Got Milk- In the past

I bring my breakfast and lunch to work everyday–well, at least 90% of the time. I pride myself on the fact that I've avoided the temptation of spending money on eating out during the work week. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not because I’m not wasteful in many other ways, it's just that this is one habit I’ve never indulged in.

Like any communal office refrigerator, all things are marked by their owners–names, initials or phrases–some identifier to ward off the public. I eat Kashi Go Crunch, strawberries, and skim milk in the morning. I usually place my milk toward the back with my first initial and last name and the phrase “this does not belong to you” with cross bones that my coworker added, just for dramatics. One Thursday afternoon, I’m in the kitchen chatting with a cube neighbor while he makes his afternoon coffee. An editor from the other side of the floor walks into the kitchen. She’s older–60 or so, white hair, cane, the whole nine. I ignore her like I do most of the older editors. They hate the non-creative team–they believe we infringe on their creativity.

“Sorry, Mr. Science editor you can’t produce a 300-page book about grass just because your grandson has a fascination with eating grass. This is a company and we are here to maximize profits and lower cost,” my cube neighbor says to me.

After the older editor glances up at us, (disapproving of our candid conversation) she proceeds to pour what is probably her 4th cup of joe that day, she opens the fridge and pulls out a blue carton of Dean’s skim milk. The only reason I even notice this is because I vaguely see a cross bones figure. I wait for her to pour. (I’m actually intrigued by her arrogance–a level-headed person would never steal in front of others.)

“Is that yours?” I say.

“Is what mine?” she replies.

“The milk (bitch)–does that belong to you?”

“There was no half and half left!”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

She sips her coffee (are you serious) and says, “Well actually I suppose it’s not mine.”

(Suppose?!?) “Well who does it belong to?”

“Well,” she says, staring at the container, “I.. I.. don’t know.”

(Ladies and Gentleman, an editor who can’t fucking read. Great!) “It’s mine, and for the record, it has medicine in it and I hope you drop dead.” I storm off.

I’m standing around telling my cube mates the nerve of the old frog and my work phone is ringing. I don’t recognize the number, so I ignore it. (I never answer the phone, not even at work, if I don’t know the number. Thank God for caller ID!) 15 minutes later the new HR intern comes to me. "Mr. Law wants to see you in HR ASAP," she mumbles.

I slide the door open and say, “Yes, you asked for me?”

“Um, you told Mrs. Cane there was medicine in a product she was consuming.”

“A product she was consuming? Yes, it was milk and it belonged to me. It had my name on it." (And cross bones to ward off villains but apparently that meant nothing to her!)

“Mrs. Cane is very concerned about her health. Can you please reveal the names of the medications?” he says, frowning.

(Concerned about her health!) “People who drink other people’s milk are not concerned about their health."

“She has phoned her doctor and he is afraid the medications consumed could have adverse reactions to the medicine she is taking. We would not want something life threatening to occur as a result of the alleged incident.”

("We" don’t give a shit.) "Alleged? There is nothing alleged about it–I saw her with my own eyes drinking my (fucking) milk."

“Can you please just write down the medications that were in the milk?”

He passes me a sticky note. I ignore it.

“My medications are my personal business and I’m not comfortable disclosing them to my employer for fear it may be used against me in my employment advancement.”

“And for Mrs. Cane–what should I tell her?”

“Tell her that her days on this earth are numbered. Have a pleasant day.”