Today was potluck at work, and although these events have a high occurrence for craptasticness, we manage to avoid it. I’ll still never understand the appeal of a green bean casserole. It looks and tastes like someone else already ate it, and threw it up. It’s the kind of food that should be regulated to a “two girls one cup” type of situation. So, we had a sign up sheet, but we had to periodically hide it, because one of our coworkers who sells for the lesser of the three magazines we produce is a heinous beast. She treats us all like she knows how to do our jobs better than us, and is just an overall a distinct displeasure to work with. Granted she had some questions when she came in.
Q: “Why is the kitchen full of food and dirty dishes” A: “Well it IS the kitchen!”
Q: “Why is their a crock pot full of chili dip in the copy room?” A: :Why wouldn’t there be a crock pot in the copy room?”
Q: “Why is there a hibachi grill outside?” A: “uhh we were just burning old copies of the magazines…”
Last night to prepare for said potluck, I made cupcakes, Tequila Mockingbird style. The most key ingredient in my strawberry shortcake cupcakes is not love, but a glass with three fingers ketel one, the rest sugar free cranberry, and then a splash of diet ginger ale. Now, normally I would prefer to make my cupcakes from scratch, buuut some of us have more important things to do, like drink and look at porn, so this was not possible. Instead, I got the yellow cake mix, added a spoonful of strawberry preserves, then added more strawberry preserves to the buttercream frosting, and fresh strawberries on top. It’s like I’m Betty Crocker, only with more cleavage and the smell of vodka on my breath.
My cupcakes were a success, and I’ll say this… making hamburger patties at work made me feel like I worked at Mcdonald’s. It was sweet; my job was low pressure and the I didn’t have a care in the world, other than hoping my shift manager didn’t find out I was beating off in the meat (that’s what they do at those places, right?)