There’s a new woman at work who has appointed herself our floor’s social director. I think we all know someone like this: the person who says “hello” in the bathroom (breaking the cardinal rule that you do not speak in the lavatory unless the other person in there is related to you or a really close friend). The person who organizes Secret Santa around the holidays, and you always get someone you don't know and have no idea what might interest them for a gift. In this case, she was the woman who pulled together a “get to know your neighbor” potluck lunch.

I do not like this woman.

I’m not an antisocial hermit at work, mind you. I talk to and joke with everyone in my department. We go to the cafeteria in the morning together to get coffee, and often eat lunch together. I even speak to at least one of them outside of work. Plus, there are at least two people not in my department on my floor that I greet every morning. I met Maureen, who sits two aisles down, at a book signing once. And Lisa in psychiatric claims? She and I went to high school together. I'm practically a social butterfly, darn it!

This was not good enough for the social director. She organized a pre-Thanksgiving potluck, sending out a cheery email blast to all of us on the floor. The sign-up sheet was located at cubicle 314-J, which I’ll admit I couldn’t possibly locate on a floor plan. (This would require me to know the number associated with my own cubicle, which up until this point I thought was universally recognized as “behind Elaine, across from Jim.”)

Our department likes to expend its creative talents on the work we do every day at our job—in other words, none of us wanted to cook or bake. We all agreed to chip in some money and buy our potluck contribution. Sue found the signup sheet and put us down for “large dessert platter.” A day later, she went back to the list (now that she could navigate the J row of our floor, she was feeling like a world explorer, and wanted to show off a bit) and discovered that there were people breaking the inherent rules of potluck: namely, the first person to write down the dish gets to bring that dish. But lo and behold, right after Sue’s dessert platter entry, someone had written “cookies.” And after that, someone else had scrawled “apple pie.” That wasn’t fair! We’d called dessert first! That’s right: there’s nothing like an office luncheon to make the kindergartener in all of us break free.

I hate potluck.

The day of the luncheon, Sue and I ran out and picked up an apple pie, blueberry pie, pumpkin pie, cheesecake sampler, baklava tray, and whipped cream—we'd called dessert first, and we were going to deliver desserts, by golly. We proudly brought our goodies back and helped the social director set up the food. When all was said and done, we had a turkey, mashed potatoes, and (in addition to our desserts) a sweet potato pie; cookies of the chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodle, chocolate crackle, Italian, and walnut white-chocolate chip varieties; a pineapple upside-down cake; peanut butter bars; brownies; blondies; cream puffs; six more apple pies; and a platter of fudge.

Now, the whole point of this stupid exercise was to meet our neighbors, yet ten people immediately begged off due to being diabetic. But the rest of us were supposed to grab a plate and mingle. My department gamely stacked our plates with turkey and sweets and stood around awkwardly. I looked for Lisa. Her department had grabbed two of the apple pies and retreated back to their cubicles. Maureen had called out sick. The other departments were in the process of filling their plates and making a run for it. The social director, God bless her, was smiling widely with blueberry-pie-stained teeth. For four minutes, while we'd all scrambled to get a slice of the one apple pie that had real apples in the filling and not that canned crap, we’d come together as a cohesive group. She was happy.

At least someone was.

——--
Did you stop by The Storyside this week?
Fabulous Free Fiction: "The Penitent" by Rob Smales
Entertainment (no, really): "This is the Way the World Ends" by Vlad V.

On Monday, the World Health Organization announced that smoked meats like bacon and salami can kill you. It’s true. If you wield a solid salami like a giant club, you’re going to cause some damage. Here’s what I know: there is little out there that won’t kill you. Don’t believe me? Let me take you through a typical day:

1. My alarm goes off at 6:15 AM. I hit snooze, fall back into a pleasant dream involving Vin Diesel and feathers, and am rudely interrupted by my alarm going off again. 
Things that can kill me in that sentence:

• Lack of sleep can cause heart disease.
• Vin Diesel is big and muscular and could snap my neck like a twig.
• Feathers carry disease.
• Too much sleep can also cause heart disease.
  

2. I get up, shower, get dressed, grab a cup of coffee, and head off to work in my car. 
Things that can kill me in that sentence:

• Standing up too fast when getting out of bed can cause dizziness, leading to passing out, which could cause head injury and subsequently death.
• Showering in this day and age? With all the diseases and contaminants found in private wells? I’m just begging for salmonella!
• Many chemicals used in the dyeing and processing of fabrics could cause cancer. Why we’re not all running around naked is beyond me.
• Drinking coffee daily could increase one’s risk of stroke.
•  Driving is just dangerous, people. 
  

3. I arrive at work and sit at my desk all day, save for a tuna-salad lunch break with my friend and co-worker Sue. 
Things that can kill me in that sentence:

• Working too much can increase blood pressure, causing a stroke.
• Sitting all day just courts disease and death. You might as well shoot tainted heroin with Charles Manson--that’s how risky it is.
  
• Tuna contains mercury, and I think we all know mercury equals death.
  
• How well do I know Sue? She could have homicidal tendencies.
  

4. I drive home, cook dinner, pet Wednesday and Pugsley, then settle in for a night of writing, editing, and watching re-runs of The Walking Dead. 
Things that can kill me in that sentence:

•  I believe we’ve already covered the death trap known as “driving.”
• Cooking, particularly on my favorite carcinogen-releasing meat-torture device known as the George Foreman Grill, causes cancer.
• Petting cats = cat scratch fever = certain death.
• Writing and editing can cause anxiety. Anxiety leads to depression, suicidal thoughts, overmedicating, and death. (I need a safer hobby, like knife throwing.)
• Watching television leads to all-over-body cancer.
• Some idiot just killed his buddy after binge-watching The Walking Dead. Watch this show at your own risk! (Totally worth it, though.)

Here’s what I know: death is imminent no matter what, and I sure don’t want to live my life worrying about how every single thing I do could kill me. I want to enjoy the time I have. So to the World Health Organization, I say shut up and pass the bacon.

I come from a long line of people pleasers. For centuries, members of my family have been the first ones to volunteer if something needs to be done, no matter how complicated it might be or what a huge imposition it is. But over generations of diapering other peoples’ babies or tasting the king’s food to make sure it wasn’t poisoned, my family started to learn an important thing: sometimes, it’s okay to say no. No, I don’t want to organize your shoe closet, Imelda. No, I won’t test the sharpness of that sword with my neck, Henry—ask your wife Anne to do it. Just no.

You see, for every person out there who will drive to Quebec City just to find those chocolate-filled croissants you like so much, from that little café on the side street whose name you can’t remember (true story), there’s an equal and opposite person who will absolutely expect you to make that drive for them, because they think they deserve chocolate-filled croissants. There are people pleasers, and there are egocentric, karma-sucking people users. Don’t be either one of these types of people.

A couple of years ago, I was on a job interview, and the CEO of the company asked me some really inappropriate interview questions. For a moment, I struggled to answer (“Have you ever sued a past employer? What would make you sue an employer, do you think?”). Then the clouds parted and a startling realization came down from the heavens and imparted itself upon me: I didn’t want this job. This woman was nuttier than a pecan log, and possibly involved in illegal activities. And then the follow-up: I don’t have to finish this interview.

The people pleaser in me wanted to answer her question, and give her the best answer possible; hopefully the answer she was expecting. (“Umm, I’m usually so loyal to my employer that I would never sue. Lunchtime chicken-porn movies are all in good fun, I say!”) But generations of poisoned food tasters had taught me something: you don’t have to please everyone all the time. It’s impossible. Also, get the hell out.

“You know, I don’t think I’m the best candidate for this position,” I said, getting up and shaking her hand. “Best of luck finding the right fit.” Then I walked—okay, ran—out.

When the egocentric karma-suckers start taking advantage, that’s when the resentment starts. Your time and talents are valuable, and the karma-suckers know it, but they think you don’t. So they’ll try to manipulate you. Don’t let them. It’s one thing to be a good friend; it’s another to be a doormat. Can I pick you up from the airport? Yes. Can I book your flight and pack your bags for you, then call ahead to the hotel to make sure there are mints on the pillow when you arrive? No.

When someone asks you for a favor (and by criminy, they do all the time, don’t they?) ask yourself these things:

1.    Is it a huge inconvenience for you? Be realistic. It’s probably not an inconvenience for you to tie your four-year-old nephew’s shoelaces. It might be an inconvenience to raise your four-year-old nephew to adulthood. I mean, does the kid want to go to college? Who’s paying for that?

2.    If you do it, will you resent the person who’s asking? This is why I stopped volunteering for a local pet rescue organization years ago. I offered to help trap some feral cats. Then they asked me for money to feed the feral cats, money to pay the feral cats’ vet bills, and wanted me to adopt the sixty-three feral cats I’d helped catch. I was willing to give up an afternoon to help trap feral cats. That was not enough for them. So I quit, hung a remarkably lifelike zombie mannequin being eaten by remarkably lifelike Styrofoam cats in the volunteer coordinator’s yard, and put a note on it that read “YOU.” All of this would’ve been avoided if I’d just declined to help to begin with.

3.     Or will it make you feel good to help them out? Sometimes, it’s nice to say yes. Yes, I would be happy to share this platter of fries with you. Not too many. Wait, is this a soup kitchen? Sigh. I guess you can have the whole plate. It’ll make me feel like a better person, even if it will also make me feel like a hungry person.

The lesson for today is this: it’s okay to say no. You don’t need to be a doormat. There are lots of people who will mistake kindness for weakness, and demand more of you. For these people, stock up on the remarkably lifelike zombie mannequins. You’re gonna need ‘em.

I put on eight pounds this past winter.

That doesn’t sound like a lot to me—believe me, I’ve done worse—but there are two things I should explain here. One, I say “winter,” but what I mean is “Since mid-February.” I’m averaging a pound a week (or really, two pounds a week during shamrock shake season, and a half a pound a week the other days). The other thing I should explain is that in my family—or specifically, on my mother’s side of the family—eight pounds will quickly turn to sixteen after CVS has one good sale on M&M "pounder" bags. I had to stop this calorie avalanche before it really took hold.

I hung my head in shame as I reached out to the one being who has consistently been my weight-loss advocate even when I threaten to smother her with my pasty arm flaps; my cheerleader even when I’m shouting colorful epithets; the only one who can listen to me liken the taste of cauliflower mashed potatoes to what I imagine Bigfoot’s rancid turds smell like, and still urge me to take another spoonful: my Weight Watchers points tracking app.

I didn’t want to open up the app, you realize. Even though I just said all those nice things about it, I actually kind of hate the Weight Watchers app. But I had no choice. Eight pounds is sixteen pounds.

My first day was okay. I loaded up on fruit and rice cakes, and grilled some chicken for dinner. I stayed within my points. But I was cranky.

Day two was harder. Work was stressful, and I had a ton of editing to do after I got home. I gamely stuffed Popchips in my mouth as I pawed through the Chicago Manual of Style to determine if it was ever acceptable to use a comma splice. I crunched another rice cake as I decided that it was not.

On day three, it hailed. In late April. Hail! Are you kidding? Then my computer crashed, and I lost all of the changes on the document I was editing. I stubbed my toe on an escalator. And a bird pooped on my car window, right in my line of vision. When I tried to clean it off, I discovered that my car was out of wiper fluid, and my wipers left a white smear all over the windshield. I used some of my flex points that night and ate an entire package of stale Peeps. I did not feel better.

The next morning, I woke up to a story rejection email waiting in my inbox. I’d had it. “I quit!” I shouted at my stupid points-tracking app. “Life is too hard for all this exercising and eating healthy nonsense!” But that Weight Watchers, she’s a clever girl. I never said you had to eat healthy, she reminded me gently. Just stay within your points.

This was . . . true. She might have encouraged me to eat more fruits and vegetables, but really, all she’d promised was that if I stayed within my points, I’d lose weight. I’d been the one who made it all about cauliflower and crap.

Day four: the day I discovered I could eat 160 Tootsie Roll Mini Chews in one day, and still lose weight. This dieting thing isn’t so hard after all.

I've tried hard to not mention my most recent dieting excursion too much, just because I suspect readers get tired of my whining after a while. However, I think it’s important to study the different stages of food consumption, if only to gain valuable insight into one of the most basic needs of human survival. Plus, I didn't have anything else to write about this week.

First, at any given point in my life, I am always doing one of two things. No matter if you catch me at 2 a.m. on the morning on January 6, 1994, or on a lazy afternoon on September 29, 2013, you will find me in one of the following states. Either:

1.    I am on a diet; or
2.    I am gaining weight.

There is no other possible situation that I might be in. I’ve heard rumor that some people have a third state of being, some sort of made-up term called “maintaining the same healthy weight over a prolonged period of time,” but I’m pretty sure that’s a myth, like unicorns or dragons.

Now that we’ve established the two possible states of being, let’s look at the sub-groups of dieting.

1.    The “I’ve Just Started My Diet” Phase

This is when you’ve just made the mental and financial commitment to follow a regimented eating plan. Already doesn’t sound fun, right? You will turn in to a whiny brat during this phase. You will always be hungry. You will develop homicidal feelings towards those who eat real food in front of you, and start making serious plans to end their French-fry-filled lives. You suspect that if you bury them in the back yard, it would count as exercise, and will get you closer to your goal. You will stare at your plate heaped with boneless chicken breast grilled in a garlic mustard sauce, fresh steamed cauliflower, and a half-cup of savory rice pilaf, and think “That’s it? That’s ALL I get?” You will weep. Copiously.

2.     The “Thanks, But No Thanks” Phase

This is the stage at which your stomach has shrunk a little from starvation, and you’re starting to get in the groove of things. You turn down cake at work or cookies at your mother’s house because you can tell just by looking at these fabulous, sugary drops of heaven that they're not worth the calories. You smugly measure out your eleven Doritos (yup, that’s how much one serving is) and pretend to be satisfied. You are not.

3.    The “People Are Starting to Notice” Phase

Probably the best phase of the dieting cycle, this is when your family and coworkers will start to notice your weight loss efforts. Your skinny friends (if you didn't kill and bury them in Phase 1) may start to offer you their hand-me-downs. It will feel good. You will start to believe you could possibly maintain this healthy eating lifestyle change for the rest of your life. That’s right: you will begin to tell yourself outrageous lies.

4.    The “I’ve Had Just About Enough of This Lettuce Crap” Phase

You know this feeling. You’ve been dieting for months, and sure, you look good, but do you feel good? No. You feel like the only thing that will ever truly make you happy again is a Reese’s peanut butter cup sundae. Sure, your pants fit better, but your soul needs fat. It’s withering away. You have to—you must—feed it. Chocolate. Now.

Sadly, I’m in this fourth phase right now. I’m only four pounds away from my goal, but I must admit, I’ve had just about enough of this lettuce crap. I managed to stay on my diet today, but only because the vending machine at work is temporarily out of order. I can’t promise I’ll still be on it tonight. I pass at least two Friendly’s restaurants on my drive home from work, and the siren call of a peanut butter cup sundae might be too strong to resist. Today, I am on a diet. Tomorrow, I’ll  be gaining weight again.

Nobody's perfect, right? That's what they say, and although I like to think I'm pretty darn close to perfect, I'm not. I guess. That's what I've been told.
In fact, I have a few habits that some heathens have pointed out can be construed as a tad bit ... annoying. I consider them endearing myself, but everyone's entitled to their own (misguided) opinion. Here are a few that have rankled people over the years:

1. I tend to correct other people's grammar. In public. Repeatedly.
Jason actually bears the brunt of this little habit, but I've done it to others. Here's a snippet of an actual conversation I had with a former friend:

Sally: I can only take so much. Blacken my eyes, break my ribs, fine. Irregardless, when he raised his hand to my 18-month-old, I decided enough was enough. I called the cops.

Me: Oh. My. God. How many times do I have to tell you "irregardless" is not a word?

She's not speaking to me anymore. I'm happy to report she did get that guy arrested and went on to meet a wonderful man who treats her like gold. I've only met him once, at which time I reminded him there's no "t" at the end of across. They never invite me over.

2. My head is chock full of trivia about serial killers, and I'm happy to share.
Yes, I'm that person, the one at the PETA rally who reminds everyone that Charles Manson is also a big animal lover, or the woman at the barbecue who announces that Jeffrey Dahmer used to hand out pulled "pork" sandwiches to his neighbors. I've read a lot of true crime, and for some reason, many of the minute details have stuck with me. I just have a hard time remembering that nobody really cares that Ted Bundy sometimes kept severed heads as mementoes of his crimes.

3. I am a serial flosser.
My dentist and I don't see this as a huge problem. I keep floss in my purse and have been known to whip it out whenever it's called for: in the movie theater, in a public restroom after eating corn on the cob, on the subway. I can't stand having anything stuck in my teeth, and certainly don't want to use a matchbook or my fingernail to get it out. That would be disgusting.

4. I can't stand to have my food mixed together on the plate. 
You'll never find me ordering shepherd's pie off the menu, but if you serve me a plate of ground beef, corn, and mashed potatoes in neat little separate piles on a plate, I'm happy. However, if even one stray kernel of corn finds its way into the mashed potatoes, there it will sit, uneaten. Who wants their corn coated in mashed potato? Ick!
I don't even have a good reason for this. It might be indicative of mental illness.

5. I could get lost driving out of my own driveway.
I like to think that because my mind is filled with so much trivia that this is why I can't find my way to the KFC down the road without getting lost. (You know who else was a big fan of Kentucky Fried Chicken? John Wayne Gacy.)  I've actually recognized landmarks when traveling through town because I've been lost there before. And don't tell me to use Siri or a GPS: they're not always right, you know. Just last week, Siri told me to drive straight on a dead end road, and now guess who has to pay the fees to have the Blackledge Golf Course reseeded? 

There you have it: my complete list of nasty habits. Love me, hate me, I am who I am. And if you ever need to know what brand of sneakers Richard Ramirez preferred, I'm your go-to gal.