Wednesday, August 12, 2009

M. is dressed as a sailor. Her top is black with 6 huge buttons and a flap. Her pants are white.

"I'm in the Bahamas," she tells me. "This is my bathing suit."

Her purse is a spectacle all on its own. The border is giraffe skin, the middle is a wild zebra print, and there is a big leather Peace sign bejeweled with what M. says are real diamonds. Wow.

M. offers advice on nutrition: "If it's delicious, don't eat it."

She is leaving work early to get her face peeled. Before she heads out, she leans over to her cube mate and says, "My lunchbox smells like fart. Do you want to know why it smells like fart? Because last night I farted in it and zipped it up."

And then she's gone.


  1. you've enticed us all into becoming voyeurs on your blog, standing on our tippie-toes peeking in the window to this intriguing world of M. You've created such a fantasy, and your description of the purse makes me think that my imagination of it simply can't do it justice. Snap a pic tell her you need to find one for your mom/sister/girlfriend/ebay/PETA/whatever, and show us how it isn't just in our heads. (DSK, not completely anonymous, you know who it is, just didn't want to point it out to the rest of the world)