Deli-emma

Coworker G smells like a hot dog.

This might be acceptable if we were standing outside the bars at two in the morning with nothing but our drunken need to snack keeping us from passing out in the nearest snow bank; but it’s not two in the morning, and we're not on a street corner outside of the bars. We are in an office building! No, Coworker G, this simply will not do.

Sadly, short of hosing G down with an industrial-sized bottle of Febreeze in a sneak attack outside the ladies bathroom, or leaving a subversive arsenal of travel-sized ketchup/mustard/relish packets at her desk as a gentle hint-I have a sinking feeling I am going to have to suffer in silence on this one.

I guess I should just add this to the ever-growing list of office-related injustices I have been forced to endure over the past few year. It could be worse, of course. G could smell of deli-meat and constantly try talking to me about my feelings.

Oscar Mayer you fiend!