A hard lesson learned from being a working girl for 8+ months

I realized that the title of my blog alludes to fact that the theme of this space might have something to do with my so-called "escapades in the working world". So here is something that I've learned: the kitchen drawer is fair game.

Two weeks into the start of my career, as I was starting to get comfortable in my surroundings and making myself at home at my workspace, I brought a set of utensils to work and left them in the drawer in the kitchen, foolishly believing that they would be there everytime I needed them. I even went so far as bringing a bowl for cereal in the mornings.

One day I found my beloved cereal bowl filled with packs of sugar and abandonned in the conference room. Upset and disillusioned, I hastily dumped the sugar back into its bin and whisked the bowl back onto a shelf. The next day, I found it full of stir-sticks and creamers. The day after that, it was gone for good. I have never seen it since. As for the spoon I brought, it too, has vanished. I no longer trust my co-workers. And I still crave cereal in the mornings.

Ah, but that is not the end of it, my friends. Forks become a hot commodity when everybody brings a tupperware, microwave-able lunch, as I soon learned. During lunch one day, before the sting of losing my bowl and spoon had fully worn off, I plopped my lunch onto the counter and pulled the drawer open to find my fork...gone. I looked at the people gathered in the kitchen. The senior salesman was already brandishing his own fork. My other co-worker was tapping the counter with a plastic spoon. And the VP of marketing was standing there holding nothing.

"I can't believe somebody took my fork!" I exclaimed and held the drawer open to show the injustice done to me. "Now what am I supposed to eat with?"
The VP of marketing sort of looked at me strangely and then opened his lunch bag. "Is this your fork?" he asked rather mildly.

I looked, and there it was.

I looked back at him and he didn't say anything more nor did he make any move to give my fork back to me. I felt a tempest rising up inside of me, but all I could do was stand there. I was a mere ant, and he was the VP of marketing. He smirked slightly (ok, I probably imagined that) and the light reflecting off the top of his balding head lent an evil, sinister glow about him.

"Well..." I said weakly, glancing desperately at the remaining contents of the drawer, "I suppose I could just eat with this ice-cream scoop."

"Oh no, no, no," said the VP quickly, taken aback at the ridiculousness of my offer and the pitifulness in my voice, and surrendered the fork.

I don't know what he ate with that day, and I don't care. My fork is now safely hidden in a mound of napkins in the furthest reaches of my personal desk drawer.