Goddammit!
I stood there, staring stupidly at the mess on the floor for a few minutes, which looked slightly like a broken bottle of vomit on the floor. Then one of the older women, one of those kind but slightly brusque grandmother-types, who works on my floor came around the corner, and took over the cleanup process, warning me not to cut myself on the broken class and tsk-tsking the stain on the cuff of my pants. We cleaned the mess up, but for some reason I just felt terrible that someone lost their bottle of salad dressing. But then as the day went on, and as I got more and more tired of smelling like Paul Newman's Caesar Salad Dressing, I stopped feeling bad and just started feeling, well, garlickly, and more that a little, well, greasy
Out, damn'd spot! Out I say!
Croutons! If only I had croutons!
But once I got home I did laundry, and thankfully, my day of feeling all salad-y came to an end. And so far, no one at work has complained about the missing bottle of salad dressing. Perhaps they smelled me. Or maybe they just snuck up on me while I was absorbed in my work, crawling silently on their bellies, to rub their lettuce leaves against my pants. Yeah, I bet that is it. I'm a walking salad bar. HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?
Click here if you think I'm a keeper!
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