Turkey Poachers.

In my own workplace!

I figured this was good post for WTR -- Rita's been bitching that I haven't posted here lately. And this seemed appropriately humorous, even though when relating the tale to her earlier, she BLAMED THE VICTIM.

My workplace is cafeteria deficient. So there are several strategically placed 'culinary stations'. Some are more formal than others -- only one has a sink, for example. And one also houses the copier/printer machine, so it's not really terribly culinary. Or sanitary, I suspect.

I choose to store my foodstuffs in the fridge closest to me -- no sink in the area, but quite a nice parking lot view and a large table. The team which technically 'owns' this space is kind enough to let myself and one other marketing type share it, though this wasn't always the case.

Three years or so back, there was an admin on this team who took it upon herself to post 'fridge rules and responsibilities' on the door. With bold type and red underlines, it assigned responsibility for weekly cleaning, etc. She also, about the time she created the schedule, got wise to the fact that evil marketing person me was sneaking a bit of shelf space now and then. So she promptly posted another note indicating that she was polling her 'team' to see if 'they' were willing to let me use 'their' fridge. Heh.

At that time, the most I ever stored in the fridge was a bottle of water or a backup diet soda. So I sort of chose to ignore the cleaning schedule. These days, when lunch out of the office requires budgeting for both the meal and gas to get there from our restaurant-deficient 'hood, and when I try to adhere to a somewhat healthy/carb free weekday menu, I use the fridge quite a bit.

'Course, the fact that snarky admin is gone, taking her sign with her, and amazingly, the fridge is clean and welcoming, may also have something to do with it. And it's been a fairly peaceable relationship. Until today.

My turkey was poached. And I caught the poachers. Red-handed. About to pop open the little pack and build a sandwich. With my turkey. In front of me.

Now it's been a rough week so far. And I'd skipped breakfast because of a meeting, and was just getting to lunch about 1, after yet another meeting. I wanted that turkey. I had pickles as a side.

So I wasn't quite as subtle as I might have been. "Hey, that's my turkey," I announced, my eager little eyes spying it in John's hand.

"There's no name on it. Is it really your's?"

Now I like John. But he's pretty slight, and if challenged, and hungry, I'm pretty sure I could take him. But I opted instead for charm.

"But it's MINE. It goes with the pickles," I insist, turning to the fridge to show him where they all had been aligned, in a neat little row on the far left. "And the cheese.... hey, did you take the cheese stick too?!"

Apparently the tone of my voice was cause for alarm. John meekly held out the turkey. "I didn't see a cheese stick. Honest."

Thank god the pickles were safe.

So I'm relating this to Rita during the drive home. She suggested, quite seriously, that 1) I should put my name on my lunch, and 2) keep in it a proper container, not a pile in the corner.

Urrrgh. I gotta go label some cheese sticks....