Disclaimer:
I am no more qualified to give advice than Doctor Phil is to give
weight-loss tips, Kimora Lee is to doling out fashion direction, or
anyone at Cosmo
is to providing tips to pleasing a man. But they do it. Granted, they
have lawyers and shit-piles of money. But I don't. So remember, that
anything you read here might be horribly, horribly wrong. Or it may be
horribly, horribly right.
My guess is as good as yours, just better.
Ask me: rod [at] manhattanoffender [dot] com
Dear Add Vice -
I have an addendum to the quandry that you advised so hilariously and eloquently earlier this year and update - the offending intern was Not Asked Back, the darling one remained, they made me the editor of the Food section, and all was jolly -- for a time). In place of the offending intern, The Powers That Be have now placed a production contractor who:
- Spends seemingly unhealthy amounts of time in the bathroom, and is a known over-the-stall peeper.
- Repeatedly attempts to foist large bags of Jet-Puf marshmallows upon me.
- Eats things that smell like cat food, lentils and sadness.
- Wants to be my friend and has stated as such - though I can't see why, what with my stinking to the high heavens of ambient lentils now.
Advice to keep me from ending up at Bellvue/Rikers?
(And yes - I DO love you. In a totally literary-crushy kind of way, what with the non-penis-having on my part, but I'm sure if I did, I'd totes wanna hit that.)
xoxo,
Kitty
Somebody wants you, Kitty, and it's not just me. Just to get our "love" thing out of the way, you should know that I'm not repulsed by the vagina.
Once upon a time, I was engaged to a tobacco heiress. (Well, pre-engaged, whatever that means.) What happened though is that she became a little obsessed and went a little crazy on me. We had hung out toward the end of my junior year at Indiana University. Liz insisted that I stay with her on campus for the summer. I wouldn't have to work, and she would take care of things. But I was an independent head-strong kind of guy that was paying his own way through school (which was not hard since my scholarships were in excess of tuition, but I still needed bar money). So we parted ways until one day a call came and Liz announce that she was stopping by my hometown. She came by my parents home with a surprise. She had bought a cocker spaniel (female) identical to my parents' cocker (male). Liz wanted to mate them. We broke up that day.
Why am I going on about this crazy episode of my life? Because all the signs are there in your life: your production contractor has a crush on you. The marshmallow-foisting, "friend"-wanting, and other attention-gathering activities all add up. So what to do?
American worker productivity has soared in the last few years, which basically means we're all working our asses off. There is no time for distraction in the workplace. This production contractor is a distractor. So you've got to get him (her?) fired. I'll not go into the details here as it seems in this case that it won't be a hard thing to accomplish.
The one thing I will tell you is to not feel badly about it. This is a media town and they'll find more work. And don't stress about losing a workmate. Instead, volunteer with The Powers That Be to be involved in the selection process.
In the mean time, you need to practice your cold stare. Every interaction not related to tasks at hand need to be greeted with it. All of this advice is geared toward making you more successful. Because if you are to have any chance of getting me back into women, you're going to need to have the one thing that mitigated Liz's vagina-havingness: a huge bankroll.
