Pubic Enemy Number 1

I would really like to know who the crotch Sasquatch is at my office. And why, oh why, the follicle offender keeps leaving dark curlies lounging about on the one-and-only washroom toilet seat.

I will find you anti-bush whacker. And when I do...your ass is waxed.

What A Difference A Letter Makes

If you work in an office chances are your fingers fly across the keyboard. You're so good (and by "you're" I mean, me) that you don't even stop and think about what you're doing.

Today, I decided to check out MSN.com for all the lastest news. After all, a girl in the know is...um, better than two in the bush. Or something like that.

Unfortunately, instead of typing MSN.com, I typed MEN.com. Now folks, let me tell you - that's a whole OTHER website. And you're going to have a hard time explaining that to Human Resources (and by "you're" I mean, me).

In unrelated news...this is my 250th post!

Random Compliment, #8

Supervisor: "I am really intimidated by your hair today."
What I Said: "And look. I can even do the Charlie's Angels hair swish."
[does sexy hair swishy flip thingy]
What I Should Have Said: "My hair just said to give me a 10% raise."

Random Compliment, #7

Supervisor: "You look amazing today Erika. You are way too sexy for this office."
What I Said: "Um, thanks. I think."
What I Should Have Said: "Ooo. You noticed too eh?"

Age Ain't Nothin' But A Number

My coworker Megan received a huge bouquet of flowers today at work (a day early birthday present from her hubby and kids). Megan has the day off tomorrow. Sure, her hubby could have given the flowers to her at home, on her actual birthday. But how would that make her coworkers sniff with envy?

I accidentally overheard Megan tell another coworker about her big upcoming milestone birthday (ok,ok, so I was eavesdropping alright!).

Male Coworker: "Megan, how old are you going to be?"
Megan: [whispers] "40."
Me: [from several cubicles over] "Wow. I'm going to be 40 in 9 more years!"
Megan: "Sure Erika. Rub it in."

Tee hee. It's so much fun to be mean me.

Calm Before The Porn

My brother-in-law, Tony, emailed me at work on Friday.

Tony: "I just sent you some video files that I hope you can open
that I think are funny. I've been laughing uncontrollably every time
I show someone here in the office so hope you get a kick out of
them too. "

Me: "Surfing the porn again eh. Tee hee. Just kidding. Thanks
Tony :) I can always use a good laugh!"

Tony: "You know it's kinda funny, I was just on the phone with Tech
Support and they had control of my computer and up pops your
email message "Surfing the porn again eh. Tee hee." They had
control of my PC so I couldn't even close it.  EMBARRASSING ;(
I guess that's the price I pay for surfing for porn!!!!" 

Me: "HAHA - that is funny! I'm sorry. I know you are very professional
and would never surf porn at work (that's what the home PC is for ;)
If Tech Support needs a character witness, they can call me! I'll
vouch for you."

Tony: "Tech Support are capable of monitoring what I surf at work
but I don't think need you to vouch for my porn surfing at home :) !!!!! "

I love my brother-in-law.

You Give Me Fever

Picture it....

Afternoon staff meeting. Setting, interior office. Coffee and birthday cake have just been served.

While staffers are enjoying said cake, Boss (with a capital B) begins telling employees about month long bout with illness, including such side effects as month long vomitting and month long diarrhea. Wait a minute...this isn't on the agenda. It turns out Boss has been infected with Giardia (aka water born parasite) and is currently taking antibiotics.

Innocent Staffer: "Oooo - You got the Beaver Fever?"
30+ people all picturing the same thing followed by much much laughter.
Same Innocent Staffer: "My sister had that."
Again, 30+ people picturing the same thing followed by much much laughter.

Weird but True: Giardia is known as the "Beaver Fever" but not for the naughty reasons you or I think (ok, mostly me). Somehow I was picturing a sex-hungry animal.
Weird but True: It is recommended that when camping do not relieve yourself within 100 feet of a water source, wash your hands after touching animals, and avoid contact with feces during sexual activity.
Weird but True: I managed to eat my entire piece of cake despite obvious TMI.

Fantasty With An "S"

Today one of my male coworkers [who shall remain nameless but if I was going to "call him out" I would say his name rhymes with Calvin] was going around the office, trying to sign up some people for this year's fantasy football league dealie.

Oddly enough, rhymes with Calvin was only approaching the has a penis and balls variety of staffers to see if they were interested. Hmmm...smells like sexism.

But what really got me was when a coworker of the penis and balls variety told rhymes with Calvin that he doesn't actually follow football (as in AT ALL). And rhymes with Calvin said, "That's ok. It's just for fun."

Oh r-r-r-r-r-r-really? Tomorrow, I'm gonna get me some of that kind of action. After all, if it's just for fun then they won't mind if a girl plays and then kicks their asses. Then I'll humiliate them by making them eat dirt and pee in their pants and say "Erika, you are the ever powerful ruler of fantasy sport games". Or something. That was just off the top of my head. It's not like I put much thought into that part or anything.

Failing that, I'll just start my own fantasy league. Just for girls. But without the sports part because let's face it, unless you're playing them, sports are so b-o-r-i-n-g.

Shrinking Violet

I always took great pride in the fact that I am 5"6 and 3/4's [I always stressed the "3/4's" part too]. I took solace being "tall for a girl". In my heels (which I ALWAYS have on my size 7 and 1/2 feet) I knew I towered to 5"10. Easily.

Yesterday I was filling out my passport application, and the answers to their very rude questions. I mean come on - asking a girl about her age AND weight...it’s dangerous territory. Not to mention the whole "what’s your hair color" question. What if you’re a color chameleon like me? Red usually but with occasional stints as a brunette.

I was literally sweating. One wrong answer and my passport could be denied. I decided I’d better double check on my eye color, so I asked my coworker Camey. She answered with a confident "Gray." Ok, good. That’s what I thought. Better double check on the height. Again, I asked Camey. She stood up, saying "You’re about the same height as me [with a hand measuring motion], so about 5"4."

WTF.

Horrified, I forced my coworker Evan to measure me. The proof was in the measuring tape. I am 5"4 and 1/2! I’ve been lying to myself for 10 years. All those times I told dates I was 5"6 and 3/4 - wrong! How is this possible? I mean, I was off by 2 and 1/4 inches. That’s more than a little bit. That’s quite a bit. My whole "kinda tall for a girl" identity is shattered. I’m a short little thing. Vertically challenged. Petite.

Today I couldn’t even bring myself to wear heels to work. I felt like an impostor. I decided to wear flats and embrace my shortness.

Perhaps I should weigh myself while I’m at it. Maybe I only weigh 115, and all these years I’ve been thinking I weighed 135.

G's Please

Today I was missing Paul like crazy. He was traveling from Norway to Italy and was incommunicado. When he did manage to email me, it was a one liner saying he missed me like crazy, he was going out to supper and would write later. I was [slightly] disappointed. I mean eating could wait, right?

So I went for a consultation/reality check with my coworker Mary (aka Undercover Mother). I asked if I was expecting too much from Paul (to delay eating etc). Mary responded with a resounding "Yes! You're being a Greedy Greedy Gobble Guts." And then she bitch-air-slapped me back to reality.

We now refer to this term as the "G Quad". It's our code signal that someone (ok, ok, me) is out of control with her expectations. As Mary put it, "If I was away in Italy, you wouldn't hear from me at all." My argument, "But you're not my girlfriend." And then our took-a-turn-for-the-weird convo ended.

But really, is it my fault that Paul has created such high expectations in me by being the best boyfriend ever? Hmmm...are you sure? Right then.

I excitedly checked my email when I got home, only to find my inbox was empty. With "Greedy Greedy Gobble Guts" echoing in my head, I tried to be an understanding girlfriend. I was about to log off my computer when Paul signed in to MSN. He had stayed up to 1am (there's a 5 hour time difference) hoping I would be online and we could chat in real time instead of via email.

Where's Mary when you need another bitch-air-slap?

Random Compliment, #6

This morning at work...

[interior office, cubicle farm]

Lady Supervisor: "Your hair looks amazing today!"
Me: [trying to act all surprised] "Thanks! Can you tell I haven't washed my hair in 3 days?"
Lady Supervisor: "Wow. Dirty looks good on you."
Me: "Hahahaha." [Thinks to myself, I need to get that on a t-shirt]

Random Compliment, #5

A male coworker informed me today that, while he didn't think it was possible, I am "even more smokin' hot as a brunette." Or something to that effect. I was trying not to make it obvious I was taking notes to report this for prosperity and/or my blog.

I believe [and by "believe" I mean, to directly quote] he also used the catch phrase "sizzlin" at least twice and did the lick-his-finger and touch-me-like-I'm-hot-stuff motion. Which is sweet because I felt like I was retaining 10 pounds of water weight.

And to think...last night I was throwing myself a huge pity party because of what's-his-name (seriously, what IS his name) and his non-phoning-non-formal-dating-lacklust-lovemaking ways. Oh right, Ben (*gag*).

In unrelated news, my coworker Steve is assisting with a hook up between moi and an industrial arts teacher friend of his named Darren (who also happens to be a black belt). Mmmm...a guy who knows how to handle his wood and defend my honour. Love. It.

This Is The Song That Never Ends...

Do you ever find yourself at work [wait...there's more].

And you're stuck in a mindless, endless, meeting that's heading into a third round of the "what if" game [wait...there's more].

You're beyond paying attention. So, to amuse yourself, you start to sing. To yourself. In your head.

You probably have a "go to" song for such an occasion. Me too! Mine's a little ditty called "Uncle Fucka" made popular by my fellow Canadians and South Park stars, Terrance and Phillip.

The longer the meeting goes on, the louder I sing the song in my head. There's even a little jig I picture myself doing on top of the boardroom table (which looks a lot like a Dick VanDyke routine from Mary Poppins) while I belt out the lyrics...broadway style!

Fun times my friend, fun times.

A Day In The Life Of the Redhead-Next-Door (aka cute n' klutzy)

Yay - my first ever Podcast!

For those of you like me (i.e. no sound on their PC at home) I've also provided a transcription. Sure, you don't get my neat-o sound effects like the fake cat meow, but still....

I haven't actually heard the recording (again, no sound) but ran it by a focus group first (can one person be considered a focus group?) and was assured my first podcast was postable. Or was that compostable?



Hi. I'm Erika. You probably remember me from such blogs as "The Redhead-Next-Door" which you're currently reading...er, listening to and the short lived "Will Write For Booze."

And yes, this is my actual voice. Isn't that right Mrs. Bigglesworth? "Meow."

You picked a ****ing fantastic day to check out my blog because...[whispers] I have a secret to tell you.

[Whispers] Come closer. [Whispers] Even closer. What, do I have something contagious? I'm going to tell you a secret, not blow in your eye. Get in here!

There, that's better.

Are you ready?

Ok [deep breath]. Here goes. I. Am. A. Klutz. There, I said it. Klutz, with a capital K.

If there was an Elaine Benes physical comedy fanclub, I would in fact be President.

You don't believe me do you?

May I present: Exhibit A!

Today I was soooo hungry. I was tempted to eat my lunch at break time. But then I thought, what would I eat at lunch time? There was some unappealing almost-out-of-date oatmeal in my cubicle. Yuck.

I could have wandered around the cubicle farm doing my cutest "feed me" face like puppies, kittens and Nicole Richie do until somebody caves and feeds them. It was what they call "in the biz" quite the quandry. Well, maybe we don't call it that. Quandry. But I'm sure in some businesses, somewhere, they do. Quandry. That's fun to say isn't it?

Anyhoo.

Instead, I scraped together the $1.89 to go to the local "shall remain nameless" coffee shop for a double double and a ham and cheese biscuit. Mmmmmmmm...

While scarfing down my biscuit and coffee I was watching a controversial op ed piece on gay marriage and a bit of the biscuit got caught on my brace elastic which acted like a sling shot firing the piece of ham and cheesy goodness down my throat. Luckily, I don't have much of a gag reflex.

Anyhoo.

On to Exhibit B!

Fast forward to lunch. While scrafing down my tuna and jalapeno cheese sandwich on white bread I went to take a drink of Pepsi through a straw and tipped the can of Pepsi like I was drinking it from my lips. It was both refreshing and sticky when half of the can emptied into my lap. Unfortunately I was wearing my favorite cotton-blend 50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy . My favorite skirt that now looked like somebody had really runny diarrhia on it.

I ran to the office kitchen holding the front of my skirt like some sort of diarrhia filled bag and promptly applied paper towel. And more paper towel. And then, finally, yup, more paper towel. Can somebody order some ****ing absorbant paper towel for in here!!!

Because of the amount of water it took to remove the big brown Pepsi stain, my cotton-blend 50's-inspired A-line yellow skirt from Old Navy was now see-through. Ok perhaps, if you work at a brothel, not ok if you work in an office where you regularily meet with clients.

But wait, there's more.

Finally, I present Exhibit C.

After shivering under the air conditioning in my soaking wet see-through skirt all afternoon I decided to make myself a cup of hot chocolate to warm up. Because let's face it, the blanket I had wrapped around me "tog-a party style" was doing nothing for my image. I boiled the kettle. I carefully spooned four teaspoons of yummy powdery coco-y goodness into my lime green cup. I tenderly handled the kettle, cautiously pouring the hot water where it mingled with the hot chocolate, enveloping it. Mmmmmm...

I lifted the succulant cup to my moistened lips. Not too quickly, it's best not to rush these sort of things. Ooooo and then...

I looked down at my skirt. And right below my perky **** was a big blob of hot chocolate.

Maybe I need to invest in one of those big lobster bibs.

The Quickest Way To A Man's Heart...

There's 6 days remaining until date #3 with the Englishman and it's hammer time. It's not close enough to panic over my end of the bargain, but this is a strategic move. One that must have some thought put into it. Like strategy in Battle Ship.

Only there'll be no maneuvering to launch a torpedo and take out a sub, or be boarded (well, ok maybe a bit of that). But really, I will find out if the old adage is correct...that the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

I sent an email to my coworkers Mary (aka Undercover Mother) and Rowan requesting their assistance with my dilemma. I asked Rowan to name the most delicious mouth watering sinful dessert he's ever tasted. I asked Mary to name the easiest dish she's ever made that yielded the greatest results, er, I mean compliments.

Rowan replied with a discription of a three layed cake his mum used to make (white, "pink" and chocolate with frosting on each layer). It sounded completely disgusting. And apparently she's never used a recipe in her life, she kept it all "up here". As I'm reading the email I can picture Rowan pointing to his head. I think he's trying to derail my dessert plans.

Mary, on the other hand, replied with four little words... "Sex In A Pan."

At first, I though she was just being funny - mostly about my [in]ability to cook, but more importantly that it doesn't matter what I make. It can be a simple dish, but tempting and as hot as hell.

As it turns out, Sex In A Pan is an actual dish. But Mary didn't know the recipe. Luckily, my coworker Mandy has it memorized (no, I didn't ask questions). So now I too have the recipe.

If only I knew what to wear...Pants? Skirt? Dress?

Hmmm...I might have to poll the men on this one.

Kissing Balls and Other Things Not To Be Talked About At the Office

A girl at work was selling kissing balls for the holiday season for the great price of $10 per ball. (If you don't know what kissing balls are for god's sake don't look it up on Google without the moderate safe search enabled).

A guy I work with went home and told his wife that he wanted kissing balls for his birthday being sold by a girl at work, and that they were $10 per ball. His wife bluntly told him she didn't care that it was his 50th birthday, she wasn't doing that. (Obviously she did a Google search without the moderate safe search on).

A true story. Also one that should not be talked about too much at work unless you want your productivity (and quite possibly a performance evaluation) to be effected.

Sometimes you might hit the afternoon slump at work, and feel a little energy drained. While it is suggested to pour yourself a nice herbal green tea, it is not suggested to send an email to a male friend about said kissing ball story because it doesn't lead to productivity.

Most likely it will lead to other suggestive topics, not limited to French cheek kissing, Russia and Roseanne Barr. It will also result in one or both parties splashing their faces with cold water and definately not lead to any work being done.

So that you don't fall prey to this type of workplace distraction, I have assembled a list...

The Top Ten Things Not To Be Discussed At Work (unless you work from home you lucky *******):
- Coco Puffs
- Sean Connery or James Bond movies
- Cinnamin buns
- Showering
- Monkeys
- Monkey wrenches
- Bar wenches
- All that athletic ass-slapping that goes on in football
- Italy
- David Beckman

This is not an exhaustive list but should get you started. Or not started as the case may be.

P.S. You're welcome ;)

[Post Blog Post Note: Kissing balls are a big ol' ball of garland type materials - like a ball of misletoe but bigger, and made from spruce boughs, etc. You can also make them out of flowers. Anything really. Except maybe not pudding.]

Things That Make You Go Hmmmmm... #2

On Thursday I travelled to a neighboring "city" for a meeting. A group of young professionals were getting together to hear some highers up speak about succession management. This was the first of these "young professional" events I had attended so I wasn't sure what to expect. The only thing I did know was I wanted to sit at a table located near the back of the conference room (in case I wanted to make a quick retreat back to my office).

Starting time for the session was 9am, so when I arrived at 8:59am (after a quick pit stop at the ladies room) there were only three seats left. Two were at the back table (good), but there was a problem (not good). Seated at that table was a totally cute guy. I can hear you now..."and this is a problem why?"

For one, Regular Erika is a smart, witty, pretty girl. Put her next to a hot guy and Erika becomes a blumbling, rambling, mess. Messy Erika let's call her. Regular Erika would normally take a seat at another table, thus avoiding the cute guy and any possibility of making a love connection. Obviously this is one of the reasons (on a long list) why I don't meet many single guys. I'm too busy avoiding them.

But something was different on Thursday. I was feeling different. Could have been the "I'm feeling lucky" thong I had on. Could have been the Shreddies I ate for breakfast. I decided to go for it.

I sat down. Made chit chat with everyone at the table (including him), shook hands (including his). He was tall, broad shoulders, oh so rugged looking, had really really great brown hair and a mischievious twinkle in his eye. Even better, no wedding ring. So, I did that whole flirty lowered eyes, look up and smile combo that Glamour is always going on about as a tried and true method of "come hither big boy". I could picture this guy building something with his bare hands (ok, and a hammer).

The session starts.

And then out of freaking nowhere...

Another cute guy sits down at our table. Initial reaction - panic! Ok, ok...breathe. Breathe. You are ok. You are smart, witty and pretty. You can rhyme. Two cute guys are no problem.

Guy #2 was cute in a totally different way. He was tall and lanky, with blonde curly hair and a mischievious twinkle in his eye. There was a ring there, it might be a wedding ring, it might not. So, I did that whole flirty lowered eyes, look up and smile combo that Glamour is always going on about as a tried and true method of "come hither big boy". I could picture this guy kayaking down a raging river with his bare hands (ok, and a paddle).

After all that eye lowering and looking and smiling (while trying to fain interest in mentoring) I really needed to pee. Then again, it could have been the three cups of coffee I drank to calm my nervousness. Still distracted by the eye candy at my table, I ducked out of the conference room to go to the ladies room.

I think I actually broke into a mad dash (I have a petitie bladder ok). I barreled into the washroom. And thought to myself, hmmm, I don't remember the ladies room having a blue color scheme...or urinals. What the ****? Urinals! I was in the men's washroom.

Initial reaction - panic! Ok, ok...breathe. Breathe. You are ok. You are smart, witty and pretty. You can rhyme. Being in the men's washroom is no problem.

Calmly, I spun on my black stiletto heels and leapt out the door. Luckily no one was looking.

When I returned to my table I picked right up where I left off.

Regular Erika - you go girl!

[Bloggers Note: None of the flirty lowered eyes, look up and smile combo that Glamour is always going on about as a tried and true method of "come hither big boy" actually resulted in a date request. I plan on not renewing my subscription of Glamour, you know, after this year].

Red Light District Christmas

At work we're having a cubicle decorating contest. No wait, it gets better.

Prizes will be awared in 3 categories: "pretty", "tacky" and "funny". We threw "funny" in there because let's face it, what guy is going to want to do it for the "pretty"? Exactly.

So I decided (naturally) to go for the funny category because:
a) I'm funny (and apparently have a healthy self-esteem)
b) I like competing with the guys and then saying "who-ya!" when I win.

Then I got to thinking...what's funny about Christmas? Sure, immaculate conception. But not funny enough. Grandma getting run over by a reindeer. But it's been done to death [ahem]. Uncle Arnold getting sauced and then proclaiming he's drinking a warm cup of piss when really it's apple cidar. Hmmm, getting warmer [tee hee].

And then, it came to me...prostitutes!

What WOULD Christmas be like in the Red Light District? At least, in the extreme made up version because the harsh cold reality (much like being single during the holidays) is way too depressing.

I strung up some red icicle lights around the top of my cubcile (only half of them work which is so perfect). I placed a sad little spruce tree (think Charlie Brown) with pop can tabs and sugars packets for decorations at the entrance to my cubicle. Under neath the lights, I put two knee-high fishnet stockings (sugar plum in color). Beside the stockings...the piece de la resistance! I posted this little diddy that I wrote:

A Red Light District Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the streets
Not a creature was sturring, not even the deadbeats
The fishnet stockings were flung on the floor without care
In hopes that Nick soon would be there
To be continued...

I figure I'll write a bit more each week, with the whole story being completed by Christmas vacation.

I began "Operation Red Light District Christmas" at 4:30pm yesterday, after most of the staffers went home; so it will be a surprise when they get in on Monday. I'm out of the office Monday and Tuesday, so hopefully I have a job to come back to.

[Post Blog Note: Nicky if you're reading this, Nick is short for St. Nick so don't go getting any ideas]

Jiggle Bells

[to the tune of "Winter Wonderland"...}

Lunch bell rings...are you listenin'?
In the coffee shop, bagels glisten.
A beautiful sight, we're carb loading tonight.
I should be walking instead of sittin' on my ass.

Yes, dear readers. THAT picture (extreme right) was taken during our annual Supervisors Breakfast in October and provided the inspiration for the little didi I wrote above. Not that I didn't lick my lips at the pancakes and sausage and bacon (oh my!). I did. Should I have had seconds? Um, probably not.

I already have holiday eaters guilt and it isn't even December! I want to cringe instead of Kringle. [sigh] Sadly, now I am thinking of Pringles.

I guess it doesn't help that I'm heading into this holiday season single, with "D" day fast approaching. For all you marrieds and/or those in a committed shagging relationship, you might not know about D day (no no, not that one). For singles, D day usually falls at the end of the first week in December. We singles know that if we have not had at least a second date with someone by then, we will be officially single for the entire holiday season. That's Christmas AND New Year's Eve. That means no exchanging meaningless presents with a [could be special some day if one/both of you don't *** it up] someone, no groping about at office holiday parties, no playing sit on Santa's knee...er, you get the idea.

Not that I'm looking about anyway. You know, I'm working on the list and all that.

I've just been slightly unfocused lately. Which is so unlike me.

I guess I've got things on my mind. Like why my computer speakers no longer work for sound but will emit one side of a CB radio conversation. FYI - they say 10-4 a lot. And who will win the tacky-as-hell Dancing With the Stars trophy (please please be Mario). And how to forget about the sassy little size 5 black dress (maybe size 7 if I keep eating those bagels) that's just calling my name at Smart Set.

Plus, there's the whole novel thingy that I'm supposed to have half-way completed.

I guess there's only one thing I can do...

Bartender! I'll have a whiskey sour. And make it a double.**

** The Redhead-Next-Door does not condone drinking as a way to solve and/or forget about world problems/life concerns/fantasies about coworkers. But approves of drinking for it's intended medicinal use - writing an ok blog post.**

Office Prank #2: Show Me The Monkey

On Thursday, a local vendor came to pick up his wares.

He travels around the local offices with books, toys, etc. for sale. Some time ago he had brought a toy monkey with stretchy arms that could be used as a sling-shot to sail through the air while making monkey screeching noises. Rowan wanted to purchase said-monkey but the vendor came and picked up the merchandise before he had the opportunity.

Well, on Thursday, the monkey was back. And Rowan had his money at the ready. I was on training in the Hub city and arrived back at the office, unaware of what purchases had transpired in my absence.

After chucking my purse and leather tote on my desk, I could hear Rowan's voice saying "Is she back?" Next thing I remember is a monkey sailing through the air and hitting me in the head.

[fade to moneky screeching sounds...]

I'm chatting to some cubicle mates when I realize there's something going on behind me. It's the monkey, and Rowan is dancing it on the top of my cubcile. I lunge for it. Rowan pulls back holding tightly to the monkey, who's arms are beginning to stretch and is screeching for all he's worth (the monkey, not Rowan). Rowan, not wanting to rip his moneky in two, let's go. Faster than you can say, "Monkey's Uncle" I shoved the monkey up the back of my shirt. Rowan enters my cubicle.

"Where is he?" Rowan asks. Staffers are really hooting at this point.
"I don't know" I say coyely sitting in my chair. "I don't have him."
Rowan begins looking throughout my cubicle for his monkey.
"I don't have him." I say.
"Stand up" he said smiling.
I stand up but since the moneky's arms are under the back of my bra strap, the monkey stays put. And Rowan moves on to look elsewhere assuming I gave it to someone else to hide.

The next day, I put the following note on Rowan's computer screen.

Dear Mr. Monkey’s Around,

Your favorite stuffed toy is currently being held for ransom.

It is partly because being hit in the head with a flying screeching monkey is not fun.

If you follow these instructions, you will be rewarded with more than bananas**; you’ll get your monkey back. Frankly, your monkey is not easy to handle and I look forward to washing my hands.

#1: Sing the phrase “good morning” to every staffer you encounter today (up until 10 o’clock am
#2: Anytime someone says your name, respond with “Eek Eek Eek” in true monkey fashion. Bonus points if you scratch your arm pits.
#3: If you are asked a question, you can only respond with the phrase “This **** is bananas”. Questions from the Ivory Tower are exempt. [this is what we call our head office where the big wigs work]

If you do not follow these instructions, well…Planet of the Apes is recruiting for their next installment. We have ears. Not big ears like your, er…monkey. Yeah, that’s it. Monkey. We’ll be listening.

DO NOT involve the authorities or you’ll be sorry (sorry like Davy Jones when the Monkees recorded “Tapioca Tundra”) but I digress.

Insincerely,

Cha. Key. Ta. Banana

PS. My apologies if you couldn’t sleep last night without your bedtime companion.

**Please note bananas are not actually included with the monkey’s return**

My coworker Laura put a banana in Rowan's mailslot with a sticky note attached saying "please help me".

It was completely coincidental that one of the specialists from head office made an appearance. Rowan was telling her someone stole his monkey (apparently not concerned how it looked for a grown man to have a toy monkey) and he stopped at my cubicle. I began talking, saying his name as many times as possible in a sentence to see if he'd do step #2 as part of the ransom demand. But instead, he just blushed. The rest of the office laughed uncontrollably. I'm sure the specialist made a note to herself to test the air quality in our office.

Following lunch, I emailed this picture of the monkey to Rowan (courtesy of the office scanner):



Laura put a milk carton in the middle of the office, with a picture of the monkey on it with the caption "Have you seen this monkey? If you have information call Rowan at [Rowan's phone number]. Reward offered."

Rowan stopped by several times to ask for his monkey back. I informed him, that a couple little "Eek eek" eeks was all it would take and he could have him back. He said, "I don't negotiate with with..." he was lost for words. "Terrorists?" I offered.

To top off the prank, I emailed him a recipe for Monkey Balls, a breakfast dish that I thought sounded yummy and was considering cooking over the holiday weekend.

In the end Rowan got his monkey back. You can imagine the number of references to Rowan's monkey that were used throughout the day. There was more to the prank but it was a "you had to be there" or Lord of the Flies kind of thing. Needless to say, the whole office is super impressed with my pranking abilities. Now I need to keep one eye open at all times. Because I know Rowan is going to try to get me back for this one. But I doubted he'll top this one.