Oh shit, guess who slipped up and left his self-proclaimed best friend, a/k/a that fucking orange ball, over on neutral turf?

It’s about to be a fun night.

(OMG this thing is so dirty.)

ETA:

The fucking orange ball now has its own email address (AWOLorangeball@live.com). I’m going to start taking pictures of it around teh department and emailing them to Chris. He’ll totally know it’s me*, but I don’t care.

*(A-ron said that I’m the only one here with the energy and imagination to pull a prank like this; eveyone else is too defeated.)

I. The Cutie

Henry hasn’t replenished my apple supply in TWO DAYS, so yesterday I was roaming around the department begging for apple handouts.

“No one around here has any spare apples!” I whined to Wendy, who gave me two Cuties as a consolation.

Hours after she left, I was ready for my fruit-meal, but I didn’t know how to start. I just sat there and twirled one around in my palm, looking for the zipper that the Cutie boxes show.

“How do I open this orange thing!?” I texted Wendy.

“OMG you’re a goof!” she texted back, before saying that she was going to display her Poor Henry pin for the rest of the week.

“Hmm, use a knife,” Amber, who is beginning to learn about my idiosyncracies now that I sit on her side of the office, suggested.

“Oh, I can’t use knives,” I said, putting my hands up. “I’ll just make Carey do it.”

But then Carey said her only tried and true method of peeling Cuties is to bite into them to get it started. So I just stabbed it with my fake blood-splatted scissors and went from there.

It was OK, but it was NO APPLE, I’ll tell you that much. And then I started to get angry because one of my co-workers comes from a line of apple orchard people so why isn’t he supplying the office with bushels of that shit? God, people let me down constantly.

II. The Fucking Orange Ball

Two of my co-workers, Chris and Lee, share a bromance so tight it would make even Pauly D and Vinnie blush. What they also share is an orange ball.

A fucking orange ball.

They like to play catch this fucking orange ball, which would be fine if they didn’t both sit behind me and sometimes one of them stands in front of my desk and does the little “Toss it to me!” jig, at which point the fucking orange ball is whaled above my head, tickling my follicles and threatening to hit one of my Jonny Craig pictures. I mean, my son’s pictures.

Other times, Chris announces his presence by dribbling the fucking orange ball around the department.

Apparently today, Chris left a note on Lee’s desk that said “Going to lunch. Watch Ball.”

Lee was the primary caregiver of the fucking orange ball the other day, because Chris was being punished or something. I’m not even sure, their relationship is so complex at times. That day was really bad for me, because Lee tends to be a little more aggressive and there were times my hair legitimately tousled in the wind as the ball grazed the air next to my head. And then he would threaten me with it, telling me I was lucky I had so many picture frames on my desk because he was so tempted to chuck it at the back of my head.

My first mistake was telling them how annoyed I was, how I come to work to get away from this same scenario at my house, where a five-year-old hurls plastic eyeballs against every available surface of the living room. Because of this,  I am trained to instinctively wince and duck every time I hear the dull thud of the fucking orange ball hitting the floor around me.

At one point today, I was holding a stack of papers with both hands while walking toward Chris, who just couldn’t help himself and faked me out with that fucking orange ball. I almost dropped my papers, you guys!

Here is what other people are saying about the fucking orange ball:

• It is so out of control
• I’m going to shove it up Chris’s ass!
• It’s better than a blue one
• What fucking orange ball?

Today, it came close to hitting me again, when Lee tossed it over top my desk to Chris, but it hit the ceiling and nearly ricocheted back down on top of me. Even Chris was like, “THAT WAS TOO CLOSE, LEE!” because Chris knows that if I get Marsha’d, that fucking orange ball is getting stabbed to death by my fake blood and Cutie-splattered scissors.

Natalie happened to be walking by at the height of the ball-bouncing and said the scowl on my face was priceless, even emailed me about it later when she was in her office, reliving my agony.  

“You should replace it with your other orange when Chris leaves,” Carey suggested all deviously. “And then leave a ransom note!”

“Yeah, it’s not like you’re going to peel it,” Kristen, who was here for last night’s Cutie conundrum, mocked.

This statement got me all flustered and I defensively sputtered, “Fruit is weird!”

“Pot kettle!” Kristen exclaimed, and then walked away laughing.

Touché.

(Wendy totally peeled the second Cutie for me today. It was a really big deal. People stopped to watch.)

I’ve spent the last several hours at work frantically trying to get ahold of Henry, TO NO AVAIL. Some of my co-workers derived great joy from watching this pan out.

A woman of my stature should never be left hanging with no response.

“I’m about to take this to Facebook,” I said to Lee, who has the pleasure of being on late shift with me tonight. And I did too. I posted this on Henry’s wall, for all of our eleventy-billion mutual friends to gawk at:

WHY DO YOU HAVE A CELL PHONE IF YOU DON’T FUCKING ANSWER IT I HATE YOU OMG REALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1111111ONEONEONEONE

Lee pretended to feel bad for Henry, even called me a douchebag, but really I know he’s just jealous that he doesn’t have a girlfriend who treats him like shit.

Finally, after three phone calls, 128372047 CAPSLOCK texts, and one angry Facebook wall posting, the dumbass answered his phone. Of course, by this point, I had a slight worry that perhaps something fatal had happened to him, but all I got was, “WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? My phone was between the couch cushions!”

This means, “My dick was in between some tramp’s ass cheeks.” I AM PRETTY GOOD AT TRANSLATING PHILANDERERS.

“Are we still going to see Sleeping With Sirens on Sunday?” I asked in my most hotheaded whisper. (I am at work after all. These poor people don’t need to see my psycho side.)

“I knew that’s why you were calling,” Henry huffed in agitation. (Um, hello, it could have been the hospital calling to tell him his long-time girlfriend had a vending machine tossed on her.) “I have to go finish making this card.”

“You mean you have to go finish cheating on me!” I said childishly, but he ignored it and said goodbye.

We are totally going to that show on Sunday.

***

Elsewhere, coming in to work earlier has been pretty cool. However, it is apparently confusing and startling to some people.

“I’m still not used to seeing you here this early,” Glenn grumbled.

“It’s like a ray of sunshine!” I exclaimed in a super-exaggerated sing-song tone.

“Yeah,” Glenn droned facetiously. “Something like that.”

And then Mitch said I’m selfish because I’m throwing everything off for everyone. SO GLAD TO BE OF HELP, GUYS.

While Barb is off work and recovering, I’ve been coming in earlier to help out.

Sure, I’ve been whining about it, but that’s because whining is all I know how to do. But the reality is that I’m happy to help out and even happier to have a nicer paycheck.

In fact, when I was in the boss’s office yesterday for my review, I mentioned that I would be interested in coming on full-time if she would ever see that as a possibilty. (Chooch’s tuition is really vampirizing my bank account; hopefully we can get out of the city sometime soon so he doesn’t have to keep going to Jesus Academy.) My boss seemed thrilled at the prospect and said she would see about making that become a reality, but I know that sometimes things around here are slow to be processed. I’ll be patient. (For awhile!)

However, she approached me later and asked if I’d like to do a trial run by coming in even earlier two days a week and I said yes without hesitating even though this is really putting a damper on my lady of leisure lifestyle.

Today, I got here at 1:30, which really threw everyone for a loop.

One of the analysts (Kristen, I think; things seem to have happened so long ago now that I’m here full days!) said, “Oh damn, I thought this meant it was 4:00!

” And then we laughed because I always joke that that’s the only reason people are so happy to see me around here, because I signify that the workday is almost over for the people on day shift.

“Now no one here is going to like me anymore!” I joked.

Glenn walked into the conversation right around that point and in his typical Work-Henry droll, he said, “They would have had to have liked you in the first place though.”

OH GOOD ONE, GLENN! Looks like someone’s still smartin’ from the Wacky Worm.

In other work news, I passed out Valentines Monday night after everyone had left, which apparently made some people very happy. I like making people happy, which is probably surprising to some people who think I’m Satanic.

All the nice emails and “thank you”s from people passing by my desk made me realize once again how lucky I am to have a job that I don’t dread going to, like I dread going to the eye doctor or taking Chooch to school. It would be so much better if Barb were here, though.

Henry bought a new (to me) apple-brand home last night called Kiku.

IT’S EXOTIC YOU GUYS. And I’ll tell you what else it is: It’s the goddamn Sumo wrestler of apples. Motherfucker was so wide, it got itself stuck a quarter of the way down in the apple corer at work. I had to seek out the nearest Man for help. That happened to be Nate, and it (probably) required him to imagine he was pushing a cranial-sized corer down onto the face of some Batman villain. (Nate likes Batman.)

(I don’t know what I’m talking about.)

It even peeled itself on one side.

Misplaced your bowling ball? The Kiku’s your guy.

My verdict is that while it’s semi-sweet, I did not get any flashes of exotic lands while eating it. The slices were so thick that it was extremely difficult for me to maintain my delicate flower facade while trying to force my teeth all the way through. Carey came over to talk to me while my molars and jaw were exhausting themselves trying to break down the chunk of Kiku meat in my mouth and felt like a horse on display. Someone needs to teach me how to eat an apple like a lady, short of turning it into juice, and not a farmer dishing out slop.

I feel like people in other departments can hear the snap of the skin every time my teeth sink down. I am so hyper-aware of my cacophonous apple snacking.

It officially took me an hour to finish it, and the whole time I could hear Pee Wee Herman’s voice in my head chanting, “It’s like an apple that someone keeps on chewing, a-h-hand chewing, a-ha-hand chewing, a-ha-hand chewing, A-HA-HAND CHEWING.”

However, once all the work was done, the Kiku was pleasant with slightly sweet undertones and although it was on the crisper side, I would probably eat it again.

Or just use it as a gag for that bitch I’ve got stowed in the trunk.

EDIT: Henry asked me how it was and I said, “It was neither exotic nor sweet, although if I closed my mouth and breathed out through my nose, it filled my mouth with a slight undercurrent of sweetness.”

“What are you, tasting wine?” Henry scoffed.

The U.S. offices of the Law Firm are all closed for Martin Luther King, Jr. day, but our department stayed open with a small staff to cater to all the European, etc. offices. I was one of the suckers who agreed to come in because it’s extra money, and what would I be doing anyway? I’ll tell you what — sitting at home and calling Henry every 15 minutes to see when he’s going to be done with work. So why not give Henry a bit of a reprieve while making some extra money, I guess, right?

The problem is that this special Fuck the Holiday shift starts at 7am. As you may know, I’m accustomed to working 4pm-9pm, so the whole getting here part was kind of stressful and included a lot of whining and whimpering.

The other problem is that Chooch doesn’t have school today. I attempted for a minute to use him as my scapegoat (“But what will I do with the babe?!”) except everyone was like, “WHY, BRING HIM IN!” I figured maybe this would be OK since there are only 5 of us in the office today.

Even though we packed Chooch’s Darth Vader backpack full of activity books and other Kindergarten fare, he declared within 30 minutes that he was bored and requested to go home.

JOIN THE CLUB, KID. THIS IS YOUR FUTURE.

This was all pre-8am, when the novelty of sitting in the empty desk behind mommy was still fresh and made him feel cool. But then he quickly realized that mommy’s job is pretty dry and uneventful, so he started creeping around and scaring my co-workers, which is hard to do when you work in a building full of reflective glass.

My serial killer coloring book kept him occupied for awhile. The middle finger pose is totally unintentional, by the way. This is one of the few obscene things he’s yet to learn. He’d rather just use his words to express his anger and disdain for society.

Oh, and then I lost him for awhile! That was really fun. I searched everyone’s office on my side of the floor before discovering that he was hiding in the small closet attached to the desk behind me the whole time. I wanted to fucking kill him.

However, it did last an entire 2 hours before he tried to color my white desk, so that was pretty impressive.

I just lost half of my donut in my coffee — THIS IS THE WORST DAY EVER.

2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go. 2 more hours to go.

****

45 minutes to go. In an effort to keep us distracted & prevent Chooch from potential rubberband burn (he has himself rubberbanded to his chair, don’t ask), I suggested that we look at pictures of Jonny Craig.

“Oh great. Just like we’re at home,” Chooch deadpanned.

So instead, he drew a picture of John Wayne Gacy for Wendy, who LOVES CLOWNS.

(She does not love clowns.)

Now we’re giving ourselves makeovers with office supplies. I currently have a large binder clip in my hair. I am so far ahead of you, Milan. 

Gotta go. Some asshole just flagellated himself with a giant rubberband. DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING.

Highs: Had lunch with my friend Rick today. He threw out some suggestions, but after Square Cafe, he made sure to add that they have Johnny Cakes on the menu. I haven’t had Johnny Cakes since Henry and I stayed at the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast in 2003, but that’s not why I was so quick to choose Square Cafe.

It’s because of Jonny Craig, ya’ll.

Johnny (Craig) Cakes.

 Yes, I have a problem. But it’s OK. I have a support group. Kinda.

Rick tried to get me to order a side of bacon. I’m pretty certain my vegetarian days are numbered. I succumb so easily to peer pressure. This is going to be like the shaved eyebrow incident of 1995 all over again.

Came home from lunch to find Henry home from work and all lounged out on the couch, Marcy in his lap and watching TeenNick. What a life.

Lows: A bunch of us got our desks moved at work today. I’m clear on the other side of the department now, a side I barely visit. Not surprisingly, I am being a pretty big cry baby about this. The upside is that Barb and Bob got moved over here too, and now I’m close to some of my work buddies, but it’s still extremely disorienting and I HATE CHANGE. Oh, I thought I was going to have a heart attack over it on my way up in the elevator today.

This was my old desk right before I left last night. GOODBYE, OLD FRIEND.

Barb has only been at her new desk for a day, and this is what it looked like before she left. It’s actually much worse, but that’s all I could fit in the frame. So at least there was a modicum of normalcy over here.

This is who sits behind me now.

An upside is that I’m close enough to Carey’s office so that when she opens her door (like right now), I can see everything on her computer screen. The downside is that it’s all work stuff.

AND! I just sneezed THREE TIMES which leads me to believe that I am clearly allergic to this new quadrant. And I think my desk is smaller.

Oh well, at least I still have Jonny and St. Rita. And the comforting din of Carey singing in her office.

When I first saw this gargantuan Christmas bulb outside of our building, I thought, “Fuck, I hate Christmas.” But apparently when Nate saw it, he thought, “Fuck, I love Indiana Jones.

” So per his request, Sandy facilitated a quick photoshoot yesterday at work featuring Nate as Indiana Jones and Sean as an evil elf. I was told to show up with my camera, so I did.

These are just some of the things we do in lieu of working.

I wasn’t back at my desk for more than 5 minutes before one of my co-workers came over and said that she was surprised security didn’t chase us away because only “firm-approved” people are permitted to take pictures out there.

Thank god Nate made me a post-it badge that says “The Law Firm-approved Photog” under my name. TRY AND STOP ME NOW.

Came into work today to find a large box beside my desk, all wrapped in a candy cane print. It was from Barb and she told me to open it immediately; within seconds, a small crowd of people privy to the box’s contents had gathered at my desk

I opened it and immediately almost pissed my pants. A few weeks ago, I was at the flea market with Tommy and Jessy and took a picture of this creep-factory of a doll. Of course, by the time I got home that day, I was kicking myself for not buying it. I even checked when I was there two weeks ago with Andrea, but didn’t see it and felt extreme sadness and regret.

Barb knew that I was coveting it and went back and bought it for me for Christmas and I can’t even believe it I am dying of happiness right now punctuation what!?

Of course, everyone was like, “That is so creepy! Why do you want that?!” and then it was fun to watch as they realized they had already answered their question.

Sean came over and caught me cradling my new (old) doll. He shook his head and said, “Hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Bridget was like, “OMG THAT’S SO DIRTY HOW CAN YOU PUT THAT SO CLOSE TO YOUR FACE!” or something equally as chastising and oh look she just came back and said, “I wouldn’t touch that if you paid me and I sincerely suggest that you anti-bac your hands.”

Nina and Wendy cried a little bit when they saw it. Mitch and Lee seemed to approve. Chris, who was here when I opened it and looked thoroughly flabbergasted, just walks by now and gives me leery motive-questioning looks.

He fits in so well with all my creepy shit and Jesus pen!

He’s coming home with me this weekend for our annual Christmas picnic in the cemetery, but I think after that, he’ll reside here in The Law Firm. I like the reactions he’s provoked.

This just solidifies what I already knew: Barb is the best co-worker ever and most attentive friend. (Plus, she reads my blog like a good girl.)

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

• I just learned that Barb bought this the same day I was at the flea market with Andrea looking for it.
• I have been carrying it around the department with me and it occured to me that I am holding it with more natural panache than I have ever held a live baby. 

Barb and I found out recently that our co-worker Bob is dating some broad from Morocco, but we’re not supposed to know that Bob is dating some broad from Morocco which means we can’t outright ask him about it because then he’ll know we know when we’re not supposed to know.

So we have been thinking of ways to bring it up in conversation, when I realized, “Holy fuck! Let’s just talk about my Moroccan souvenir bracelet that I just got from the flea market!”

And that is just what we attempted to do earlier this evening, except that Bob wasn’t paying attention when Barb loudly exclaimed, “OH WOW IS THAT A PRETTY BRACELET WHAT IS IT SUPPOSED TO BE?” to which I giddily replied, “WHY IT IS A MOROCCAN SOUVENIR BRACELET. FROM MOROCCO.” And then I had to turn and face the wall to hide the fact that I was laughing.

Nothing. Not even a slight twitch indicating that he heard us.

But because I hatch plans like Michelle Duggar hatches flesh-suits for her Biblical name collection, I wasn’t deterred. One of the reasons I was at Barb’s desk in the first place was because I had brought an unmarked apple to work with me. The sticker must had fallen off en route.

Side Note: I am keeping a log of all the different apples I eat because that is what obsessed people do, and probably also people who murder their mother and use the corpse as a body pillow. Henry has been trying to purchase different hybrids of apples each time he goes food shopping; however, I had already eaten one of each of this last batch. So I knew that the apple in my hand was one of probably five, and not knowing wasn’t really going to affect my “research” considering I had already sampled one of its kind. Different apples really do taste different! I never would have imagined.

I thrust my right apple-clutching fist near Bob’s face and said, “Do you know what kind of apple this is?

” while creating subtle wrist quakes paramount for a good bracelet-jangle.

A thing you should know about Bob: he knows pretty much everything. So my inquiry was not dismissed, yet embraced by a do-or-die mission to prove to me that he knows some shit about a goddamn apple.

He considered this thoughtfully, turned the apple in his palm, held it up the light and began spouting off some nonsense about its shine. Of course Bob would be some sort of apple dork.

“I really want to say Honeycrisp, but something about it is screaming ‘Gala’ to me. Why don’t you just eat it and find out?”

I laughed at how nonchalant this suggestion was. “I’m just learning about apples, Bob!” I said. “I’m not going to be able to tell.”

Now, I really didn’t give too much of a fuck about this apple other than the fact that it had a hot date with my mouth later that night and we were going to go all the way. But now I felt like I had to pose my quandary upon Nate as well, who sits in front of Bob, to make it seem more realistic.

Nate immediately went for his phone and typed in “What kind of apple is this?” When that produced no results, he resorted the archaic methods of just looking at it. I believe he also guessed Honeycrisp, but I can’t remember for sure.

A few minutes later, I returned to my desk to find Nate, in a thoughtful crouch, gazing intently at my apple. He retreated with slumped shoulders, unable to be the apple hero of the day. I could hear him and Bob intently discussing the apple case behind me. A veritable produce parade of apple varieties were being tossed about in serious tones.

Then Nate came back with his phone, which he held up next to the specimen to compare it to photos of other apples. Bob soon joined him with a KNIFE and I was certain he was going to snatch my apple and pare into it in a manner better reserved for Grizzly Adams. Or that Survivor Man who drinks his own piss.

Barb was just coming back from the kitchen, so she stopped to watch Nate and Bob stroking their chins thoughtfully, knowing that this was all because of Bob not taking the bait when we loudly talked about my Moroccan bracelet. Glenn, who would rather be riding the Wacky Worm, paused to see what the fuss was about.

“Why don’t you just eat it?” he suggested in his “I’m Too Old to Understand All This Hullaballoo” tone. (Note: Henry has this same tone.)

“Because I eat my apple every night at 7pm,” I explained like that was the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, right. Of course,” he said sarcastically while shaking his head.

Then someone asked me what the big deal was with me and apples and I said, “Oh, because I just learned that I like them.” I was met with no less than three blank stares, so I elaborated that it was mostly because I just learned to cut them.

Bob was incredulous at this point. “You don’t need to cut apples to eat them!” he exclaimed.

“You do when you don’t like to bite into them,” I said. Glenn was giving me one of those Henry Looks so I said, “I have fears, OK?”

“There’s a lot of issues going on in this corner over here,” he said, waving his hands around my desk.

I resented that.

Later on, Barb sent over George, whose family has apple orchards.

“It looks like a Fuji,” he said and looked at me with an ‘Am I Right?’ smirk. At his desk, I heard Nate say, “Ooh, that’s the first time Fuji came up!”

I sat in silence for a few seconds before realizing that George thought this was some type of afternoon work quiz and was looking for his prize.

“Oh, I have no idea what kind it is.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how you acquired this apple?” he asked slowly, with a hearty dose of skepticism.

“Oh. Some store, I guess. Henry does all that grocery store stuff.”

“You know, I wouldn’t be shocked if that was a Pink Lady,” George said, before walking away. Final answer?

Apple o’clock has come and gone and I have since eaten our little anonymous John Doe. At first I was like, “Oh this is not pleasing.

” But then by the second slice, I was all, “Wait. This is good.” It was crisp, which I actually do not like, and slightly tart with a strangely familiar, sweet aftertaste. My produce palate is about as refined as Flava Flav so that’s really the best I can do. Does that help?

Maybe pictures will. It has to be one of these type:

Gala, Pink Lady, Honeycrisp, Ambrosia, Jazzy (Jazzies?), Cameo. Whatever it was, I want another.

EDIT!! HOLD UP! I got in The car after work and was excitedly telling Henry about the night’s events. Before I even got a few sentences into it, he interrupted and said, “It’s an Ambrosia. Chooch took the sticker off but I made sure I checked first.” Oddly, another co-worker, Aaron, was telling me earlier that he recently ate an Ambrosia and it was the only apple he’s ever disliked. He said it had a soapy bite to it and now suddenly all I can taste in my throat is something akin to goddamn Palmolive. Sonofabitch.

Game over. Everyone loses.

Yesterday was the official voting for the Halloween decorating contest at work, but I had to spend the first hour of my shift in an Adobe Acrobat training session, and the BOSS was also in this class, which made it drag on and on because she kept asking questions and for the first time in my life, I honestly knew what Pee Wee felt like in the motherfucking Alamo, with everyone asking stupid questions and all he wanted to do was get to the goddamn basement.

Or, in my case – the ballot box.

I even floated up out of my body at one point. It was so frustrating.

Afterward, I had to sit at my desk and pretend to do work while Barb had a crowd around her as she counted the ballots and everyone was taunting me, making me feel paranoid.

At one point, I was honestly convinced that I was going to lose and I was scanning papers while practicing my best faux-gracious loser face. (Which doesn’t actually exist so I guess the proper thing to say is that I was trying to invent one, not practice it.

)

Meanwhile, I used this as an opportunity to steal away to the other side of the floor and plant incriminating evidence in Glenn’s desk locker (a skull with a former employee’s name tacked to it) and then I casually strew a finger and key across his keyboard, which had originally been inside a secret box cut inside the killer’s diary.

Anyway, I wound up winning, but by a very slim margin.

It took Henry AN HOUR to congratulate me and then he MOCKED my winnings by saying, “Yay, cigarettes and gasoline for everyone!” But then he’ll be the first person asking to use it.

“Please! Just let me use it on one stick of beef jerky!” Fuck you, Henry.

(Oh, he just texted me and said “That’s awesome” in response to a card I made. Look at him sucking up already. Anything to fill up the tank!)

Glenn eventually figured out that he was the killer, but not without Sean and I holding his hand and walking him through it. Then he came over to my desk and admitted that he hadn’t really read Ken Lobe’s diary, which—-hello!—-had most of the clues in it. It all started to come together for him though, and what a treat it was to watch.

I guess tonight I’ll start taking my stuff down.

I’m going to miss sitting amongst bloodied plastic liners, teeth in a salt shaker, fake skin and a pig mask. Goddammit, I’m getting all choked up.

I’ll probably at least keep my pictures of Lizzie Borden and John Wayne Gacy in the frames.

Who needs pictures of their children on their desk, anyway? I see my kid every day.

My friend Chris from Castle Blood has lent me some tattooed skin for my desk, which has seriously increased the creep-factor.

My boss was looking at it the other night and asked me repeatedly if I was sure it wasn’t real. I guess she just expects some asshole like me to come carting in the real deal.

Another one of my bosses was reading the diary and I was telling her about how I plan to finish everything off next week.

She looked alternately worried and impressed.

“You’re scary smart,” she said, which was nice to hear because I didn’t even think I was “regular smart,” so it was a really great night after that.

I’m really happy with the way these add to the macabre motif, and that some people are questioning whether or not I gave Henry a good carving.

I also made some additions to the killer’s diary, but I forgot to take pictures of that. And I took the night off work so it’ll have to wait till Monday. (I have so much time accumulated, that I’m just picking random days to take off at this point. It’s kind of nice.)

And now that our killer, Glenn aka Ken Lobe, is back from vacation, it’s been even more fun watching him look at everything and fall just short of connecting all the dots. I stole one of his desk keys for next week’s finale and he hasn’t seemed to notice yet.

I haven’t really been able to explore my darker side since I quit writing short stories, so this has been a really great release for me. I don’t want it to end.

There are still only about 4 of us who have decorated at work, but I can’t stop fussing with my desk. I know that if I add too much, it’ll just be gilding the lily, but I’m obsessed.

Sandy’s husband Ben was generous enough to give up his mannequin head (affectionately named Head) for the month and Sandy even threw in her uncle’s old rotary phone for good measure.

Both really add a perfect old-time creep factor and I love it!

Leave it to my competitive streak to turn this quaint Halloween decorating contest into a veritable political campaign. Wednesday really brought out the dark side of me because someone (BRIDGET) had the audacity to say I might lose, so I got all up-in-arms and indignant and practically attacked every person who walked past my desk, forcing them to swear their loyalty.  Then I panicked yesterday when Mary texted me and said someone’s  (my competition’s!) decorations were all laying in a heap when she arrived that morning because god forbid someone point at me and start screaming sabotage.

I asked Chris, one of the analysts, if he’s going to vote for me.

“Considering that fucking pig mask scares the shit out of me every day, I’d say you have my vote.”

Another analyst said she’s voting for me based on my framed portrait of meat slabs alone.

I’m about to order macarons from Kaitlin and let the sweet bribery carry me to the finish line. Try to say no to me and my basket of macarons, motherfuckers.

Last night, I worked with Tyler. It was the first time he worked a late shift since all this hullabaloo (Battle of the Network Stars shout out!) started.

“Your desk gets creepier by the minute,” he said. “But you know what you need? A lock of hair!”

“Oh, I have that already!” I exclaimed, flipping open the Diary of Ken Lobe to show him the page it’s taped to.

“Of COURSE you do. Why WOULDN’T you already have a lock of hair?” he said with a sarcastic laugh. “You’re three steps ahead of me!”

That’s because I have no life, Tyler.

Someone asked me what the prize is going to be and you know what? I have mustered up every drop of panache for this that I don’t even care about a “prize.” I just want the title and glory. IT IS ALL I HAVE GOT RIGHT NOW.

(But seriously, there better be a fucking prize.)

Killer Ken Lobe’s shopping list. Glenn, the co-worker that Ken is based on, apparently likes cashews.

That’s the only specific food I could get anyone here to tell me that he likes. Metamucil because he’s old, olive-colored shirts because I just made fun of him recently for wearing an olive-colored shirt, lipstick because I picture him slathering it on after he makes a kill.

Bloody latex glove strewn across my desk light.

Hot Naybor Chris let me borrow an old table lamp, in which I promptly stuck a red light bulb. I still need to find an old lampshade for it that I can slash and splatter with blood.

Splattered blood is kind of the theme around here.

On the outside of the glass in front of my desk.

My blog bro Brandy has been posting some awesome DIY Halloween ideas and when she shared one about creepy things in jars, I knew my desk would be amiss without some of that action. Thank you, Brandy!

Once the festivities here at work are done, I’m not going to want to take everything down. I’ll probably just set up a permanent area for it at my house. Maybe in Chooch’s room. I’m sure that will help with the issues he’s having at school.

I’ve made it this far without anyone complaining to the boss I guess, because when I came in yesterday, everyone still had their decorations up and there was even a photo floating around of the boss wearing my pig mask. I was so relieved! I haven’t even come close to finishing yet, plus I’ve decided that the “killer” is going to be Glenn (of Wacky Worm fame) so I’ve been dropping some clues to see how long it takes him to figure it out once he returns from vacation.

I’m using an anagram of his last name, which is Ken Lobe. I’m so excited about this twist, it’s stupid.

I clearly have little else going on in life.

Our killer has expensive taste in murder vans.

In other news, life is good, and here’s why: I’m feeling much better, tonight is the official start of the hockey season, and I was summoned for jury duty! Beyond stoked. I hope I get picked.