag they have a husband. Anyone could get married if they aren't too picky." O yeah. That really happened.

In my man's defense, is it really considered not so picky to choose the man I've been with for years? The one who does the dishes because I can't get my cast wet? The one who did my hair this morning because I can't turn my wrist to tighten a ponytail holder? Come on, Lady. You're jealousy reeks like caca.

3. She can't handle rejection. O no, no, you have to consider this one more fragile than a wee baby egg with a tiny little delicate chick inside of it. Everything you say to her must be kind (because, as decided, we all want to live and not be lasered to death).

One day, she stormed my cubicle in full on, "I NEED YOU RIGHT NOW" mode. Any other setting that would justify this need for someone would mean wearing scrubs, doctor's coats, and hearing, "SHE'S CODING" in the background. Yeah, Ok, who doesn't like being needed? I love it; it makes me have purpose. Still... I was also in need by a client. I was on a conference call. One my boss and the peeps who keep me contracted were on.

I quickly turned around, covered the mouth piece of my phone, and mouthed, "IM ON A CALL!!" pointing at the phone. Every other person who has seen these somewhat learned convention of Office Ethics and Charades would have mouthed back, "O! I'M SORRY!" with a wide open mouth, and apologies coming out in every pore. Then the person would suddenly vamoose. Wellllll... no, not Sybil. She stood there. Staring. Ok..., I thought, maybe she doesn't get it.

She finally storms off. I hear her throwing things at her desk, stomping, tantruming like it's 1999. Then I hear her tell someone, "I just have one question! GOD!" Well, God suddenly inspired me to reach out to her via IM to say, "What do you need??" I mean, she could have IM'd or emailed me, but she shall not be kept waiting. Her IM back was a stupid question I couldn't believe she was even asking. I asked her if she really needed my help, and she said, "[The client] is on the phone, can I transfer them?". Wow. What part of "Im on a conference call" was not understood??

I finally tell her I need to focus on my current call. She responded with a curt, "I guess I will take a message and you can just call her back when you get to it." I said, "Ok, sounds good."

The best part of this transaction? A) She actually got back to me LATER and said, "Don't worry about helping the client. I will go ahead and take care of it so you don't have to." (Good old-fashioned Catholic guilt tactic right there. Something a Catholic does not realize they are susceptible to until they are moving away from the Catholic world, like me) and B) She has SERIOUSLY complained that I dropped a ball on something important.

So I live another day in wedded bliss while I ponder keeping my happiness and wedding rings out of her face for a little while until she can get can get over whatever it is she's going through. We've thus decided she is 1. Stalkerish, 2. Jealous and 3. Saddened by rejection so much that I could expect to walk out of my cube to an impalement one day.

So, yeah, ok. I don't think so. I love my husband, and I'm happy to be happy about it. She can just get over it.

For now, though, at least until we get that marital life insurance thing handled, I will at least be wearing a bullet proof vest.

It Sends Me Flowers, or else it gets the hose again...

About 4 or 5 years ago, my friend bought a new house.  As a housewarming party, we decided to do a “bar stocking cocktail party” to get in some good stuff for her future parties and entertaining. To make the party festive and, well, attended, Drea invited several of our co-workers, our cool co-workers. That kind of left her in a bit of bind, though… because she had a team of 6, including her, and 4 cool chicas around her.  Then… there… was… Sybil.   So if she invited the other 4 girls, she would have to invite Sybil, because that would be obvious.  And she wanted all the other girls to come, so she did what any of us would have done:

“Please come, but, SHHHH, don’t tell anyone or talk about it.  I don’t want Sybil to know…”

            Well, naturally, one big girl named Veeta (yeah, I called her Velveeta), couldn’t keep her big, fat mouth shut, and Sybil got the word.  Party at Drea’s!  All is invited!! Except, you know, you. Soooo, in comes a little Catholic guilt and a paper throwing tantrum, and Sybil secured her invitation. We all doubted she would actually show, because who actually comes to a party when they have to use culpability to get the invite?  Well, duh, Sybil.  Didn’t I tell you she was socially retarded after all?

            So it’s party time, excellent, and sho’ ‘nuff, in walks Sybil with a cute basket of bread and wine.  The basket is tastefully done, very elegant, and thought out.  I compliment her on the gift basket but I’m still tripping that she’s actually there.  I corner her in the kitchen (not much of a corner, since most people don’t need to talk to her since she is talking mostly to herself), and I try to keep her out of overhearing us rude people say anything that would incite a CNN worthy story of a mass shooting of corks out of a machine gun at a cocktail party. 

            Sybil seems to like my attention so she opens up about having another party down the road (disbelieved), being 21 once and not remembering it because she was always too f*cked up (disbelieved), and having an 8 year relationship with a man that ended because they were just going in different directions (ok… this sounded interesting).  I asked TONS of questions, and everything seemed like it made sense.  She had an answer for everything.

            Me: So what happened?

            S: He just moved out.  We just knew we’d run our course.

            Me: So sad.  Well, at least you were mature about it.

            S: O yeah.  He went to his mothers for a while, and then he got his own place.

            Me: So where is he now?

            S: You know, I don’t know.  Married probably.  We kind of lost touch.  It was for the best, you know?

            Me:  Yeah, that makes sense.  8 years… wow.  Why didn’t you ever get married?

            S: I guess deep down we knew it wasn’t right.  We knew we didn’t want kids, so why…

UGH. I was manipulated by a fantasy.  Naturally, I have now known Sybil for 9 years, and never again was mystery man ever brought up. Though… she does remind us that she partied like a rock star at 21 and currently prefers pills to other drugs.  I wonder who she stole that quote from.  I don’t think I remember that being said on Ben Hur or The Ten Commandments… which is all I honestly picture her to watch…  And hey!  That’s generous.   At least I think of her that much.  O… and to dedicate a whole blog to her… but…moving on…

Anyway, so it’s Valentine’s Day this week. My team at work can’t help but reminisce of the flowers that arrived at her desk last year as well as the boisterous phone call we all “overheard” (were forced to hear).  “O thank you SO much.  I LOVE my flowers.  They are SO pretty.  Thank you for THINKING of ME!”  It ain’t iambic pentameter, but it was still freakin foul.

Not to mention that sometime early in the day this VD, I was walking near Sybil’s desk, and she randomly busted out laughing and was shaking her head like she was about to go full blown convulsion.  I didn’t want to die, so I didn’t stay around to investigate...  or stare, which is what I really wanted to do.

So the joke continued: would she or would she not force us to eat another phone call and pretty flowers that we all suspected she may or may not have sent to herself?

Ah, yes, she sure did.

I came back from lunch, and on her desk were honestly some of the prettiest flowers she picked out on 1-800-Flowers.com.  Although… this time, a phone call was remarkably absent. Another girl walked by and saw them, and came up to smell them.  

Another Girl: [Sybil], these are so pretty. 

Sybil: Thank you!

AG: Who sent them?

Sybil: A friend.

AG: Really?  That was sweet.

Sybil: Thanks.

AG: What friend?

Sybil, now agitated: Wouldn’t you like to know?!

And not only was Another Girl slightly uncomfortable, but so were we.  We had to shoo Another Girl off before I heard the sound of the assault rifle I know, I JUST KNOW, Sybil keeps in her desk.

The next day, the flowers were gone.  I asked why she didn’t leave them, and she said she wanted to enjoy them at home instead of “this place.”  I noticed an extreme agitation, and my life flashed before my eyes.  Then she smiled and I breathed again.

Right then I wanted to send HER flowers.  Then I imagined that some guy, somewhere, probably escaped the hidden dungeon in her basement. Or better, she handed him her cell phone and said, “It orders 1-800-Flowers or else it gets the hose again.”  Poor guy.  Then I laughed out loud to myself so hard that I had to grab a hold of a cube wall to keep my balance. 

And I wondered who was suddenly running away from me…

A baby talk a day keeps the AK 47 away.

I have two major feelings when I hear baby talk coming out of Sybil’s mouth.  First, before I get into the details of those feelings, I just want to explain to you what said “baby talk” is.  I will describe the moment that just happened.  Like… seriously, two seconds before I opened this doc.

Sybil: Thewe are so many pweople out in town today. 

Me: Yeah.  Its three days before Christmas.

Sybil: It is just soooo cwazy out thewe.

Me: Yeah… it’s, you know, three days before…

Sybil: They are out thewe just shoppin and buyin all those pweasants!

Me: Well, you know Christmas… it’s like, three days away…

Sybil: I wonder what dey’re doin out dere!

Me: Something about three days from now, Christmas or something.

I have another co-worker, another older woman, who also talks Baby Talk.  Watching these menopausal era women converse together is one exasperating and repulsive act of human communication. I have NO forbearance for baby talk.  I have even less tolerance for Sybil.

So you see one of these major emotions I feel when I hear baby talk is disgust.  ((By the way, if you have not gathered that from the above, then you are not intelligent enough to read this blog and must quit immediately.  I draw a lot of my stories based on the idea that you are following along.  This was a freebie.))

Anyway.  The other feeling I have is elation. I am absolutely thrilled when I hear her communicate this way because it lets me know that Sybil is sane today.  She is in a right mind, friendly, open to communication, and feeling good.  This means several things:

1.      There will be deaths by spears, tridents, shot guns, evil spells, and/or claws today.   Hooray for life.

2.      She is not angry at me or anyone for being nice, social people that tends to avoid including her in topics that generally would not concern her (like… social events).

3.      She is not tattling on us to our boss, with whom she has a deep amount of love and stalker-ish feelings for (that’s a blog of its own), for breathing towards a cell phone or web page not pertaining to work, to win over Boss’ good graces (and undying devotion).

4.      I will not have to listen to a pissed off conversation with herself, or watch her shake her head and go off at the air as she, you know… has a pissed off conversation with herself.  (Yes, she actually does this.  And if I didn’t have witnesses to whom I can I say, “O MY GOD, DID YOU JUST SEE THAT?” I wouldn’t believe it either.)

And so it goes.  I listen to baby talk because it is for the greater good.  Kind of like… I hate cranberry juice but I force myself to drink it for my urinary tract health.  I force myself to listen to baby talk because with out it… I wouldn’t be able to guess just how many days I have left to live.  And I really want to see True Blood Season 3, so it’s important I make it.  

Speak on, Sybil…but do it… over… there…

O Little Town of E-Coli...

Ah, the Christmas Holidays have puked its flashing lights and red and green unscrupulousness all over the planet again. yay. yaaaaaaaay.

I remember what Christmas was like growing up.  Until I wasabout 16 years old, I would skip ahead to December 24^th and December 25th in my diary. By each date, regardless how contemporary and flashy the number was (always accustomed to the fancy of a preteen/teen girl who felt they had "things" to write about...), I wrote two little words: Can't Wait. Well, why couldn't I wait? To see my family? To sing Christmas carols? To watch chestnuts roasting over an open fire and then watch them set on fire and set the stockings on fire and watch the chocolate melt through the stockings and make doo doo looking stains on the floor? Nah. Presents, bia. The gift of receiving. O yeah. Greed at it's finest is in the eyes of every toddler, kid, and preteen at that 4:36am awakening to see if some fat guy supposedly brought things for them to enjoy for ten nano seconds and then prepare for the fashion show the first day of returning to school.

Of course, now I'm marrying a man who does not celebrate holidays. He cringes at the sight of my Christmas tree even if it's laying in a busted box in the shed and only tiny fragments of it's flame retarded "needles" stick out of the box, begging to be able to shine at least one month of the year. Busted ornaments lay in Wal-mart bags all around it. I have spent a year throwing stuff on top of it. I planned to clean out the shed and save it once or twice. But, who really cleans out a shed? You do? Liar.

And so we get back to my fave topic. My darling pal of a co-worker who basically radiates excitement every Christmas. By, nasically, I mean the crazy woman comes out of her depression phase of Manic Depressive Disorder and goes right into an orgasmic state of Mania. That's right. I'm talking Christmas sweaters, snowflake turtlenecks, candy cane turtlenecks (o wait, that's me, nevermind on that one), cheesy stockings hanging up with bells dangling off of them, and, o boy! o boy!, treats. Tasty home made bread and home...made... cakes...and co...oo...coooookiiies (blah). Why do I throw up all over my candy cane turtleneck, you ask? Well, first of all, I just OWN the turtleneck. I do not wear it. And for the record, I am wearing a green turtleneck, thankyouverymuch.

So let me tell you a little back story that we all know on this side of the sanity table. This woman does not wash her hands. O boy, no sir. I have seen her go in the bathroom, barely shut the door, and then come out of the stall. She will turn the sink on, stick her hand under the faucet lightly... or sometimes just bypass every step between coming out of the stall and hitting the bathroom door. So there comes a time when co-workers eventually acknowledge this between each other. "Have you seen this?" "Why, yes, I have." "That's absolutely distasteful and irreverent." "I agree. The poor girl could catch a disease from touching her booty and then touching her mouth." "Agreed. We should not eat a thing she cooks with her hands." "Agreed." Ok. Our conversation may not be THAT formal... but for the sake of argument, I am pretty sure you follow where I may be going.

And of course, nose picking is also a familiar site around this place. And the occasional digesting of buried nose treasure is in there as well. You think I'm making this up? Maybe I am. Maybe you should ask someone else. Maybe I'm being so honest here, otherwise, I wouldn't have anything to write about... don't know...

So today, we are brought a fabulous desert of breads that she just felt inspired to make for her choir and, subsequently, her co-workers. yay. yaaaaaaaay.

Look. I know the score. I know what's going on. Girl will stick a trident in us all if we don't act happy and overjoyed at her desire to push off her disease infested, booty smelling bread off on every single one of us. I sit at my desk, breathing hard, nervous... my hands shaking. I get an IM that says, "You don't have to do it." Another that says, "Do it for the greater good, LOL." I feel sweat run down my back even though it's winter and the older and bigger people in the workplace require the air conditioning to be on at ALL times (I type this in a pair of Mechanix gloves with the tips cut off the fingers to prevent frostbite and hypothermia).

I straighten out aforementioned green turtleneck and head to her dandy little Christmas bowl. Wow. There are some big pieces of bread in there. I say, "Mmmmm, bread. I love [this butt tainted] bread. May I have a piece?"

"YES! Have as many as you like!" I blindly take what I imagine to be an Alaskan size piece of bread.

I take a piece and bring it back to my desk. I am breathing heavy, looking at the tiny chocolate chips, imagining them to be droplets of... well... you know, you follow, we are on the same frickin page here.

I bite. I chew. I swallow. I consume. I know if I toss any, I will be shot with a bow and arrow through my stomach. She will then likely force the rest of the bread in at that point. No need to make it worse on anyone. I continue to eat the Christmas "treat."

I finish and dunk the napkin in the trash. I get a plethora of IMs from friend/co-workers with "O. You just ate arsenic." and "What does poo taste like?" Not one of them acknowledging that I just took one for the dang team and saved the whole race of co-workers at this particular building.

A couple hours later, another co-worker waited until Sybil left her desk, and then grabbed about 6 pieces and tossed in a garbage can in a far away place. This way it looks like more people came and ate in her absence. She came back to a near empty bowl and was ecstatic enough to make me want to slap her for being too excited about anything that doesn't involve alcohol or a member of the opposite sex (or same sex, depending on your taste).

I turn around now, and I see that no one has touched the bowl since. I see her face falling, her hopes of new Christmas Friendship Gifts and Happiness and Joy and Gayness completely dashed. If you don't read another blog from me, then I guess you know what has happened to me.

Though, I have a lot to live for. You know, like, Gossip Girl, and Teen Mom, and Chicago Bears, and stuff. I think Im gonna grab another piece of bread.

Merry Christmas to all you survivors out there.

yay. yaaaaaaaay.

Welcome to my, whatever...

Starting a blog has been something I’ve been meaning to do for a while.  I have had two Live Journal accounts – both very private.  One was riddled with swear words geared at an ex (not unlike a Twitter account dedicated to same ex), and another one was started, had one blog, and an author that lost interest.

Of course, the privacy of this blog is serious.  I don’t know anything about this here Blogspot, and I’m very much a “learn as I go” kind of girl (i.e. I do not read Terms and Conditions, follow directions, or care about recipes… I basically don’t listen very well).  I would love to get on here and make fun of my co-workers, especially the one with a minor cold called Borderline Personality Disorder, but right now, I don’t know if she may be able to read this.  I don’t want to get fired for being a gossip or a virtual persecutor.  I mean, if you’re gonna go down in flames… may as well have a building behind you in flames, right?

See!  That’s exactly what I’m talking about.  I’m not setting anything on fire.  I can’t even work a lighter without looking at the person next to me and saying, “help…” 

Anyway, the moral of the story here is, there is just story.  My truths may be exaggerated for the purposes of your entertainment and my creative mind just wanting to be exercised/exorcized.  Some stuff may be verbatim and 100% truthful, but that’s between me, myself, and I and hopefully the person NOT reading this.  This is how I plan to protect myself from a cute little title called, “Cyber Bully.” 

After all, who wants to be blamed for a pink prom dress wearing gun woman entering my building, shooting at random people in suits and ties who mumble things like, “doh!” (extras, if you will), and then coming at my little circle of work friends announcing, as she starts throwing spears at us, “I NEVER WENT TO MY PROM AND I HATE YOU ALL!” (this is how I picture it anyway).  I just have so much to do right now, finals, kids, boyfriend, setting up my computer, redoing the office… I just don’t need instigating a fanatical person into a psychotic wrath and killing a populous of office workers on my list of things to care about. 

Though, I will say… as the weirdness goes on over here, our favorite saying: “O, you’re first” (as in the first to get shot/speared/ and lately “clawed”) depending on who pissed her off at that moment… well, it’s starting to ring a little close to home.  Like, it’s not as funny.  She once posted on her FB page that it was gonna be a KILLER week (yes, all caps on that K word), and I promptly burst into tears, and called my whole family to tell them I loved them.  Well… after I announced to all my coworkers “We are all gonna die!” and then “Can you believe this crazy Bia?  The pink prom dress is coming!”

Ya know.  It’s all in fun.  Thanks to Sybil for the entertainment.  I hope you love the way I will, in turn, portray it to you.