I hate Mondays.
Every Monday, one of my co-workers brings in the leftovers of what she baked over the weekend. It sits on the edge of her desk and every time you walk by she says hopefully, “I made cucumber zucchini mango melt aren’t you going to try some?”
If you don’t stop and take a bite she stares forlornly at the fax machine. By four o’clock you are so tired of her dejected gaze that you finally take a taste and by then whatever has been sitting on her desk has now been sitting there for close to seven hours and tastes a bazillion times worse than if you’d just broken down and tasted it at nine in the morning.
I really resent the forced feedings. And poor Keith Gordon! He’s on the skinny side, you know, so if he doesn’t stop more than once she acts like he’s a babe rejecting Mother Earth’s teat.
Today I grudgingly took a bite of her Equal-grapefruit-soy-loaf then hurried off to a meeting, only to find that another co-worker had brought in Chobani Greek yogurt and likened it to finding Sri Lanka (her orgasmic exclamations were really unsuitable for 9:15 a.m.; if you're going to squeal breathlessly it should really be after 3).
To shut her up, I ate the damn yogurt. And I did not experience Nirvana. I did, however, experience complete disgust when a coworker from IT who couldn't find any spoons reached into my empty Chobani container and brought my used spoon to his mouth. He didn’t ask, nor did he refrain from licking it clean.
We are not cats, people. And if he read my blog he’d know that sharing spoons, even in reverse, makes me want to shower incessantly.
If I hadn’t been so nauseous from the soy-loaf nugget I’d just washed down with Cho-gurt I might have cared that the table of eyewitnesses now probably think me and the IT guy are splendoring in the grass.
Go ahead and tell me Tuesday’s gonna be better.
I dare you.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.