(Left - two cakes for illustration purposes only)
Reg, the "big kahunah" at the accounting office my company shares space with, runs pretty much everything which exhausts him and sometimes puts him in a mood which triggers others to hide under desks and in alleys, smoking and complaining about him. Many people believe it's because he should have been a rock superstar or maybe a lawyer instead of an accountant, and it's never easy to be a victim of the existential vacuum. Personally, I think he should be a model for the "hair club for men" because even close to 50, he has a mane of perfect reddish blond hair that makes it look as though he's wearing a rug when he isn't. Among his other picadillos, Reg doesn't like the kitchen at the office to be messy, which it often is. The table is littered with crumbs; the coffee pot is sometimes left half-full at the end of the day, the microwave is encrusted with dirt, and hardly anyone ever replaces the empty paper towel roll after using the last one. Basic kitchen dysfunctionality.
I'm generally not judgmental of the dysfunctionality of others, since I have my own dysfunctionality in my compulsive joy of baking or cooking for a family of 12 when my actual household consists of only three (unless you count Deva, our dog who eats everything in sight including any random novels or newspapers that aren't on a high enough shelf when we leave her alone for prolonged periods of time). Reg rages, however, when his staff of hard-working and generally good-humored professionals don't clean up after themselves and - heaven forbid - leave food in the refrigerator for too long. Sometimes, people disagree with his definition of "too long" - he has been known to ditch lunches left from breakfast that day, leaving the ditchees with no choice but to dig randomly through the garbage can or find something else to eat, somewhere.
When I first started working at Reg's firm, I was told, soto voce, by several employees that I had violated the golden rule by not cleaning up after myself when I left cupcakes in the kitchen. Since I wasn't the one who had eaten them (I only baked them) - I thought it was a bit bizarre, and made a mental note to try to be sure all crumbs were left when I departed each day. Then one day, I got an official e-mail about how the kitchen must be kept clean at all times. I knew that if something wasn't done, I would end up frustrated and eating pounds of cookie dough and cake batter and go into sugar shock, so I started randomly scrubbing sinks and the table and the surrounding area when the coast was clear - so that I knew I could build up some sort of "defense" the next time my brownie crumbs hit the floor and Reg was off on a rant.
I practiced saying "Are you talking to me? You talking to ME? I cleaned the drainboard," with no less zeal than Robert DeNiro practiced the line in "Taxi Driver."
Finally, the moment of truth (or so I thought it would be) came.
"Are you the brownie girl," Reg asked, walking toward my desk looking more hyper than usual.
"Yes," I said, ready with my "I cleaned the skanky kitchen" line.
But before I could say anything, he said, "They're good."
I was so deflated. That's a Ruler in the Existential Vaccuum for you - you never know what they'll say.
