I knew I wasn't going crazy...nor was I consuming an alarming amount of salad dressing. I just couldn't understand why I was going through a bottle of salad dressing faster at work then I was at my own apartment. I knew I was on the cusp of discovering the culprit. Day after day I would walk into the pantry at work and smell my Italian dressing. Only, I didn't use it that day at lunch....so who was using it?
I know I shouldn't get wrapped up in a $3 bottle of dressing, but when you think about it, what this person was doing, or rather, what my own co-worker was doing, was downright rude. We work together for cryin' out loud! Why would you help yourself to your co-workers belongings just because they are stored in a shared refrigerator? And to continuously do it over and over again is just beyond unacceptable to me.
I quietly came around the corner today and low and behold I caught the guy! (Yes, it was a guy, too.) I startled him, he made a weird face, and then suddenly tossed something into the fridge and bolted. It wasn't until a short while later that I realized why he looked so guilty....he was the Salad Dressing Hoarder!
So, to you, Dressing Hoarder, be fair warned!
I've got my eye on you. I will be watching every move you make when you enter that pantry from this point forward. You who can't even say hello to me in the morning when I say, "Good Morning!", or even bother to exchange a smile when I pass you in the hall. I have done nothing to you but only treated you with the common respect that I would want from my co-workers.
You're cheap to not buy your own.
You're lazy for not walking to the corner of the next block and buying one at CVS.
I don't want any excuses either that you're not from around here b/c look buddy, I live in DC, for all I'm concerned, I'm not from around Clarendon, either. I still figured out the joint and where to get my Starbucks, my Zone Bars and yes, my salad dressing. And claiming ignorance will get you no where fast, too. As instructed on our fridge, I used one of the pre-printed labels and filled it out with my last name and the date. Do not even tell me you don't know who, WILSON, is! I haven't taken my, "Welcome Aboard Marianne Wilson", sign from last October so come up with another excuse.
Until then, keep your chubby, greasy, architect-paws off my dressin' or else I'll have no other choice but to resort to some creative aggression in a culinary outlet.
Just sayin'...
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Excuse Me, Is That Your Bag....of Weed?
The key to keeping a dirty little secret? Keeping it a secret.
The day started off like every other, I woke up to a symphony of sounds from my neighbors upstairs and an aroma that makes me think someone is cooking something with dirty hands. An hour later I exit the lair, (on the lookout for spiders while climbing my steps to the outside), and begin my commute.
I get on the metro at Cleveland Park and miraculously find a seat amongst the sea of tourists who are all riled up to go photograph the hell out of the cherry blossoms. The train gets crowded at the next stop and a guy in front of me had to step in closer to make room. I immediately start scoping him out, not because he was attractive, but because he was an absolute mess. The picture perfect definition of disheveled. Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled and button crooked, belt askew, bag open and over one shoulder with shoes untied.
Let's go back to the bag. The bag was open which I always find fascinating because you're either asking someone to pick pocket you or in my case, blog about you. The contents of this bag I found mesmerizing. This is what I saw: 2 mechanical pencils, one black pen, a pack of gum, lots of gum wrappers, a lighter, what looked to be a plane ticket, loose business cards, a black notebook, an iPod, some dollar bills and the icing on the cake which prompted an immediate text to my sister, A BAG OF WEED.
You want to know why people get busted for weed? Because they get stoned then go out in public with their bag of weed hanging out for everyone to see on the metro. Now some of you are probably saying that I was being nosey for looking so closely at the contents and I disagree. My attention to detail was analytical research for the purposes of writing this blog with the hopes of entertaining those who read it. If this is not entertaining then consider it a "Lessons Learned" so to speak. When I saw that he was also carrying a Starbucks I began to stress. Just how many hits off the bong had this guy taken before getting on the train? The quantity could cross the threshold between whether or not I would be accessorizing my shirt with a Venti Latte (Non Fat) or not. (Yes, I actually looked at the code on the side of cup to see what he was drinking.) Luckily he got off at Farragut North without a spill.
Go through my work day: email, email, email, CAD, CAD, CAD, copy paste, copy paste, copy paste.
Leave gym and begin commute home. I arrive at Metro Center and see I have 4 minutes to kill before my train. I go to the end of the platform and pull out the blackberry to begin my texting commute. The guy on my right is in a full blown conversation on the phone about what type of meat he is going to have when he gets home. The details of his barbeque/honey mustard/horseradish experiment sounded like a hot mess to me. But before I could be further grossed out by his grill talk, I overhear something even more disturbing from the couple on my left.
I'll try describing the voice to you first. Picture a girl talking to a cute little fluffy dog. Their voice will get all high-pitched and sing-songy. Now if you're talking to a dog, that's OK. But when you're speaking to a person, you're a grown man and you're saying:
I'M GONNA HIT YOUR BUTT. OH, I'M GONNA HIT YOUR BUTT! OH, I JUST HIT IT!
It's not OK.
In fact it's disturbing. My head did a Linda Blair and spun so fast to the left that I heard something crack. I just scrunched my eyebrows together, opened my mouth as if to say something, (but didn't know what to say), and quickly shook my head as if trying to shake the visual from my brain like an Etchasketch.
And he fully went through with his promise, too. There he stood, spanking his girlfriend's ass right in front of me and Grill Master Bob to my right.
I'm still not sure why he thought this was a logical way to pass the time on the platform. I started staring at the red lights hoping they would blink and take me out of this "tunnel of love". When the train arrived I waited to see which car they got in and went the other direction.
Your dirty little secrets and your dirty talk is all good and fun. I have nothing against either but just not in public. I think it's more about being so careless when you're out in full view of the world with actions/habits that are extremely private. You never know who you could run into....your boss....your Mother....or even worse, a girl who writes about crazy people she sees on the metro. ;)
Remember, trains move!
The metro chimes a little PSA that says, "Excuse me is that your bag?" And it reminds people to take their stuff and pick up after themselves before exiting the train. They may need to alter that to...."Excuse me, is that your bag of weed on the floor?"
Do you have a dirty little secret? Good, keep it to yourself and it will remain that way forever.
The day started off like every other, I woke up to a symphony of sounds from my neighbors upstairs and an aroma that makes me think someone is cooking something with dirty hands. An hour later I exit the lair, (on the lookout for spiders while climbing my steps to the outside), and begin my commute.
I get on the metro at Cleveland Park and miraculously find a seat amongst the sea of tourists who are all riled up to go photograph the hell out of the cherry blossoms. The train gets crowded at the next stop and a guy in front of me had to step in closer to make room. I immediately start scoping him out, not because he was attractive, but because he was an absolute mess. The picture perfect definition of disheveled. Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled and button crooked, belt askew, bag open and over one shoulder with shoes untied.
Let's go back to the bag. The bag was open which I always find fascinating because you're either asking someone to pick pocket you or in my case, blog about you. The contents of this bag I found mesmerizing. This is what I saw: 2 mechanical pencils, one black pen, a pack of gum, lots of gum wrappers, a lighter, what looked to be a plane ticket, loose business cards, a black notebook, an iPod, some dollar bills and the icing on the cake which prompted an immediate text to my sister, A BAG OF WEED.
You want to know why people get busted for weed? Because they get stoned then go out in public with their bag of weed hanging out for everyone to see on the metro. Now some of you are probably saying that I was being nosey for looking so closely at the contents and I disagree. My attention to detail was analytical research for the purposes of writing this blog with the hopes of entertaining those who read it. If this is not entertaining then consider it a "Lessons Learned" so to speak. When I saw that he was also carrying a Starbucks I began to stress. Just how many hits off the bong had this guy taken before getting on the train? The quantity could cross the threshold between whether or not I would be accessorizing my shirt with a Venti Latte (Non Fat) or not. (Yes, I actually looked at the code on the side of cup to see what he was drinking.) Luckily he got off at Farragut North without a spill.
Go through my work day: email, email, email, CAD, CAD, CAD, copy paste, copy paste, copy paste.
Leave gym and begin commute home. I arrive at Metro Center and see I have 4 minutes to kill before my train. I go to the end of the platform and pull out the blackberry to begin my texting commute. The guy on my right is in a full blown conversation on the phone about what type of meat he is going to have when he gets home. The details of his barbeque/honey mustard/horseradish experiment sounded like a hot mess to me. But before I could be further grossed out by his grill talk, I overhear something even more disturbing from the couple on my left.
I'll try describing the voice to you first. Picture a girl talking to a cute little fluffy dog. Their voice will get all high-pitched and sing-songy. Now if you're talking to a dog, that's OK. But when you're speaking to a person, you're a grown man and you're saying:
I'M GONNA HIT YOUR BUTT. OH, I'M GONNA HIT YOUR BUTT! OH, I JUST HIT IT!
It's not OK.
In fact it's disturbing. My head did a Linda Blair and spun so fast to the left that I heard something crack. I just scrunched my eyebrows together, opened my mouth as if to say something, (but didn't know what to say), and quickly shook my head as if trying to shake the visual from my brain like an Etchasketch.
And he fully went through with his promise, too. There he stood, spanking his girlfriend's ass right in front of me and Grill Master Bob to my right.
I'm still not sure why he thought this was a logical way to pass the time on the platform. I started staring at the red lights hoping they would blink and take me out of this "tunnel of love". When the train arrived I waited to see which car they got in and went the other direction.
Your dirty little secrets and your dirty talk is all good and fun. I have nothing against either but just not in public. I think it's more about being so careless when you're out in full view of the world with actions/habits that are extremely private. You never know who you could run into....your boss....your Mother....or even worse, a girl who writes about crazy people she sees on the metro. ;)
Remember, trains move!
The metro chimes a little PSA that says, "Excuse me is that your bag?" And it reminds people to take their stuff and pick up after themselves before exiting the train. They may need to alter that to...."Excuse me, is that your bag of weed on the floor?"
Do you have a dirty little secret? Good, keep it to yourself and it will remain that way forever.
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