Stupid Coworkers' Quote(s) of the Day.

Ali to Laura: What's the name of the guy who made everyone drink the Kool Aid and die?

Laura: I don't know...Michael or something. Why?

Ali: Because I want some of that Kool Aid right now! I think his name was like David something, right?

Laura: Well, Google it - I'd like to put his contact info in our database...

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

While indulging in birthday drinks on Friday night with the girls from the office, Laura looked down, pulled at her hair, and said: "Wow! White t-shirts really make my hair look long!"

Mandy vs. Peter _______, From the Nameless Office Supply Company.

Me: Hello, _____ Promotions.

Peter: Is Mandy there?

Me: This is she...(hesitantly, of course) 

Peter: Hello this is Peter ____ from ______.

Me: Oh, yes...you were the one kind enough to rat me out to my boss.

Peter: Sorry? I'm not sure what you're talking about.

Me: Dude, don't lie to me. I don't care what you're selling, we're not interested. And you can't end a sentence with a preposition...FYI.

Peter: I'm calling from _____ and I want to save you money.

Me: We already work with Staples, but thanks. 

Peter: Well, in these tough economic times, Staples is not a friend of small companies.

Me: Yeah, we're not interested.

Peter: Not interested in saving money?

Me: Not interested in talking to a tattle-tale is more like it, Peter.

Peter: What? So you're telling me you don't want to save money?

Me: Listen, I know you're a salesperson and this is how you make money...I also know you probably went to school for something besides this but yet this is how you make your living...but is it really necessary to call a gal's boss in order to make a quick commission check?

(silence)

Me: Peter? Are you there?

(dial tone)

Re: New (Old) Responsibilities.

Good morning!

Since being stripped of my full time status, I've also been stripped of many responsibilities. Which makes sense, since I'm only in the office four hours a day...these four hours a day have taken me from Office Manager to Glorified Secretary. In fact, when people call me a secretary, I don't even bother wasting my time in correcting them anymore nor trying to explain the subtle difference between managing an office and just simply picking up the phone. Granted, I usually pick up the phone in a variety of accents, but it still doesn't quell the demotion for me.

Today I was informed that I'll be getting one responsibility back...yep, one. And while this one measly new task will not result in more hours, it's "something, Mandy" as it was explained to me. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be grateful, perhaps get on my knees and thank them for giving me something to do besides filing and answer the phone in foreign accents (I really love to do a French accent or a Southern accent, and yes, Southern counts as foreign in my world). I think they wanted me to thank them, the way a rich person might want you to thank them when they give you a ten-dollar bill for an eight-dollar drink...that same sort of thing. Well, I didn't thank them, I'm done fake thanking people and feigning gratefulness...it's even more exhausting than being angry, to be quite frank.

So please note that going forward, I will once again be in charge of ordering vendor lunch on Thursdays. Please also note that I do not need your input on what we should have for lunch. I get that like five of you are pregnant and have all these dietary restrictions, but as far as I'm concerned you did this whole pregnancy thing to yourself, so you'll just have to have a backup plan on Thursdays if you're fearful that deli sandwiches or sushi will make your baby grow flippers and an extra ear...and hey, if it does, you just cart that lil' darling off to Coney Island's freak show exhibit and never look back...then just steal a normal looking kid off the Merry-Go-Round when its parents aren't paying attention...there are ways to get around weird looking kids...besides giving up sandwiches from Katz's...

Thanks!

Mandy.

Open Letter to Peter _______, From a Nameless Office Supply Company.

Dear Peter ____:

You are a douche. Not just a douche in the slang interpretation of douche, but also a douche in the vaginal irrigation interpretation of the word. Yes, that's right: you're a tube that dirty girls the world over use to "clean" themselves...and I'm talking herpes kinda dirty...yes, that's you.

I understand you are a sales douche and therefore are forced to call me twenty times a day in order to get business, but for the last fucking time: we're not interested. However, it takes a real douche, like the kinda douche that comes from Staten Island and has a mother who has mistakenly told him (read: out of pity) his entire life what a catch he is, to call up my boss and inform her that I have been "refusing" your calls. The fact is, Peter, I haven't...I pick up when you call, it's just when you ask for "Mandy" I tell you she's on vacation...until November...and honestly, in my head, I usually am.

I've gotta say, I've never met a Peter I've liked. My sister dated a Peter and he sucked. He was ten years her senior, refused to get a job and lived off the kindness of my parents. While my sister was a full time college student with a full time job, this Peter sat around in their apartment, smoked the pot, played the guitar in his imaginary band and waited for his make-believe trust fund to cash in...

Then there was Peter the accountant from my old job who was so crooked and so deceitful and obsessed with God, that all he did was smile because "God's love is all around me." No, that's not God's love, that's fucking crazy talk and being oblivious to the world outside your chemically imbalanced head.

In fact, the only Peter whom I think I can even tolerate is Peter Griffin and he's a GD cartoon character so I don't even think he counts! But he's drunk and Irish and well, I do have a thing for the drunks and the Irish and the slackers of the world...

So you know what Peter ____ from the nameless office supply company, I've got three words for you: go fuck yourself. That's right...you wanna rat me out to my boss about my "refusing" to take your calls go right ahead, because you have no idea what can of worms you've opened for yourself...and the way I'm feeling lately, babe, I've got nothing to lose...you however, just might, and I'm going to make you cry.

I'll be patiently awaiting your call...

Kisses.

Mandy.

Re: Laura's Knee.

Laura ate it last week on the sidewalk. She was wearing some bad ass fancy heels that, I, for one, would never try to rock so she gets point there, but after work the heels betrayed her and Laura fell on the sidewalk; and fell hard. She banged up both knees pretty bad, especially her right knee that she literally ripped open.

Despite being the ripe old age of twenty-six, Laura couldn't take care of her knee. In fact, her knee seemed to get worse at night, because Laura refused to properly care for the damn thing. Being forced to love Laura because of her extra special Jappy ways, my heart caved at her pain and I had to help her in her precarious state...didn't want her losing the bottom half of her leg to gangrene...because god knows if she did lose it at work, I'd be the one cleaning up the mess, and me and mass amounts of blood just don't mix...I'm getting light-headed just thinking about it...

Twice a day, I'd help her sanitize it, then wrap it up with Neosporin and Band-Aids. On Friday before I left work, and right after I bandaged her up, she asked me to sign her eye patch (she had decided it would be better to tape the eye patch from the first aid kit to her leg instead of gauze during this particular Nurse Mandy episode.)

After taking this photo, Laura asked: "Do my legs look hairy?" No, Laura, they don't.

Re: Taking Back Certain Words: September 17, 2009

I had stopped reading my horoscope after it told me several months ago I was going to be pregnant by the end of the week. However, I was bored the other day and wondering what the stars had in store for me...so I read it. My horoscope informed me that of all the days of the month, September 17 would be the absolute worst. I let it roll off my back, of course, then clicked over to the NY Times instead.

Yesterday sucked...like really really bad. I was rejected by a literary agent who was interested in my manuscript. Seems I haven't brought my work up to a "marketable" status yet. I firmly believe I was born to write, so this cut really deep and forced me to stand in the bathroom and cry. Trying to make amends with the situation and pick myself up, I went out. We went to a bar where the DJ sucked. I asked him if he took requests, and he said no, so being a fucking bitch, I told him he sucked and that he had the worst taste in music. Granted, both of these were true, but I didn't need to say it out loud. The DJ came up to me and yelled and reprimanded, and told me I was rude...as he should have, I mean, I would've done the same. Turns out he was friends with the bartender, who also came up to me and yelled at me and told me to drink up and leave. Being a bitch who had her heart pretty much broken earlier that day, I smashed my beer bottle on the floor and left. These are not the actions of a stable, sane person...

Then to add insult to injury, I spent some quality time on the corner of Second Street and Avenue A talking to Swede. I betrayed Swede a few weeks ago, I did an unforgivable thing that has clearly damaged our friendship, and even if we were to move on, the scar would continue to still be there as a reminder...and it's not going away...scars are permanent, you see. The worst part is, and anyone who's been reading these knows, Swede means the world to me. I love him and care about him so deeply that there are no words for it. He is one of my best friends and one of the few people in this wretched city whom I actually give a damn about...he's my touchstone, my soul mate, he's my favorite. He's my voice of reason and one of the few people who calls me out on my indiscretions...he knows I only wear lip gloss to make up for the fact that my hair is so short, even though it's not my style to wear lip gloss...and he fucking points it out to me when no one else would even notice. Swede and I are fated to be friends, just friends forever, and to know that I jeopardized it and having to hear it again this morning at 230am was heartbreaking...but I deserved it...I deserve to be yelled at for my actions. I was wrong for what I did to him.

Some days I think I'm in love with Swede then it passes. Some days I wish I had never met him so I wouldn't have to know what it would be like to live without him. Most days I'm just grateful that I found someone who actually gets me and puts up with my shit.

So I went home drunk and crying. I fell up the stairs and scratched the fuck out of my wrist. I laid in my bed and I cried. I cried at the thought of never making it as a writer. I cried at the thought of losing the one thing I really love in New York: Swede. And now, I'm hungover as fuck. My eyes are puffy from crying. I've been throwing up since 8am and my heart feels like it's broken in several little pieces and they're just sort of floating around in my rib cage trying to make it right again.

All that being said...let's try to make this day bearable, ok? If something breaks, please try to fix it yourself...I'm a wounded bird today, and am too broken to fix anything...including myself.

xo.Mandy.

Re: The Evolution of Coworker Ali.

When Ali first started she was so darling! She was sweet, shy and passive and all the things you'd expect from someone who was raised in Ohio. However, those days are long gone...

So rumors started that Irving from Accounting was taking several naps a day. These rumors were confirmed by yours truly when I went in there to drop off an invoice and he was asleep in his chair. He was not snoozing, nor sitting there with his eyes shut in a reflective moment...no, none of that. Irving was dead asleep to the world: mouth gape, heavy breaths, feet up on his desk. I let it pass, because maybe he needed a lil' shut eye. Then it happened again...later that day...for another hour...then several more times that week, then the week after and so on. 

If someone wants to jeopardize their job by napping several times a day, then I fine...like I give a fuck. But when that someone is full time and napping 60% of the day, and I'm still at part time because of the recession that is pretty much over (note to my bosses!), it kinda pisses me off. So like the bitch I am, I started emailing people in the office whenever he was napping...that way they could waltz pass and witness the bullshit for themselves. Ali didn't find it so amusing one of those days.

Ali, who can't possibly weigh more than 100-lbs, walked right up to Irving. "Seriously!?" she yelled at him...to no response from Irving. So she said it louder and kicked his chair. Irving opened his eyes sleepily, looked at Ali with the disgust that one looks at someone when they've been woken out of a midday nap, and tipped his head to the side to go back to sleep.

When Irving finally got talked to about this new habit of his, he placed all the blame on Ali. Now, Irving has it "in" for Ali. I'm not exactly sure what this involves...a switchblade to the jugular maybe?  A public bitch slap? I mean he does live on Avenue D and they do things differently over there...like scary differently...like "D" is known to stand for "death" kinda shit yo! Granted, Alphabet City is my 'hood, but even I steer clear of Avenue D...

All we do know is that Irving is having a birthday party in October and he's only invited Ali...so you know, you do the math...

xo.Mandy.

Re: The Things We Shouldn't Mention.

I don't have any brothers. I often wonder that if I had brothers I would be less sensitive to boy-like behavior/comments/antics...you get the point. I was not raised in one of those families where bodily functions were discussed, or burping was allowed at the table...these of course, are unlady-like qualities and something my mother wouldn't stand for in her home.

I've never in my entire life seen people burp the way the girls in the office burp. It's actually amazing to me that the petite lil' things you are could muster the gas and force needed to release the noises you do from your bodies. Not being a burper, I don't get it, and I don't think I'd ever be comfortable with doing so in the presence of others. However, I've gotten used it to it.

There is one thing I will never get used to though and that would be "shit talk." I don't mean this metaphorically as in the way we talk shit behind each other's backs, but I mean literally.

Today, one of the older nasty salesmen actually came to my desk to complain about the, and I quote, "turd remnants" that were left behind in the toilet by someone. WHY?! Why would anyone feel it necessary to tell me such a thing!? I immediately stopped him. I rose my voice when I said "I don't have any brothers! I don't feel comfortable talking about this! Please leave me alone!" I covered my ears like a child, and had I been standing, I imagine I would have defiantly stomped my feet, too. Mr. Nasty apologized profusely, but the damage had been done. I had been scarred. 

Going forward, please refrain from telling me what you find in the bathroom. I don't need to know about "turd remnants," because really, what's the point? You expect me to send out an email asking that people flush until all evidence is gone? And how exactly am I going to phrase that eloquently? Or is it that you expect me to get in there with a scrub brush and handle the situation face to face? Just so you know, neither scenario is going to happen. So any and all bathroom adventures should be kept to yourself...thanks in advance.

Mandy.

Mandy vs. UPS Operator

UPS Operator: Hello and thank you for calling UPS. How can I help you today?

Me: I'd like to place an order for supplies, please.

UPS Operator: Okay. And can I have your first and last name, please?

Me: Mandy _____.

UPS Operator: Now it is okay if I call you by your first name today?

Me: No. I'd prefer you call me Suzie.

UPS Operator: Excuse me?

Me: Suzie. I would like you to call me Suzie.

UPS Operator: Okay then, Suzie, what items would you like to order today?

Me: Well, I need some international airway pouches and those padded packs...the ones with the bubble wrap inside them...you know the ones I mean?

UPS Operator: Do you have the item number for these things?

Me: I do not, because we're all out of them...hence the reason I'm ordering more.

UPS Operator: I'm sorry, Suzie, but I'm going to have to direct you to the online store, where you can pick out the necessary supplies and give me the item number.

Me: But I just told you what I need...I can't imagine it's too difficult to look up the item number for "international airway bills."

UPS Operator: Shall I transfer you to the technical support department so they can help you locate your items online?

Me: No. I'd just like to place my order with you now.

UPS Operator: Well, my apologies, but that will not be possible.

Me: You know, if I was allowed to make the executive decision, I'd close our account and open one with Fed Ex instead - at least they let me order my items over the phone.

UPS Operator: Will that be all today, Suzie? 

Me: No, I'm not quite done telling you how I prefer Fed Ex.

UPS Operator: Thank you for calling UPS and have a good day.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Stupid Coworker: Did you go out last night?

Me: No.

Stupid Coworker: Yes, you did...you totally look like you did.

Me: What does that even mean?

Stupid Coworker: Your eyes are bloodshot and your lips are extra red - like you've been kissing someone too long...

Me: Maybe I was kissing someone too long!

Stupid Coworker: Yeah right! Deep-throating an entire bottle of wine doesn't count as "getting any."

Me: I hate to admit it, but you totally just summed up my evening...

Re: SAMO.

Fellow coworkers:

I love artists. I love struggling, poor artists covered in paint, lugging around their portfolios or trying to sell their stuff on the street. I love graffiti artists and how they dangle themselves from rooftops so they can leave their tag in the most death-defying of spots. I love photographers. I love sketch artists. I love sculptors, musicians, and sometimes even graphic designers...but only the cool bad ass ones, not the ones who have sold their soul to corporate America.

The second coming of Jean-Michel Basquiat has arrived and he's sitting outside our office. Or at least, I'm pretty sure this fella is convinced he's the second coming of Basquiat with his dreads and graffiti style paintings. I pass him every morning and always take a look at what he has. Today I asked him the prices, and was told: "Fo'ty fo' the smalla 'uns, and sixty fo' the bigga 'uns..." I don't know what sort of accent prevented him from speaking as clearly as I would've liked, but dude is covered in paint so who am I to question him?

I plan to own an original Basquiat someday...it's on "The List," actually - as is having someone write a song about me (read: any day now, Mike Kinsella), having sex with a rockstar (read: again, any day now, Mike Kinsella), and owning a pair of black patent leather Mary Jane Manolo Blahnik pumps...among several other things. But until that day comes, I'm going to tide myself over with a "fo'ty" dollar canvas covered in the paint and sweat of this soon-to-be famous artist fella outside our building. I'll be doing it because I love artists and I believe in supporting fellow artists. 

I realize when most of you think of art you think of Monet or some other name you've heard your whole life...I realize most of you have zero respect for art except in selfishly using it to pretend you're cultured...and that's fine, if that's how you want to roll. However art, all art, is an investment of the soul and I implore you all to buy a piece from the fella outside...you never know, it could be worth 500k in a few years, and I know you're all into money and shit, yo!

Have a nice weekend, plebes!

xo.

Ms. Paunts.

Re: My Favorite Coworker.

This is Bailey. Bailey is my favorite coworker of the moment. I've had a handful of people whom I'd consider my favorite coworkers (Mattie, Swede, Clifford, Damien, Jennie Klein...basically most of Office One). I even wrote a short story last summer called "My Favorite Coworker," that was published on nerve.com...under a pseudonym of course, because some of the material was a lil' too explicit (read: dirty as all get out) and I didn't need prospective new bosses knowing the intimacies of my sexual conquests...nor, does my father need to know that I know what sex is...or that I may or may not have had it...once or twice by accident...when I was drugged...and was told that's how certain people say hello...or whatever.

But yes, that's Bailey. Granted, his eyes look a lil' wonky from the flash of my BlackBerry, but he actually is a stunning little man. Bailey has been at the company longer than most: almost five years. Bailey has been roaming these halls since he was eight weeks old and is pretty much in charge of the show. His work day is broken into two major activities: begging for food and humping his stuffed animals. As you can see above, that's him begging for food - he lifts his left paw off the ground and softly squeals in anticipation of a morsel of anything you might throw his way. Here, he's begging me for a piece of my amazingly good (overpriced) chicken sandwich from Soho Park. Of course, I gave in to his tiny demands, because I love him. Had it been Ali begging for a piece of food, I probably would've chucked a tape dispenser at her head and told her, "go suck on a celery stick, skinny bitch!"

When not skulking from cubicle to cubicle in search of food, Bailey can be found growling at bike messengers (only the black ones, because he's racist, of course), humping his raccoon doll that is twice his size (ideally in the middle of meetings so he can maintain being the center of attention), or lounging in preparation for his yoga class. Yes, Bailey is enrolled in a yoga class. That's right...while I'm eating my Ramen noodles tonight for dinner, Bailey will be stretched out on a yoga mat at some posh Upper East Side yoga studio...then he'll prance home and eat something that I'm sure will have cost ten times what my Ramen noodles cost. Then tomorrow he'll come in and pretend he has it sooo rough as he begs for food and cries like a starving child all day...and if you try to pet him, he'll bite you. 

Bailey is an asshole. Bailey is a prick. Bailey makes no apologies for his evil, sneaky ways...and I guess I'm just a sucker for devilish behavior. Bailey is the only honest thing in this whole office, and that's why he's my favorite coworker of the moment...

Adieu.

Re: Put Your John Hancock Right Here...

Yesterday I was asked to compose a letter for the CEO to sign. The letter was supposed to be brief and grant the CFO and I permission to enter some storage unit over in Chelsea. I was asked to be "to the point, and steer clear of any mandy-isms" in the letter. I googled "mandy-isms" and couldn't find a definition, so I wrote the letter as I saw fit.

I handed the letter to the CEO, asked him to sign it and he did. He never read the letter to see what he was signing, he just signed away and handed it back to me. This morning I decided I'd write another letter...because I'm anti-authority and like to act like a fifteen year old. In this letter, I went on to praise the coloring of the carpet in the showroom. I made it quite flowery and even stretched it out for three whole paragraphs. Again, I handed the letter to the CEO, asked him to sign it and he did...not once looking over what it was he was signing. 

As I walked away with the pointless rambling (and signed!) letter that detailed the difference between the azure and cerulean blue stripes of the carpet, my brain searched for all the things I could put in front of him and ask him to sign. I know that having him sign a blank check might be kinda tricky, but maybe I can get him to sign a letter stating that I should get a 30k/year raise, or have him sign a stellar reference letter that will be my ticket to writing for The New Yorker! The deceit is endless!

For the rest of the day, I will compiling a list of things that the CEO should sign from which I'll benefit...and being that I'm not really good at the whole multi-tasking thing, I'm going to need everyone in this office to leave me alone so I can do so...unless, of course, one of you can tell me what the fuck a "mandy-ism" is, then I'm all ears.

Kiss. Kiss.

Mandy.

Re: Confessions of a Basket Case.

I hate to admit it, but I'm pretty damn emotional...and over stupid stuff too. There are actually mornings where I cry on my way into work, because I hate it so much. Granted, it's not full on sobbing like if I see a three legged dog, or a bar is out of my favorite beer, but there are still tears that sort of pool in my lower eyelids. If I don't blink, I can keep them pooled there until they dry; it's the blinking bit that does me in and causes my mascara to run.

I can't entirely blame my coworkers for this mini-breakdown that occurs once a week (usually on Mondays). I could probably blame myself for not having chosen a different route (read: marriage, two kids, suburbs, Toyota Camry in the garage); I could get angry for not wanting something more mediocre and simple. I could blame the cocky 18-year old I once was who was silly enough to believe that I really could have everything I want in life...but I don't, I just sort of sulk and furrow instead...I'm a master at it anyway...

I have chosen to live in a city where success is a different level of success then say, oh, Wyoming. Sometimes it's difficult to stomach the exorbitant lifestyles of the well-off who surround me...some of whom are my friends. I guess what I want to know, as I sit here opening these hundreds of pieces of mail, is when is enough enough? When does one give up and walk away? I'm not making the world a better place sitting here slowly dying from lack of challenging projects and mental stimulation...so what does one do to make strides in making things better?

I know none of you know...you're all happy in your ignorant blissful ways: your engagements to your short fiances, your lunch break trips to Express, your overpriced manicures, your penchant for Lucky magazine (the worst magazine of all time, FYI), your weekend in Montauk...blah, blah...I look at all of you and wonder why I even took this job in the first place...unemployment would've been much sweeter...

On a side note, the next person who dumps a box of chocolate on my desk from that whore chocolate vendor and her evil ways, is going to get smacked upside the head. If you haven't noticed, I have a picture of Kate Moss taped to my computer...and not because I think she's stunning, but as a reminder that eating is bad for you...the one thing I can learn from all of you is how to be successful in having an eating disorder...and for that, and only that, I thank you.

xo.Mandy.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

No one is in the office to supervise us today. I showed off some swell dance moves to the new girl. Laura dressed up like Michael Jackson and danced to "Billie Jean" while Ali sung along. When one of the "adults" walked by, Laura said:
"She's totally going to tell on us...she's going to tell [the boss] that all we did all day long was dress up like Michael Jackson and touch ourselves..."

Re: Laura's Cubicle Makeover.

Ever since Joey left the company a few months ago, Laura's work life has been lacking in color. Joey's desk, that is right next to Laura's, has remained empty. Granted, Laura works just on the other side of a cubicle wall from Ali so they can sing along to bad top 40's music together; and occassionally, when I need a good laugh, I'll wander on over to her desk, steal some hand lotion and listen to her get all catty about our other coworkers...but these few pleasures didn't seem to be enough for Laura...

Today, shortly after I arrived in the office, I stopped by Laura's desk for my morning hand lotion routine and noticed that she had a carpet folded up in a bag. "What is that?" I asked.

"That's my dining room carpet from home...I thought I could put it down and make my cubicle cozier..." she explained. I looked around at Laura's desk. She is one of those people who has photos of all her friends and family covering every inch of her desk and walls. She also has a tie-dye "throw" that she keeps on her chair for when she gets cold. "Do you think I'll get in trouble if I put it down?" she asked.

"No, I don't see why you would," I said. I helped Laura pull the carpet from her bag and spread it out over the floor of her cubicle. I tried it out...she was right: it was cozy. "Now all you need is a beanbag chair!" I exclaimed.

"No, no...I'd prefer one of those blow up chairs instead! Oh...and Yaffa Blocks just like a real live college dorm room! Do you think we can order some this week?" she asked excitedly, as she pulled her tie-dye throw over her lap.

Well, of course we can, Laura...

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

While talking to Laura about a funeral she went to last week, Laura said: "Funerals are not all fun and games, unless you're playing Jewish geography! The funeral brought together an entire new groups of Jews!"

*It should be noted that this new group includes Jennie Klein from Office One...now Laura from my current office, is all BFF with the infamous Jennie Klein...

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Out of the blue, Irving from the accounting department sprinted past me yelling: "I need a clit! A clit! I need a clit!"

Me: "A what?"

Irving: "A clit! You know, a clit!"

Me: "I'm not sure how to respond, so I'm going to pretend this never happened..."

Re: "This Has Gotta Stop!"

The following is an exact, word for word, email sent by one of our pregnant coworkers regarding the thievery of her snacks:

"I'm gone one day and I come back and most of my snacks are gone the ones on my desk that are MY personal food. I would really appreciate it if people would tell me 1st if they do and 2nd ask. I'm pregnant and I bring these snacks for myself. Please give me the respect to at least tell me if you take stuff off my desk."

I'm not exactly sure what she's trying to say here...maybe something about not eating her food when she's out for the day because if you do she will unleash a terrifying wrath upon you? And why should people tell her first and ask second? Shouldn't you ask first? I'm confused.

It should be noted that this particular coworker is not one with whom to trifle. Even before she got herself all preggers, she would knock you into the wall so she could be the first one in line at the lunch buffets. And when the food didn't meet with her expectations, you better believe she stomped her foot like a child, kicked over a chair and sulked the whole way back to her desk complaining that now she'd have to "buy her own lunch"...as if she couldn't afford it...

I'm not sure who ate her food, nor do I care, but I'd like to stand and salute you right now. I clap vigorously in your honor, and should you reveal your identity, I will shake your hand and stop making fun of you for a whole hour...woohoo!

xo.
Mandy.