Re: Bill the Butcher.

As you all know, I have to venture to the sub-basement to retrieve our promotional products from our storage unit. It's a matter of taking the elevator to the basement, then wandering down one more flight to the sub-basement. Having watched Silence of the Lambs one too many times, I kind of love the sub-basement a little too much. It reaches from under Broadway, all the way back to Crosby, and down to Prince...it's all these corridors that lead into smaller corridors, and even smaller ones that then lead into dark, cavernous rooms that don't have electricity.

Although our storage unit is in the newer looking white painted walls part of the sub-basement; the creepy in me, likes to take off down the spooky corridors and weave in and out of these dark areas. I love to look at the holes in the walls that reveal the original wood construction that far exceed being 100 years old, and the way the ceiling looks like it's going to collapse at any given moment. I know part of me is just avoiding going back to the office, while the other part of me is searching for ghosts or something equally disturbing - Bill the Butcher was shot right across the street at what was once Stanwix Hall in 1855...so, to me, it makes sense that he'd still be hanging around the block in spirit.

Then today I learned from the handyman in the building, while I was once again in the sub-basement, that the reason the elevator no longer goes all the way down is because a man had been killed by it back in the late 70's. It turns out that from the basement to the sub-basement the elevator switches over to water hydraulics to run and is one of only 50 left in a city of 35,000 elevators. The gentleman, who had been the elevator operator for 23-years, was alive for the five minutes that it took for the elevator to crush his skull - when the police were able to remove his remains, they found that the man was clutching his crucifix. The cruel way in which he died was revealed when Dr. Michael Baden was asked to perform the autopsy, and brain activity revealed that the man was completely conscious for those five minutes, but unable to move and avoid his fate.

Our handyman speaks with a very thick Spanish accent, so I actually had to do some research based on what little bit I could decipher from his broken English. Sadly, the information about the elevator accident is no more than a quick blurb on a lawyer's homepage...unlike the overabundance about Bill the Butcher's death which is over 150 years old.

I guess we can't all go out like Bill the Butcher. I guess we all don't have the urge to wander sub-basements in search of ghosts and creepiness. Either way, keep those promotional product orders coming...the sub-basement is like an extra special holiday in comparison to you people.

Thanks!

Re: Hey Pig Piggy Pig Pig Pig.

I lost my virginity to 'What If God Was One of Us' by Joan Osborne. Yes, the music snob lost her virginity to such shit; it was a mistake, of course. I had given my high school boyfriend, who had gone off to Keene State college, a Doors album for his birthday, and by the time we actually did it, the Doors album had finished, and Joan Osborne became the soundtrack of the moment. 

I had grown up listening to The Smiths, and The Pixies. And at that point in my life, I was deeply in love with rare Nirvana b-sides, Built to Spill, My Bloody Valentine, Pavement and Archers of Loaf, among others...so to lose it to Joan Osborne was practically traumatizing.

However, I recall a conversation that I had with my best friend Thal, where we made a list of songs we wanted to lose our virginity to...girls do such things. Close to the top was 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails...there was something so erotic about the aggressiveness in his voice; a concept that was still very much foreign to me then.

But there is something that is killing the mild sexuality that still remains for me in Trent Reznor's voice...and it's a lil' something called swine flu. I can't tell you why, but every time I hear someone yell out SWINE FLU! I immediately hear in my head "hey pig piggy pig pig pig"...yeah, that's right...I regress to the album The Downward Spiral and that shit is old! I can't walk half a block without some dbag yelling out "SWINE FLU" whenever someone sneezes...argh! Are you fucking kidding me? That's all you got!? Granted the average IQ in this office doesn't exceed 98, but I'm hearing this shit here too. Personally, I'm suffering from a mild case of spring allergies and I can't even sniffle without someone yelling "SWINE FLU!"

While 90% of me would like to keep my high school memories of Nine Inch Nails in tact, the mere 10% of me that is trying really hard to be politically correct and responsible, would like to request that you all shut the fuck up with your poor, unoriginal joke. People have died from this flu and families are mourning their lost loved ones...so although you may not be personally affected by it, why don't you pretend to care and quit being so nonchalant about something that's kinda serious.

Yeah, that's right: give a fucking damn. So novel, right? And since one of you asked me what 'demure' meant the other day, I've included a link of the definition of novel...god forbid any of you have to think for a second or two...

Thanks.

I Don't Eat the Bacon Because I read Charlotte's Web One Too Many Times, 

Mandy.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Stupid Coworker: "It was really irresponsible of [shingles infected employee] to come into work when she started getting sick. Some of us are trying to get pregnant!"

Re: Shingles: A Wicked Good Time.

Good Morning!

I was the last one to know that one of our coworkers has the shingles. Apparently, she was diagnosed Wednesday after work. I realize her diagnosis has caused many of you to worry about catching the infection. There has even been talk that the Office Manager (the lowly part time lass that is I) should be the one to disinfect the office.

I had the shingles three years ago. They're quite painful and don't look very pretty: think chickenpox times a hundred and in one concentrated area of your body, only on one side, and usually in a strip or small band. Your body aches, and you feel like someone has lit your entire epidermis on fire. You're nauseated as all get out, have an intense headache and basically feel like shit for weeks.

Having had the shingles by no means makes me an expert...but I'm pretty sure I know a little bit more about it than those of you who have never had it. So those of you insisting I disinfect and sanitize your desk, can cut the malarkey and get your facts in order:

Shingles are not contagious. What, you think now that the infected coworker is home and away from our office, the germs are just going to leap out of her cubicle and attack your face? 

You can only get the shingles if you've already had the chickenpox. Basically the chickenpox virus lies dormant in your body, until something wakes it up and it attacks. This awakening can be caused by stress, disease or an overall weakened immune system...that's why older people are more susceptible. When I had it, the first thing they did was test me for the AIDS, because I told them I didn't feel very stressed out. Well, I don't have the AIDS, so stress was too blame, that, combined with a nagging flu and bronchitis that wouldn't go away.

If you've never had the chickenpox, you can get it from someone with shingles. Weird that one virus can give you another virus, but it can. But if you haven't had the chickenpox yet, I suggest you get yourself over to this particular coworker's apartment and rub yourself up against her repeatedly for twenty minutes. It's better to get the chickenpox now, then later on in life when you're 60 years old. Granted, I'm not a doctor, or at least not a licensed one, but I'm pretty awesome and should be listened to in regards to this...

There's no cure for the shingles. It's a virus...it needs to work its way out of your body. Sure, you can get steroids to speed up your recovery, but personally, steroids make me think of roid rage, which makes me think of that after school special with Ben Affleck freaking out, long before he was Chuckie in Good Will Hunting.

I'm pretty sure some of you are just looking to stir up drama over this...the amount of times OMG was dropped around the office yesterday was despicable, and OMG is an acronym I get along with quite well. I suggest you look for drama outside the office because you're annoying me. I also suggest you get yourself a sponge and Lysol...because I already had the damn shingles, so I'm in the clear and won't disinfecting anything...that's right: anything.

Thanks!

Re: Fucking Administrative Professionals' Day.

At Office One, I was taken out by my coworkers on Administrative Professionals' Day. I was supplied beer and shots; and was told how unbearable I am to work with on a daily basis. However, this year, I didn't even know it was A.P.D (I'm all about acronyms lately) until I got an email from a friend about it when the day was more than half over.

No flowers, no candies, no adult beverages to be had...not even a single 'thank you' as proof that I'm somewhat an asset. So I stood knee deep in 2006 catalogs in the sub-basement of our office building and said to intern Christina: "I can't believe I went to college for this..." Had I known at eighteen that this is where I'd be at thirty-one, I would've either killed myself, or at the very least skipped out on college. I would've fallen in love with the boy who worked (and still does) at the Getty gas station in my hometown who looks like Conor Oberst; I would've moved into a double-wide, popped out a few ungrateful kids, and succumbed. I wouldn't have these college loans. I wouldn't have this feeling of defeat. And I wouldn't be nursing this hangover today, because I drank an entire bottle of Pinot Noir in a vain attempt to drown my sorrows...and maybe, just maybe, I'd be happy.

But no...I went to college. I racked up 25k in student loans...loans I may never be able to pay off. Occasionally, I get a break in life: every once in a while the guy at the coffee cart tells me my coffee is on him, sometimes my sarcasm will score me a beer from a tattooed stranger at a bar, and every couple months or so I'll pick up a freelance gig and actually get paid for being a writer. And when those moments happen, I'm able to sleep better at night...but when my alarm clock goes off the next morning, and I fumble out of my bed and onto the streets of New York just so I can come here, to this office, and die a little more; I am humbled.

But do I really want to be happy? Happy people are kinda creepy...and I imagine all that smiling is exhausting...and anger just comes naturally to me. I guess I should be thanking all of you for forgetting Administrative Professionals' Day, but that would mean giving you props, and that's just not how I roll...instead, I'll think of ways to ruin your day...

Lots of Kisses,

Mandy.

Re: Don't Pray for Me. Thanks.

Well here I am: back. If I were the type of person who apologized, I'd apologize for my excessive crankiness yesterday...but I save my sorries for when I've really fucked up or if I need to appease a high-maintenance friend...and then I do it with eyes rolled.

I was supposed to get into LGA at 10pm, but weather delayed my flight for four hours. Then when we did get into New York skies, we had to circle above the airport for about an hour because of all the airport traffic due to the aforementioned delays. By the time I got home, it was almost four in the morning...and by the time, I unpacked, cleaned my apartment from my friend's weekend stay there, and loved on Hubbell, it was pushing 6am. So yesterday, I gave new meaning to the word asshole, and if you weren't privy to my atrocious behavior, I'm sure the UPS guy can attest to it...and the mailman...and that bulimic down the hall...and some random chick who wouldn't get out of my way on Houston...

However, my inability to act cordial is not the issue; the issue is God. Anyone who knows me, knows I'm fiercely irreligious...in fact, I'm pretty much anti any and all religions. This is not a part of myself that I hide. I'm fairly vocal about the fact that although my mother tried to raise both my sister and I Catholic, I am a staunch atheist. I do not believe in God. I do not believe in a higher being. I do not believe in heaven. I do not believe in hell. I believe that things happen that we can't explain, but I don't define them as miracles or an occurrence that has taken place due to some force stepping in and working magic. I believe it's sheer coincidence, or just luck.

I accept that people need God. I don't like it, of course, but I deal with it. One thing I can't deal with is when people suck me into their beliefs in a round about way: not once, but twice, a coworker told me yesterday that he was going to pray for me. First he said he was going to pray for me because of my sunburn. Yeah, in case you didn't notice yesterday, I'm bright red thanks to the Colorado sun...but I'll be tan by Friday, so I don't think I need prayers for that. I smiled weakly at him, as I do when I'm annoyed or bored with someone's existence, then headed back to my desk.

Not more than an hour lately, this particular coworker overheard me saying that I may not want to have the babies. Again, he told me he was going to pray for me...pray that I have a baby so that when I'm older I "won't be all alone," because if you don't have a child, you'll clearly be left all alone to rot somewhere. Oh no! (please read the previous with an over-exaggerated sarcastic tone). Ugh.

If you need to pray, go right ahead, but for the love of your effing God, keep me out of it. It not only pisses me off, but it's inappropriate conversation for a public office. You couldn't pray enough to save this soul...and honestly, I prefer it this way. I don't need nor want to be saved...ever.

Thanks in advance.

Mandy.

Re: Strange Love.

I admit that I'm emotional sometimes. I watched The Reader last night and I cried. I can't watch Big Fish without crying every time. There's this song by Mogwai that brings tears to my eyes whenever I hear it, and I can also say that about a few songs by The Good Life, Iron & Wine, and thanks to Swede, two songs in particular by Tiger Lou. And I'm not even going to get into what happens when I hear this one particular live version of the Yeah Yeah Yeah's song "Maps" when Karen O's voice cracks and you know she's dying a lil' more with each word...well, I die a lil' too.

I get teary eyed when I see dogs with three legs and when I witness any sort of animal cruelty in the news. I'm saddened by old people who take forever to cross the street...the ones who are hunched over and at the end of their rope. I know when I get off the plane tomorrow morning at 915 in Denver's International Airport and I see my sister and my eight week old nephew, Holden, for the first time, I'll more than likely burst into tears.

I realize that in a world of so much suffering, it might seem wrong to mourn the loss of my rubber band ball, Doug, but being an emotional gal, that's just what I did. It was the middle of the day when I realized Doug was gone. I searched high and low, and even sent out that scathing email to all of you, but no one came forward. From the beginning, Doug was a labor of love. I only used the extra special rubber bands that the post office wrapped around our daily mail; and when I was out, I could count on intern Christina to set aside these rubber bands for me. I started Doug the week I started this job back in August...that's nine months of nurturing this silly ball and getting him to be the size of a grapefruit. Honestly, I wasn't sure what I was going to do with him...I mean, he could only get so big, but I had dreams of him reaching the proportions of a soccer ball. Then I would've let him go...messengered him off to a friend as a joke or something...but I never got that chance: Doug was stolen from me.

I'm not sure who to blame, but I saw the way everyone eyed Doug; I knew he was coveted by others, as all great things are. Yes, my eyes filled with tears over the thievery of Doug. I'll admit it. I'm sure the men in the office thought I was PMSing and I'm sure the girls in the office thought I was insane...and that's fine, think however you want about me. I'd rather be mildly insane and occasionally emotional, instead of a mundane clone...in Uggs, of course.

I hope Doug's new owner will treat him right. I, for one, will be leaving and not returning until next Tuesday...so try really hard not to fuck up the place while I'm gone. Thanks in advance.

Sincerely,

The Angry Office Manager.

Re: Boys on Bikes.

My boyfriend in college was a bike messenger…he was also an art student, in a band, and made me some of the greatest mix tapes ever. That's right EVER. So I lived under the delusion for the longest time that all bike messengers were actually struggling artists and/or students. I was still under this assumption even as late as this past December when I tried to convince Swede to be a bike messenger…in my head, it made sense: he’s got a bike, he likes his bike, and he's an artist in his own right.

However, the bike messengers in NYC are not as, oh pretty, I guess is how one might put it, as they are in Boston. And besides that one bike messenger who asked me out on a date back in November, and who I thought was a struggling artist, but turned out to not be very smart (although he was in a band which is a plus in my immature world), New York City bike messengers are kinda yucky.

I brought this up yesterday while g-chatting with Swede. He pointed out the obvious: bike messengers do bike around eight hours a day, after all...so how is one expected to keep up appearance and cleanliness during such activities? But as I tried to explain to him, the yuckiness of the yucky bike messengers transcends mere body odor. It's not a normal bad smell, but like a deep-rooted pungency that lasts for up to 20 minutes after the messenger leaves the office. It's a combo of halitosis, sour clothes, dirty gym socks, and sometimes, even day old alcohol. And after keeping what I call a 'Tooth Log,' I've deduced that not one of the yucky bike messengers has more than eight to ten teeth total in their mouths. Which would be fine if this were Kentucky or West Virginia, but it's not...

There's also a lot of sighing and griping that comes from bike messengers...as if this job is the worst job in the history of the world...which I'm sure it is in mid-July heat and you're dealing with a bitch like me who's appalled at the fact that you're sweating all over her desk. But hey, if you hate it that much, why don't you go be a bike messenger in a place that's less humid in the summer...might I suggest Denver or San Francisco?

It's true: I'm shallow. I'm also superficial and ideally I always want to be surrounded by pretty things that don't smell bad...like puppies and bunnies and daisies and new packs of Post-It notes.

I'd like to ask that going forward, you all make more of an effort to get your outgoing packages up to the front area in a timely manner. The slower you are, the longer the messenger has to sit there...and well, it's just not fun for me, and therefore, pisses me off...and we all know what happens when I get pissed off: I turn green and bust out of my clothes like that Bruce Banner fella.

Thanks!

Boys on Bikes Lovin' Gal,

Ms. Paunts.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Coworker: Quick! Give me the camera!

Me: Why?

Coworker: Because there are celebrities outside and I love them!

Me: You mean Heidi Klum and Seal? Ew.

Coworker: Yeah! Don't judge me!

Me: Sorry, but I am. If it were Ryan Gosling, that might be exciting though.


Eight minutes later...


Me: So? Did you take their pictures?

Coworker: No. They were already gone when I got down there...and don't you dare speak a word of this to anyone! Got me?

Me: Sure. It will be our little secret...

Re: Save the Children.

Dearest Human Resources Department:

I might just be a natural born hater. I hate religious fanatics. I hate those who think lying is bad. I hate people who talk on their phones about their love life in small public spaces. I hate those who think it’s cute to let their children run free and annoy others. I hate mainstream music. I hate the sliminess of individually wrapped slices of Kraft American cheese. I hate weak coffee. But mostly, I hate people who stand in the way of me getting to work on time on a Monday morning.

I left early this morning. I planned to hit up the coffeeshop on Bowery, then turn onto Bleecker. While on Bleecker I ran right into that crazy old man outside the Planned Parenthood with his dead fetus sandwich board. I used to see him every Thursday morning on my way to Office One back in the day. The man is easily 80-years old, and since I’m pretty sure he’s not going to be getting pregnant anytime soon, I feel that he doesn’t really have a say in the whole abortion debate. When I first started walking past him, I’d have the urge to yell out at him “I’ve had eight abortions and am having another one this weekend.” Obviously, this is untrue, but I’d call it anyway, to make my side known. I didn’t say anything to him this morning, although I did notice he was sporting a new sign that declared ‘Abortion Kills’ – definitely seems a little redundant and had I had the time, I would’ve loved to point out this fact to him, but the line at the coffee place had been a little too long, and the sight of him alone had really irked me. Yes, I just said irked.

I continued along to Broadway and was again interrupted by one of those Save the Children advocates in their bright blue nylon vests. “You have a minute to save the children?” she asked. “Nope,” I said, “don’t have any money to give you.” I mean, that’s what they want, isn’t it?

I picked up my speed, and swung my bag into one of three Eurotrash guys who were all wearing matching skintight white jeans and Ray Bans. Just as I made it slightly out in front of the Eurotrash stooges, I was again confronted by yet another Save the Children person…again: “Do you have a minute to save the children?” “Nope,” I said, “I’m late for work.” “Not even 30 seconds to spare?” he asked pleadingly. I paused. I looked at him in his blue nylon vest. I felt sorry for him. I’m not sure if he’s getting paid hourly or what the deal is, because I know there’s no way this is some sort of volunteer situation. I blurted out the first thing that came to my head: “I hate kids. I don’t want to save them,” and continued on my way.

I finally got inside the office building and stood in line waiting for the only working elevator. Both in front of me and behind me were those horrific film students from the second floor school. I can’t even get into the obnoxiousness of this lousy lot without dropping f-bombs galore. And as usual, they held up the elevator by being annoying and young and annoying some more.

Yes, I walked into work today twelve minutes late. I will have you know it takes me fifteen minutes door to door from my apartment to the office. I left today at 835am and got here at 912am…I’m sure there’s a mathematical equation out there that can figure out the exact minutes and seconds that were wasted on distractions, but honestly, I’m so fucking pissy now, I don’t even care.

So before you get your panties in a twist, as I’m sure you will, please consider the effort and pains I took to get here on time...and I suggest we place blame where blame is do.

Thanks.
Mandy.

Re: Proof That the Heart Is a Risky Fuel Burn.

Fellow coworkers:

I usually immediately erase any of those stupid email forwards that people send to me. In college, I’d fill them out when I was procrastinating and avoiding the completion of some 40-page paper that was, nine times out of ten, an in depth analysis of my one of the many books by my dead soulmate, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I’m no longer the procrastinating college student I once was: that girl who at 4am would fill out the questionnaire in the hopes of it providing information about the future love of my life and how many rugrats we'd have together. I’m an adult now and know for a fact that I’ll be marrying either Billy Crudup or Ryan Gosling someday, so I really don’t need a silly email quiz to declare it so.

However, Irving in Accounting sent out one of those time wasting email forwards on Tuesday. I was feeling a little nostalgic and decided to fill it out:

1. Which is your favorite color: Red, Black, Blue, Green or Yellow?
2. Your first initial?
3. Your month of birth?
4. Which color do you like more: black or white?
5. A name of a person that is the same sex as you?
6. Your favorite number?
7. Do you like California or Florida more?
8. Do you like a lake or ocean more?
9. Write down a wish (realistic one)

The results told me everything I already knew, and my wish? Duh: world peace…it don’t get much more realistic than that! But what stuck out was my answer to #5…whatever name I put there should be my best friend…well, according this stupid Feng Shui Horoscope. I put coworker Laura’s name.

Since getting my results on Tuesday, I have been stalking Laura around the office; I’ve called her just to ‘chat’ and even suggested we do drinks next week…because the email told me to do so. My attempts at snatching her up to my BFF haven’t been very subtle, as I’ve started receiving threats from Ali who has already staked a claim on Laura (I’ve made the appropriate spelling and grammatical corrections):

Dearest Amanda,
Please know that Laura is MY best friend. I know you think that you are successfully stealing her away, but please know this is not true. You have never shown any interest in sharing our sushi Mondays or lunch shopping sprees (now at the local boutiques). You can't just jump in because a measly email chain claims you and she are BFF. Look around you - this office screams "Ali and Laura forever!"
If you continue with your shenanigans, I will have to take action.

Yours through Christ/The Star of David,
Alison

I’m not a religious person, so I’m not sure what her closing denotes, but I do know that Ali is getting a little self righteous and possessive. I mean, Laura is okay, but she’s nothing to write home about or hog. In fact, if it weren’t for the damn email, I wouldn’t even be pursuing her. The last thing I need is Ali wielding her machete at me (now that she knows what one is), over some pointless email.

So the next time you have the urge to send me an email forward with some mind-numbing quiz, please don’t. I’m obviously weak and desperate for answers to the great unknown, and have decided email horoscopes are the way to go…and I really don’t need one more vice with which to deal.

Thanks so much!
Mandy.

Re: Death to Leggings.

Leggings were really in style a couple years ago. Everyone wore them from little kids to walking Herpes infected celebrities like Lindsay Lohan. I must admit I, too, embraced leggings occasionally...they are ridiculously comfortable and in the winter, a lot warmer than tights.

But when something is that comfortable, you need to beware. In short, leggings are just a slight notch above sweatpants on the evolutionary scale of pants. I've been trying to get sweatpants banned since the moment I came into this world, but since I'm not a prominent figure of society, no one will listen to me. I've never worn sweatpants, I never would wear sweatpants and if the day comes that I'm so down and out in my life that I actually even consider sporting a pair, I would like to be shot on the spot.

American Apparel has been nice enough to breathe new life into the leggings fad, by making those shiny, liquid-looking leggings...that way those of you who can't let go of the passé trend can still feel 'hip' despite the fact that you're anything but. I'm strongly against these shiny leggings for anyone who weighs more than 105 pounds, but I digress.

So this brings me to the leggings that are worn in this office. While I'm sure leggings are sported more in this office than the average New York office, there is one employee in particular who insists on wearing them everyday: you know who are.

Dear leggings-wearing fellow coworker:
I beg you to cease. Your leggings are black, knit and feeling the effects of too many washes and your forever expanding ass and legs. I can clearly see the intimate contours of your thighs through the flimsy cotton and it's upsetting me! I'm not sure how you got into this rut, but it's time to change...spring is here! Come on, let's leave the leggings at home, what do you think? Please? It will be fun...it will be a new era! And I bet once you shed those leggings you'll have an easier time getting pregnant, because your husband will actually want to sex on you without wincing in disgust! What do you think?

It's all just food for thought...thanks!

Mandy.

Re: Oscar Wilde.

People:

I always thought there was some sort of unwritten law that if you exceeded a certain age and shared a work space with people several years younger than yourself, you weren't supposed to try to flirt with them. It should be understood that people between 23-35 should stay within that bracket in regards to office flirtation and banter, then the 35+ crowd should have their own bracket in which they can flirt and grope each other without anyone feeling uncomfortable.

It wasn't enough that Gross 65 Year Old Coworker has taken to calling me 'Panda,' despite my asking him not to; or that on Valentine's Day he gave all the girls candy and disturbing compliments; and then of course, there was St. Patrick's Day when he sported the Kiss Me, I'm Irish suspenders (although he is a New York Jew), and begged all the girls to kiss him...oh yes, this wasn't enough at all...he really needed to push the envelope...so what did he do? Oh, he snuck up behind me and asked me if I wanted a massage. YES...Gross 65 Year Old Coworker asked the girl who doesn't like to be touched, if she wanted a massage...of course his hands were already on my shoulders and his mouth just centimeters away from my ear when he asked. And after taking an unofficial poll, it turns out that I was just one of many to whom he offered his massaging services.

I don't know why, but Gross 65 Year Old Coworker reminds me of that character Max von Sydow played in the Stephen King movie Needful Things: old, creepy, and unnerving. However, Gross 65 Year Old Coworker is an even uglier and more foul version: his teeth are huge and yellow, reeking of death and stale coffee...and despite his attempt as suaving it up with his cologne, he still stinks of moth balls and decay.

What it really comes down to is age. Back in the days of Office One, I worked with boys within my own age bracket. So if one of them put his hands on me to offer a massage, or reached over my desk and helped himself to my snacks, or was vulgar, as boys can beautifully be, there was no harm in it...it was pretty much welcomed.

The purpose of Gross 65 Year Old Coworker is unknown. Between wandering around the office trying to score free goodies, stealing glances of coworkers’ breasts, and bossing people around, Gross 65 Year Old Coworker raison d'etre, if you will, is one of great wonderment.

After harassing Ali for months, Gross 65 Year Old Coworker was moved to the other side of the office. The other side of the office actually means he's diagonal from me now, and despite this move, Gross 65 Year Old Coworker has not ceased his creepy, foul behavior...he refuses to keep to his own age bracket! Granted, we don't have anyone in his age bracket here, but still...get control, man!

I'm so disgusted with Gross 65 Year Old Coworker that I will be starting my own boycott. I will no longer be doing my fake laugh at his jokes, I will no longer pacify his need for attention by feigning interest, and instead of pretending to be on the phone when he comes to my desk, I will just simply ignore him. If you feel as I do about this particular person, I implore you to do the same…they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but maybe he’ll at least get the hint.

I, for one, will be kind enough to spare the world of my oldness when I'm 65, but putting a bag over my head like the Elephant Man did...woohoo!

Thanks!

Best,
Mandy.

Re: Lil' Love Bites.

Hickey.
A temporary red mark or bruise on the skin (as one produced by biting and/or sucking).

I know we've all had a run in with a hickey or two. I know my first one popped up after a severe make-out session with this boy Sean when I was 15-years old. Since then, I've maybe received a handful more by sheer accident, of course, because of my paler than pale skin. However, even at 15-years old, I didn't wear it like the badge that some people do: proof that you got some. Simply, a hickey is white trash.

So the vendor today, the one with the hickies all over his neck...well, let's just get it out of the way, shall we? I know we were all snickering about it. I mean, seriously, what kind of professional waltzes into a formal meeting and expects people to buy things from him when his slutty behavior is displayed all over his neck for the world to see? Granted, I have nothing against sluts...I think sluts should embrace their promiscuous ways and not pretend to be something they're not. However, hickies..come on...

I will give $20 out of my next minuscule part-time check to anyone in this office who asks the vendor about his hickies. You can ask him via email or phone...although email is preferred for authenticity of the conversation. If you can provide proof that you inquired about his love-bitten neck, then the $20 is yours for the spending. Along with the $20, you also get my admiration and respect, and that, my friends, is priceless...


Thanks!

Re: Doug & Mandy 4-Eva.

People:

Upon my desk there sits my office love, Doug. He is round and bouncy, and although not the most talkative thing in town, he makes me very happy.

Since starting here, I have slowly built upon Doug everyday courtesy of the amazing rubber bands that the mailman wraps around our huge bundles of mail....yes, that's right: Doug is a rubber band ball.

Doug is not to be trifled with, manhandled, or bounced! And most importantly, he is not to be used and/or abused, nor stripped of his rubber bands. Unlike the rest of us who wish to decrease in size, Doug wants to get larger and larger...Doug wants to take on the world.

So should you need a rubber band, please refrain from taking one from Doug. We have a large box of rubber bands in the shipping room, and another one in the supply closet.

Thanks in advance.

Mandy.