I set up my Killer’s office yesterday at work to a mixed bag. Some people loved it, some people were seriously repulsed (but commended me on it), some people didn’t get it, and one person mumbled, “I hate Halloween.”

But the greatest reward was that one of the analysts who never really talks much, to me or anyone, lingered by my desk to take it all in and actually showed emotion. I think it was the longest interaction we ever had.

The first thing you see when you walk down the hall is the pig mask propped on top of my closet thing. My boss stopped by last night to say goodnight and laughed heartily at it. “That’s perfect!” she shouted. Wait until you see the rest, I thought as I smiled nervously. I guess I’ll find out what she thinks today.

Aside from the pig mask, it’s fairly subtle.

Yes, I have my desk covered with blood-splattered plastic, but nothing’s really in-your-face. You have to stop and really look. My favorite is the page from a used car catalog that has an Econoline van for sale, which I circled with blood.

I found a handful of old photos of my mom and aunt* from the 70s and several old Polaroids of some of my friends* from when we were teenagers, so I’m using those as my victim collection.

I thought having actual photos would be scarier than just writing a list of names under a “Victim” heading. There’s a map of a random residential area which I hung up and as it gets closer to the end of the month, more and more victim photos will be taped up next to it with red lines drawn to the street where they were taken.

(* Susie and Christy, if you’re reading this—you’re two of the victims!)

Thank god I made Henry keep his old Weiss Meats coveralls (the ones that made him resemble Michael Myers and in turn made me like him; I’m sure he rues those coveralls now), because they add a nice touch, peeking out from my desk closet with a bone protruding from the pocket.

One of my co-workers came trolling past last night, stopped in her tracks when she saw the pig mask, and shot me a super condescending, “O-kaaaaaayyyyyy?” Then she hovered around my desk, inspecting all the details with this fucking “not impressed” smirk on her face and it put me in such a foul mood. I can’t wait to see the folk art she’s going to shit all over her desk. If she doesn’t have at least one pumpkin wearing a Leprechaun hat, I’ll write something nice about Katy Perry.

Today I need to find an old curtain or something that I can cut and hang up as a backdrop because it’s way too white in there. I need something that will give it a seedier ambiance.

Once I have it all complete, I’ll take real photos.

Also, how wonderful that this coincides perfectly with employee evaluations.

Barb convinced the boss to let us have a Halloween decorating contest. We were cleared to go all-out so long as there’s nothing that makes noise (because god forbid people annoy each other with something other than repetitive, murderous paper stamping) and I imagine anything involving permanent damage is also out, which sucks because I was trying to get Ty Pennington in there to build me the facade of Bates Motel.

While I would love to run out to the Halloween store and drop a few Benjamins, I’m broke. And then some people were all, “You’re totally going to win this” when really, I’m pretty terrible (read: lazy) at decorating. Halloween is my favorite holiday but I don’t really do anything special for it because that’s what’s inside me all the other 364 days of the year. I don’t need to throw up spiderwebs and blacklights to quantify my love for scary shit. Still, I felt pressured.

My desk already has zombies, plush Michael Myers, CLOWNS, and pictures of my kid and Marcy on it. That’s some scary shit in itself, not to mention my Christ in the Smokies souvenir guide.

But I really want to play, too! And it occurred to me Friday night that I don’t have to really spend any money at all. Not if I go with what I know best: serial killer motif.

So far, the only thing I spent money on was a composition book. Borrowing from “Seven,” I wanted to quickly make the journal of a killer. I soaked it in the sink to give it an aged, warped feel and then pasted random newspaper clippings about murder, scattered thoughts scrawled with my left hand, and I even taped down a small clump of hair I pulled off a brush.

“Do you think that’s too much?” I asked Henry.

“Why? They already know you’re weird.”

Still, I was mindful not to get too crazy with it.

That hand mirror had been in this house for god only knows how long before I moved in. I found it one day when I dragged a chair into the bathroom to see if anything was on the top shelf of the closet, and there it was, all antiqued and dented.

“It’s probably not as old as you think it is,” Henry said today, being his usual killjoy self. “It’s probably only from the 70s.”

“And the dent?” I asked snidely.

“Probably fell off the counter.”

“Or! It’s from the 1800s and the dent was from bashing in someone’s head,” I offered, tuning out the rest of what Henry had to contribute.

I sprayed it with blood and it looks even better.

Then I created a small library.

“Why is one of these books my high school yearbook?” Henry asked suspiciously.

Yeah, that was intentional.

I knew one day, Chooch’s teeth would come in handy.

I also have a map of a residential area & a classifieds auto page with random vans for sale circled, and a little box with a finger resting on a bed of bloodied cotton.

I printed out photos of a slaughterhouse (I need to be creeped out, too!), John Wayne Gacy, Lizzie Borden and H.H. Holmes to replace Chooch’s pictures in my frames.

This is all I have so far, but it’s enough to get me started tomorrow. I pretty much did nothing all weekend but collect all these small details, and I think there were moments when Henry was genuinely concerned.

I’m so stoked! Hopefully I won’t get fired or forced into a psych evaluation.

One of my co-workers called out to me from her office, “Do you like tomatoes?”

That’s a loaded question. I suppose I do like tomatoes, but only on certain occasions, in certain foods and sliced in certain ways.

But this was coming from a co-worker with whom I’m not very close; not wanting to engage her any further by revealing intimate details about my dietary habits, I settled for a simple, “Sure.”

And then there she was, standing before me with a carton of cherub tomatoes.

“Here, take one!” she said eagerly, arms extended like she was handing me a birthday gift. “It’s like an explosion of flavor in your mouth!”

Stunned, I stuck one tentative hand beyond the plastic covering of the carton and right smack into the warzone of small red torture devices.

Never do I just EAT A TOMATO. Oh, I know all about you fools who shake some salt on those motherfuckers and eat ’em like a goddamn apple. But that’s not for me. Put it on a grilled cheese, for sure, but someone gives me a whole entire tomato and it’s getting chucked for fun.

What a Normal Person Might Do:

• Politely decline.
• Pretend to have gum in their mouth.
• Puncture their breast implant and run.

What Erin Does:

• Accept the challenge.

I felt backed into a wall by then, anyway. My hand was already instinctively in the carton (actually, by this point, it was stuck in the carton; have you seen the gargantuan rings I wear?) so this was definitely the point of no return; and she was standing there all excited and wide-eyed, waiting to become Tomato Bros with me. I was willing to tell her what she wanted to hear just to make her go away.

It was the size of a fig, the one I withdrew. Instead of biting it, I sighed heavily and popped the whole thing into my fake-smiling mouth.

My molars squished into it and sent guts of the tomato gushing through my mouth; the wet, gelatinous texture made my sad tongue curl back in terror. This was definitely not a good time for my taste buds, or my gag reflex for that matter. I’ve had an easier time getting through reluctant, obligated blow jobs.

That’s about when the tang of bile began to slowly crawl up my throat like a geriatric geyser. I was still chewing and smiling while she stood there expectedly, praying that she doesn’t notice I’m dry heaving with zipped lips. And then of course, a veritable reel of disgusting images played out inside my mind, because why wouldn’t I want to think about:

• snakes engulfing writhing rodents,
• Snooki’s kooka engulfing writhing rodents,
• Sarah Palin as President, and
• Grandma Cleavage modeling her new Irish Snuggie,

while I’m hosting what I can only describe as Satan’s sour semen on the bed of my tongue.

The short version: It was yucky, you guys. :(

My body was trying to reject it into my cupped palms but she just wouldn’t walk away.

Someone else walked by and she turned to offer them their own cherub (who tossed it into his mouth like he’s some Huck Finn motherfucker, I might add; I might also add that his name is MITCH, the worst Facebook friend in the whole world, and you know why I can add that? Because HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW THIS EXISTS BECAUSE HE NEVER CHECKS IN WITH HIS STUPID FACEBOOK FRIENDS.), affording me a few seconds to openly cringe and emulate the No Bueno! grimace a baby makes when being force-fed organic mashed peas. I definitely didn’t want to swallow, so I tucked it behind my teeth, under my tongue, if I could have dripped it down into my bra, I would have; and then I choked out a strained, “It’s really good, thanks!” Like it would have killed her if I told her the truth, as if she grew this bitch in her own goddamn garden from seeds extracted from her loins. And then I couldn’t hold on to it any longer—I swallowed. I mean, it might as well have been a load of ejaculate so why the hell not?

“An explosion of flavor, right?!”

Yes, something like that.

There was a rainbow at work last week. It’s hard to get work done when there is a rainbow taunting you from outside.

Not that I need anymore excuses to distract me from work.

Usually, it’s pretty fun working at the Law Firm, especially when you have weirdos like Barb sitting behind you, trying to kill herself with popcorn-filled plastic bags and being buried alive under a mound of paper towels.

There’s Judas Kaitlin in the background.

But then there are days like today, when you have to say goodbye to one of the coolest people you have ever worked with. Kaitlin was my first friend here and even though I’m so happy that she’s moving on to bigger and better things (and hopefully moving one foot closer to opening the doors to her very own bakery!), I am beyond sad to see her leave. She was the first person here I trusted enough to share my blog with. She always had the right things to say to make me feel better when I was having a bad day (usually because Henry is a douche bag). We had the same enemies here and shared a vested interest in Lisa, the mail lady.

And today I had to say goodbye to all of that, and even though I have been diligently reminding myself that she is not dead, just leaving, it’s not helping me and I have already cried three times.

Remember a year ago, when Chooch busted his face all up at the spray park? Kaitlin made him get well cupcakes, capped with bloody eyeballs. To return the favor, Chooch drew her a going away picture:

It’s a zombie eating a cupcake. Kaitlin hates zombies, but I think she can tolerate Chooch’s renditions of the walking dead.

She has spoiled this department with her effortless baking skills over the last year and a half, and she STILL pampered us with treats even on her last day, when it should have been the other way around. I was going to bake her something, but I didn’t want her last work memory of me to be clouded with salmonella. So instead I just gave her something that (hopefully) won’t make her sick — one of my pendants. I even tied the ribbon around the box all by myself.

That’s how you know I care.

I mean, I just don’t even know what else to say except this sucks. I have cried three times already, but I keep trying to tell everyone it’s because of my back pain. You know, because I am so notorious* for my hardened emotional walls.  Barb quoting Steel Magnolias didn’t help.

(*Seriously, in the year and a half I’ve been at the Law Firm, I think I’ve already cried in front of people 87 times. And once was just remembering the Penguins winning the Stanley Cup in 2009. I rule at self-control.)

Good luck, Kaitlin! Please don’t forget about me! (Seriously, don’t or I’ll start writing bad reviews about Zia – Custom Desserts.)

When I launch a new obsession, I of course want to share this with my work friends. For example, the Wacky Worm. I was hoping it would become a wide-spread sensation, culminating in a department field trip to DelGrosso’s, which is a semi-local amusement that has A PERMANENT WACKY WORM, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. Naturally, the Wacky Worm hysteria flopped as far as pandemics go, although Barb very thoughtfully brought me a DelGrosso’s brochure she saw in a State College hotel over the weekend, so that was progress.

Most of my work friends smiled and let me go on about the Wacky Worm, except for Glenn. What you need to know about Glenn is that he is little more than a better-dressed Henry. He makes the same faces at me that I get from Henry on the daily: those judge-y smirks and annoyed frowns. I’m pretty sure he thinks I have a mental handicap that went undetected during my interview.

I’m used to this treatment at home, so it’s OK. Glenn and I are still friends.

Regarding the Wacky Worm, I believe Glenn’s reaction was, “WTF is wrong with you?” And then when I showed him a picture of it and asked, “See? Doesn’t it look awesome?” he very dryly said, “No. Not really.”

He was equally unimpressed with my Wacky Worm t-shirt design. “Does it come with a helmet?” he asked with a very Henry-iffic smugness.

“Obviously that means you want one,” I provoked.

“I’m pretty sure people would get the wrong idea if I wore that,” Glenn laughed.

“Why, because it’s pink?” Sometimes I’m not that quick.

“Uh, no. Because of what it says.” He even used the same “I’m talking to a child” tone that Henry has patented.

Glenn should have just kept his mouth shut, because from that moment on my mind was in full-blown revenge mode.

Yesterday at work, I had Barb and Nina stall Glenn near my desk so I could take a covert picture of him. (Although I don’t feel I was very covert about it. We made eye contact at least four times but he didn’t seem to catch on. Probably because he’s used to me huddled at my desk, laughing alone and looking suspicious.)

This morning, I made a new Wacky Worm graphic. I’m printing a bunch out and plastering them around Glenn’s desk. (This is why I don’t ever get important shit done.)

Nobody puts Wacky Worm in the corner.

[ETA: It is now the end of October and Glenn still proudly has his Wacky Worm postcards taped to the front of his desk like they’re pictures of his kids.]

I wasn’t at my desk for more than ten minutes when I noticed the dead body.

I always do a quick sea monkey count when I get to work. There have only been four adults for the last few months now, even though two of them have been furiously fornicating off and on. Maybe it’s not hetero sex that I’ve been spectating like someone completely hard-pressed for office porn.

Anyway, today the count dropped to three. The deceased was lying in the middle of the intersection (my sea monkey tank is a miniature city), looking fragile and completely snuffed out. My heart was banging against my ribcage as I prodded it with the feeding spoon, but it only caused its limp body to ride the waves in a decidedly dead fashion.

“Hit and run?” one of my co-workers asked, and I yelled at him for making jokes. TOO SOON.

Wendy encouraged me to scoop him out. I thought it was because she was going to give him a proper burial, but it was actually because she wanted to sniff it and then taunt passing by co-workers with its dead sea carcass.

I took it off of her before she decided to get all Anthony Bourdain and eat it like its some fucking Toys R Us delicacy. On a Post-It, I laid out its dead body all nice and gently and immediately realized he or she had no name. Barb kept calling it Sea Monkey #1, so I went with that. Sorry for being generic, #1.

I displayed its body on the ledge next to my desk and promptly forgot about it. One of the analysts, Chris, came over and was talking to us. When he walked away, Wendy shouted, “It moved!”

“It’s been resurrected?” I cried excitedly, thinking I could scrape him back into the tank. But then we quickly realized that he hadn’t moved so much as been SMUDGED by Chris’s elbow when he was leaning against the ledge.

Barb said, “Well, he needs to come back here so we can examine his shirt.” She then called him at his office and told him to come back, that it was serious.

Once he found out what was going on, he was pretty annoyed.

All that remains: a tiny balled-up smudge in the upper lefthand corner.

It was absolutely horrific. It’s still sitting up there, festering in the barbaric ball Chris rolled it in like it’s nothing more than some kid’s booger, ready for a flickin’. So now when mourners come over to say goodbye and wonder why they can’t see #1 in his true, God-given form (though I’m 99% sure God had nothing to do with the creation of sea monkeys; more like some freak scientist pissing around in his mom’s basement), I have to explain over and over again the brutal act starring Chris’s Elbow.

What a way to be remembered. What a fucking way to be remembered. Goddamn.

Barb then sent out a department-wide email:

It is with deep sadness that we announce the unexpected passing of Erin Kelly’s Sea Monkey #1.

#1 will lie in state at Erin Kelly’s desk for the duration of the today and all day tomorrow. A brief memorial service will be held at 5:00 pm tomorrow for those wishing to attend.

#1 was a fabulous pet. He (she) never jumped out of his (her) container when the lid was off, a sign that he (she) was mentally stable and had no thoughts of spontaneous suicide. #1 brought pleasure and laughter to our department, and he (she) will be sorely missed.

buy neurontin online buy neurontin generic

Please stop by at some point to pay your respects to our lost friend and also to provide words of encouragement to his (her) remaining bowl mates.

RIP, #1 – we will miss you!

I can only imagine that the next step will be to slap his picture on our department Wall of Death.

Get your 40s ready, my friends.

Recommended: watching your co-workers react to someone’s water breaking. It’s exhilarating, high-energy drama.

It all started around 4:30 on Wednesday. I was REALLY BUSY, working HARD and DILIGENTLY, when Sandy walked over to my desk, looking all pale and scared-rabbit. All I managed to decipher from her hushed tone was “bathroom” and “water broke.”

I immediately started to panic because we have two pregnant girls in our department, and neither of them should be walking around, breaking water.

But then I heard “travel office” and my compassion dulled a bit, because it was just one of “Those People” who share the same floor as us but aren’t cool enough to be a real part of our department, yet they like to swipe our food when we have parties like that’s going to infuse them with our Awesome.

Sandy, Barb and Sue were all in the bathroom together, probably saying disparaging things about me, when the owner of the broken water called out from behind a stall that she needed someone to get one of the travel office ladies. Right now, I’m picturing the “Fuck off” look that likely had taken over Barb’s face, until she learned that this poor girl was pregnant and splashing around back there in amniotic fluid.

Somehow, Sandy was able to slink back over to my desk to tell me what was happening.

“I’m really bad in emergencies,” she said in a small voice. So now I know that Sandy and I would make the worst superhero team in the history of comic books. In the background of each cell, you’d see Sandy, paralyzed and pale-faced with her emanating fear blending into the gray background, while I’m throwing up all over my cape.

It didn’t take long for a small crowd to form by the bathroom. Kristen stopped by my desk, having just broken through the crowd of birth fans. “I’m the girl you want in an emergency,” she said, all smiles, as if there wasn’t some pregnant lady spilling baby juice all over the department. “But, I’m going to Starbucks!” There’s our third superhero, drinking a latte while the world collapses around her. Sometimes I go out for drinks after work with Kristen and Sandy, and now I’m starting to rethink this. I feel so unsafe!

Meanwhile, Sue was marching all over the floor with her game face on. I’m not sure where she was marching to, but I know it wasn’t to pilfer through Barb’s snack drawer like it usually is. She was going to call 911 but said the girl had asked her not to because she didn’t want to ride in an ambulance. Sue disappeared around the corner, and I assumed she was going to her office to retrieve her forceps. And Barb was running around, looking for spare clothes to give the girl who was apparently pretty drenched. She was going to steal Wendy’s gym clothes but thought better of it and ended up giving the girl a pair of her own sweatpants.

All this fuss over spare clothes when someone could have just asked Gayle. She could have crocheted something right quick with a nice Navajo pattern. She probably would have given the girl matching earrings too, and maybe even thrown in a floral headband for the baby.

DO NOT FORGET THAT SANDY WAS THERE TOO! Barb re-worked the script every time she recounted the bathroom horrors to other co-workers, completely writing Sandy out of it. If you ask me, that’s discrimination against scared people and I don’t think Sandy should stand for it.

I bet when Barb tells her non-Law Firm friends about Waterbreak ’11, it entails her ripping the door right off the bathroom stall and delivering one of “those babies” right then and there with her auxiliary knapsack of obstetric apparati.

Something like an hour had gone by before Sandy finally snapped out of it and realized she had a towel that she could contribute. She walked by later, triumphantly holding up the soggy towel in garbage bag. She was going to take it home as a souvenir, but Sue convinced her to throw it out, which I think is rude because people should be allowed to collect the things they want to collect.

Me? I just sat there and watched all the adults handle business. It was exciting. I’m glad no one asked me to help. I mean, YES—I was a Girl Scout, but the only thing that taught me was how to dance to NKOTB’s “Funky, Funky Christmas” and to Quick! Find a man to do everything for me. (Couldn’t find a man, but Henry will do.)

Later that evening, the travel lady we dislike the most came over with her scary, soul-piercing eyes to tell us that the girl’s husband had come to pick her up and she was currently en route to the hospital.

“I’m going to have nightmares,” Barb said after the travel lady walked away. She was probably talking about the entire odyssey, but I was still shivering from the icy-penetration of travel lady’s eyes. All I could picture was a stork with travel lady’s head on it, so I told Barb about it in hopes of planting the image into her subconscious and it growing into some gnarly night-terror.

And then, because catastrophes totally wind up my giddy-box, I laughed about this so hard that I started crying at my desk.

[I didn’t want to post this until I knew for sure that everything was OK. Travel Girl had the baby that night; she was 2 months premature, but they are both doing fine. Barb prefaced her email to me about it with: “I know you don’t care, but…” I do care! Kind of!]

This is my current desktop background on my computer at work, so that every time someone walks past, they will ask, “Oh, who is that fine ginger?” and I will at that point have a chance to yell, “OMG THAT IS JONNY CRAIG” and then proceed to say as many words about him as I possibly can before said co-worker peaces out of the conversation without so much as an, “Oh sorry, I think Grandma Cleavage has some lingerie she needs me to help her knit.”

Because even though he is the douchiest, gingeriest singer in the scene, he is still my favorite and I want to be talking about him all of the time. Last week, I made Barb listen to one of his Emarosa songs.

(Poor Barb. She has to hear me mouth off about this guy prettty much all of the time.)

So far, only one person has asked. He was whatever word is lower than “unimpressed,” I’m sure.

A few months ago, someone was trying to get my work friend Kaitlin to buy a lamb-shaped cake pan that they didn’t need anymore. Included in the email he sent to her was a picture of what the finished product could conceivably look like, so she sent it to Barb and me because it was so horrific-looking.

Of course I took to it immediately and tried to convince her that she really needed this cake pan, in spite of its exorbitant cost.

“Not for that price I don’t!” she assured me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it though and even found one that was much more reasonably-priced. I didn’t buy it though because I figured it would just be another thing to nag Henry about.

“Clean the house.”

“Do the laundry.”

“Cook my dinner.”

“Propose to me.”

“Put this makeup on.”

“Bake me a fucking lamb cake.”

A lamb cake just might be what it takes to break Henry’s back and leave me single and helpless.

Anyhow, I dropped it, but the use I had for it was always still in the back of my mind.

***

For some reason today, I brought up the fact that Henry dropped the ball for my thirtieth birthday. I have some pretty deep-rooted esteem issues, so this isn’t something that I’ve gotten over yet. Probably won’t, either, without a hearty helping of therapy.

“You couldn’t even get me the only thing I wanted for my last birthday, a fucking black forest cake!” I cried petulantly.

“I couldn’t find anywhere to get one!

” Henry yelled back.

“I gave you two months notice that I wanted one! You could have BAKED one, motherfucker.”

I was still bitching about how he didn’t even love me enough to bake me a stupid birthday cake when I arrived at work.

Feeling utterly sorry for myself the whole 10-floor elevator ride, I walked around the corner to my desk only to find a large box with a post-it that said Open Carefully.

“She’s here!” Barb announced, and people started coming out of their offices and crowding around. I couldn’t imagine what was going on.

It wasn’t my birthday.

It wasn’t my workiversary.

Was I getting fired and they were trying to soften the blow?

To throw me off even further, Chris chimed in and asked, “Did you get your hair cut?

” and I found myself bracing for another one of Those Episodes where I slightly modify my appearance and everyone swarms around me with spotlights.

Apprehensive is one way to describe how I felt. There were maybe six people watching me expectantly. I reached for the box lid, because that’s what they kept probing me to do, and we all know I do as I’m told. But then Barb commanded me to wait as she hit play on The Whiffenpoof Song, so now not only did I have a surplus of hungry eyes feasting upon me, my every roboticly awkward movement was to the tune of singing Muppets.

Please don’t let it be a crappy spreadsheet, I thought, as I eventually buckled and ripped the lid off like the proverbial bandaid it was starting to become.

It took a few good seconds for it to sink it, that awesome pins-and-needles sensation of being sufficiently stunned. Then I laughed. Then I almost cried. Then I laughed some more.

Apparently, this had been in the works for awhile. Barb placed an in-house classified ad and found someone who was willing to lend her the cake pan. Kaitlin baked the cake and then some of my friends here helped decorate. Anytime one of the less in-the-know co-workers would inquire about the reason for the cake, they were told it was told for Chooch.

Because everyone here knows my kid is weird. It’s me they think is normal.

This, after the babyish argument I had just instigated in the car with Henry. Fuck you, Henry. SOME PEOPLE are willing to bake this bitch a cake. Even now, I keep pausing to look over at it adoringly. People kept suggesting I wrap it up and I was like “I AM NOT COVERING THIS, EVER!” (But apparently it’s because they thought it was actually going to be eaten. As if. I want this thing to petrify and sit on my fireplace mantel for the rest of ever.)

I’m just so unbelievably touched that my friends here would do this. It has officially become so much more than just a lamb cake, and I’m beyond stoked to put my plan into action this weekend. STOKED BEYOND BELIEF.

Oh Lamb Cake, mama’s got big plans for you.

Two analysts were standing next to my desk here at work the other night and I realized that they both seem to have a pretty skewed perception of me.

“You’d never be able to hang out with Erin,” the one analyst said to the other.

“Why? Just because I don’t like scary movies?” she asked.

He gave her an exasperated sigh. “Everything Erin likes is scary, though.”

I’m sitting here, trying to butt in to this thoroughly engaging conversation about me, but they ignored me.

“We both like hockey,” she remembered. “We could go to a Pens game!”

“Yeah, but then she’d kill you afterward,” he said, and she reluctantly agreed that no, we would never be able to hang out outside of work.

***

In office sea monkey news, I ordered some accessories for the guys a few weeks ago. Frighteningly, I had to literally cut out an order form and send a check to some ambiguous-sounding company in Maryland. This was after I spent nearly an entire night at work scouring the Internet in search of easier, more legit-sounding ways to purchase Sea Diamonds and Banana Treat.

I just checked my bank statement online and the check was cashed on March 14th and if I don’t get my shit soon I’m going to freak the fuck out. And then my SEA MONKEYS are going to freak the fuck out.  And then my co-workers are going to say, “Wait…we have sea monkeys? Oh shit, I forgot about those fuckers!”

I’m not sure if it’s comforting or terrifying to know that this was the same way I had to order supplies for my sea monkeys when I was 12.

In 1992.

It is now 2011. The term mail order should be a page in a history book by now.

There was a drowning today in the sea monkey tank. We tried to stop it, I swear.

Pre-infant suicide, I caught one of the sea monkeys writhing around on the hood of one of the pink cars, like it was caught in some sort of Whitesnake video.

The other sea monkeys didn’t seem very impressed at its poor Tawny Kittaen impression.

I was embarrassed for it.

I bought a Sea Monkeys in the City kit at Toys R Us on Sunday. I already have a furiously-fornicating farm of them on my fireplace mantle at home, and they bring me great joy (when I remember they’re there).

So when I saw this cute little neon cityscape, I immediately pictured it on my desk at work and couldn’t resist. I figured a jar of disgusting floaters would be a nice place to rest my spreadsheet-wary eyes. Today when I got to work, I poured in the eggs and everyone around me kept asking, “DID THEY HATCH YET DID THEY HATCH YET?” and I was like, “God, take your Sea Monkey-novice selves to Google and learn yourself about the birth process.

”  

(No, they have not hatched yet.)  

Just a few minutes ago, one of the surlier analysts expressed excitement and delight over the prospect of having sea monkeys in the office. I’ve never seen her happy about anything before!

To quote her: “Oh, this exciting! I can’t wait!” (And I didn’t denote a hint of sarcasm.)  

These sea monkeys aren’t even done hatching and already they’re so loved. It’s beautiful.  

I’ve really been phoning it in around here this last week. I have lots to say, just been preoccupied with some custom paintings, that child-raising thing, preparing for tomorrow night’s game night. But most importantly – watching hockey and staying up late, forcing Henry to digest Soulphrodisiac on VH1 Soul while I relive my yo-girl years and act all dramatic and wistful. He loves that.

We were watching the premiere of HBO’s 24/7: Penguins and Capitals series the other night. Clips from the Capitals 7-0 loss to the Rangers from last Sunday night was part of it, and Henry made some surprised comment, like this game was news to him.

“Dude,” I said to him.  “I had that game on Sunday night. Where were you? Oh yeah, baking cupcakes.”

He is seriously such a domestic pussy. I hope someone got him a Donna Reed apron and curlers for Christmas.

I should probably check him more often for a vagina.

***

In work news, I was very angry with Barb yesterday.

Our desks are near the travel department, which for some reason is just there, in the middle of our floor, but not considered a part of us and are not invited to any of our office parties. (Not like I have much room to gloat – by time I get there at 4:00, food is already getting put away and everyone is back to work.)  There are only a handful of women who work in the small space, and Barb calls them “Those People.” Anytime something is amiss in the kitchen, she likes to blame it on them.

Mostly, they keep to themselves. Occasionally, I will bump into one, all clad in a headset, when I’m on my way to break things in the kitchen.

We will then exchange forced pleasantries.

There is one I just DON’T LIKE. AT ALL. The other day, I reluctantly allowed her onto the elevator with me after my frenetic thumping of the CLOSE DOORS buttons proved futile and was then awarded for my courtesy with the privilege of listening to her talk loudly on her cell for the entire 10 floors.

During the evening, she will slither out of the travel office with her fucking headset clamped against her stupid bitchy hair and proceed to ask me questions that I just flat out don’t know the answers to. Or, she’ll ask things of me, like if I could please let them know if there is ever an evacuation or some devastating email regarding our building, because Those People are not privy to any information tips. So I guess if the building is ever on fire and they’re too stupid to notice, it’s on me.

One time she came over and mumbled something that sounded like, “Do you know about the printer jam?” I assumed she meant did I know the status of when the copy center was going to send someone down to fix their printer, so I said no. Turns out she was actually asking me if I knew how to fix her printer jam, which I do and in fact, one of the processors and I recently won a war against our copier using nothing more than salad tongs, a butter knife and blind ingenuity;  now I’m doubly glad I played stupid because bitch, be your own fucking hero.

Anyway, my point is that every time she asks me a question, I always give her the classic Stupefied Erin-look and say, “I don’t know.”

Seriously, she probably thinks I’m the department retard, like I’m on work release or something.

Yesterday, while Barb was still there, this same broad comes over and (to me!) asks, “Do you know the number for the help desk?”

BY GEORGE, I DO! I thought, and frantically ran my finger down the phone list taped to my monitor, until I found the four-digit number I had scribbled in green ink.

Just as my lips parted, all a’quiver with the excitement of finally proving that my brain actually does cradle an iota of knowledge, fucking Barb rattled off the numbers behind me.

I waited for the travel lady to thank her and retreat back into their mysterious travel office before spinning around in my seat and shooting Barb a menacing glare. “BARB! I actually knew that answer and you ruined it!”

Barb just laughed. I was appalled. First, she steals my moment. Then, she laughs about it!

“I swear, that whole department probably thinks I’m some goddamn mute or something!” I cried, while Barb continued to laugh her self-righteous, know-it-all laugh. She is evil!

Later that night, the same travel lady shuffled over to my desk, leaned in and whispered, “Hey. Are you busy?”

What a loaded question. I actually wasn’t busy. I was carousing Etsy and listening to the post-hardcore station on LastFM. The air between us was pregnant with anxiety and somersaulting question marks while I  considered my options.

Finally, I said, “Yes…sort of?” Because why start now with answering her questions with any sort of conviction?

“Do you know how to add a listing on the Firm’s classified page? I have Steelers tickets—”

“I don’t know,” I answered.  I doubt she was very surprised.

Probably on my desk I should plant a Rubik’s Cube and some casually-strewn Mensa literature.