Crap. Crap!

Ok, someone in this office is fucking with me. No, not fucking me, which would be infinitely more interesting, and a different blog altogether.

Fucking with me.

You know, these are the kind of jokes I always giggled about when they were sent via e-mail chain letter. It appears my retribution has arrived.

For the past several weeks, there have been cookies available in the kitchen. Each afternoon, magically, an assortment of cookies would be available - oreos, chips ahoy, mint milanos, etc. I never knew who was responsible for stocking the cookies (certainly not the Keebler elves - those cookies aren't allowed in here - apparently too low rent for this office). I suspected the office manager, who IP and I recently nicknamed 'Pirates of the Caribbean' due to the possibility that she has one glass eye and a penchant for overtanning. Seriously. Woman gets darker and darker every day. Her face is beginning to look like a baseball glove. I guess the nickname would be better if she wore an eyepatch over the supposed fake eye, which, if she came in with an eyepatch one day, and a parrot on her shoulder, and, oh, throw in a peg-leg for good measure, would be AWESOME.

Where was I? Oh, the cookies. Anyone who knows me understands that I have very little willpower in these situations. So, each day, around 4:00 pm, I have a little snack. Or a big snack, depending on my mental state and how many cigarettes I have(n't) had that day.

Today, there are no cookies. And I am jonesing. Bad.

I have a theory about the lack of cookies. This morning, I got in a pissing contest with Pirates of the Caribbean over a conference room which I had reserved for a meeting three weeks ago. (Sidebar: can two women get into a pissing contest?).

The Pissing Contest (a short play by ridiculouschick)

Pirate: I'm moving Managing Director's 2:30 pm meeting out of the large conference room.

ridiculouschick: Um. Why?

P: Because Co-CEO needs the room at 1:30 and his meeting might run longer than an hour.

r: But Co-CEO is scheduled to attend the 2:30 meeting.

P: Who approved that? We didn't know about that.

r: Let me see. [Pretends to look through Managing Director's calendar, already knowing the answer.] You did.

P: Well, we're going to move the meeting to the private conference room. Ok? [Tries to hang up.]

r: No, it's not ok.

P: What?

r: It's not ok. There are 5 people coming from outside the office, and 6 people attending from Hedge Fund. The private conference room only holds 8 people.

P: [Silence]

r: Do the math, P. They won't fit in any other conference room. This is why I booked it this way three weeks ago.

P: Have IP call me.

r: I'm the one who booked the meeting. IP has nothing to do with it.

P: [Hangs up.]

And.....scene.

So, I think she now hates me, saw that I enjoy(ed) the cookies, and has removed them to spite me. Now the entire office is suffering because I had to get smart with the 'math' comment. *Sigh*. Why did I even engage? I could care less about the conference rooms.