Reminiscences of an office, or Why I'm glad I now work at home

To the never-ending parade of inquisitors who think I've got some double-top-secret inside line on what's happening with the company refrigerator:

The mere fact that my desk is the closest one to the refrigerator (even though it’s 20 yards away in another room separated from me by a full wall, an angled approach, a half wall AND a corridor) does not mean I know who did what to the refrigerator or when.

Since my oft-repeated “I don’t know” is incomprehensible to you, you poor, ridiculous sot, here are a few answers to your stupendously absurd questions:

Who put these Diet Cokes in here? (I neither know nor care about soda.)

Why is there both Coke AND Pepsi in the refrigerator? 

(The day you see me with a company-furnished canned soda in my hand is the day hell will freeze over. And while we’re on the subject, go buy me a stiff, dark, unsweetened iced tea. Lots of ice. Go. Go now. Move with a purpose.)

Whose lunch is this in the styrofoam container? It’s been here for three days! 

(The history of the mystery lunch, while no doubt compelling, is of no import to me, nor to my proposals; thus, I have not followed its lifespan or provenance.)

Who left the empty salad dressing bottle on the counter? 

(Bottled salad dressings are not a part of my universe. MONITORING bottled salad dressings—even less so.)

Why is there an empty butter wrapper in the butter compartment? Who left it there? 

(To be sure, butter wrappers DO fascinate, but let me assure you, if I finish the butter, I am well acquainted with the location of the wastebasket, and my proficiency in throwing wrappers away is unsurpassed.)

Who used the last of the (blah-blah-blah)-flavored creamer? 

(Flavored creamer? What is flavored creamer? For that matter, what is creamER? CREAM, I understand, but I am afraid I know nothing about creamER.)

Did you see anybody take the last of my orange juice? 

(Well, actually, yes. Yes, I DID see someone take the last of your orange juice, but it was a masked, armed intruder with a big ol' scary-looking gun, and I was threatened. From two rooms away. Behind my wall. So I can’t answer your question, lest he execute the other helpless idiot who annoyed him with unanswerable questions. I DO have a heart, yanno.)

Who used up the last of the ice cubes and didn’t refill the trays? 

(You’ll have to take that up with the Ice Cube Fairy, who makes periodic visits to our little establishment. But, for the record, I’ve seen YOU clean out all the ice and walk away. For two hundred bucks, I won’t rat you out.)

Why are these old bagels from yesterday morning still on the table? 

(So they can get to the other side?)

Fer hell's sake, I WRITE STUFF. I don't spy on the damned refrigerator. I can hardly keep control of the one in my own kitchen and you think I have even the faintest CLUE what’s going on with the blasted OFFICE fridge? I DO NOT KNOW who did whatever it is that’s currently bugging you about, with, or near the damned refrigerator. So please go away and buy a nanny cam if it’s that bloody important to you. Or pay the guy a little extra to clean the thing. Or—wait, here’s an idea—CLEAN THE DAMNED REFRIGERATOR YOURSELF. Sponges, paper towels, warm water and a few squirts of 409 Cleaner aren't going to neutralize your Y chromosome.