Ready for Anything

White collar pansy on top, serious down and dirty badass on bottom

In the not too distant future, I will perform oversight management at construction sites. As a safety precaution, all workers on site, including myself, must wear reinforced toe boots. Don't want anyone's little toe-sies getting injured. My supervisor, who is one of the most overly cautious people I know, prefers non steel-toed because apparently you can get electrocuted if you step on the wrong wire. Or something. But hey, rather be safe than sorry. 

After spending a considerable time googling reinforced toe boots, I came to realize that almost all are hideous. Most look like really ugly hiking boots. I was not having that. After careful research, I finally found high top desert storm-esque army boots online and knew they were to be mine. 

This morning I channeled my inner soldier - my mission: obtain said army boots, priority level: high. I promised myself I'd finally get these boots (my boss has been nagging me for weeks) or die trying. I therefore found myself in an army surplus store receiving strange looks from everyone inside. I guess they don't get many young ladies wearing fancy silk shirts and pale pink python boat shoes in there... Anyway, mission accomplished! Check. Me. The fluff. Outtttttttt! 

Gotta love a (wo)man in uniform

Oh and P.S., obviously I had to do a fashion show for everyone in the office once I returned. I think they all were really intimidated and impressed (especially Big D, his eye roll was just a cover up). Best part is, I get to expense these boots. Holla!

Rude

Last week I performed an inspection at a very expensive Madison Avenue jewelry store. Even though most of the merchandise is pretty tacky, I "joked" that I would write whatever they wanted in the report in return for a bribe of some fancy jewelry. They laughed at my "joke" but did not take me up on my offer. Rude.

Marilyn knows what's up.

Photo credits: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

A South Bronx Tale

Laws of Nature 101: Throwing a bunch of random strangers into a shared space will result in individuals selectively grouping themselves together, usually according to a social hierarchy.

Janis Ian knows what's up: "Where you sit in the cafeteria is crucial because you got everybody there. You got your Freshmen, ROTC Guys, Preps, JV Jocks, Asian Nerds, Cool Asians, Varsity Jocks, Unfriendly Black Hotties, Girls Who Eat Their Feelings, Girls Who Don't Eat Anything, Desperate Wannabes, Burnouts, Sexually Active Band Geeks, The Greatest People You Will Ever Meet, and The Worst. Beware of The Plastics."

In the office environment, every company has it's own A-list clique. I hope that it goes without saying that I am a member of my own office's most exclusive group. We're made up of four saucy ladies:

MG: Me. Dis bitch has got swag pumping out her ovaries. 

D: The "mother" of the group. She's lived her whole life bouncing around one NYC project to another. D knows EVERYTHING about everything so you better pay attention to her advice.

B: The Puerto Rican fashionista. She's super hot and always comes dressed to impress.

T: Hails from Africa. Her BFF is Nelson Mandela's step-daughter. Not joking. Lady is an amazing dancer and is my personal inspiration and definition of the word "diva".

I am very happy that my work rarely brings me to NYC's less savory neighborhoods such as the South Bronx or Brownsville. Whenever I do have to make an appearance in these sorts of neighborhoods, I like to schedule my appointments in the morning. According to D, "You won't run into any trouble in the morning because that's when all these wannabe thugs are sleeping". Nice thinking! I've found that Brownsville and the South Bronx can actually be quite charming and peaceful at 10:30 am. While I have been in plenty of inappropriate, creepy, potentially not-so-good situations, I am thankful that I've never personally been in one that was truly scary.

This isn't true for most inspectors, including T. T recently found herself waiting for a superintendent outside of a building in the South Bronx. I guess the super was taking his sweet time arriving at the site, because T was forced to listen to a rather uncomfortable conversation as she waited. 

A man and a woman on the stoop next door loudly, without trying to hide the content of their conversation, negotiated the sale of a firearm. The woman wanted to kill her deadbeat husband and the man asked her what she was looking for regarding the type of gun, price, model, etc. Midway through their conversation, the woman stopped the negotiation to compliment T on her purse. They then turned back to one another and continued discussing gun prices. After the pair had finished their business dealings the woman said, "Thanks man. Now Imma 'bout to go get me some breakfast at the liquor store". It was 9 am.

You. Cannot. Make. This. Stuff. Up

Photo credits: Mean Girls

Sleeping Strangers

Hide yo' kids, hide yo' wife, damnit!

I don't know about you, but I don't particularly welcome the idea of a random stranger poking around my apartment while I sleep. I'm not weird, am I? I don't know, I guess we all must have different comfort thresholds for this, because it appears some people are A-okay with strangers rifling through their homes without feeling concerned enough to open their eyes. I've performed at least two or three inspections in which residents were not fully conscious. One time it happened when I was relatively new to the mold game; I was involved with some legal HPD thing (NYC Department of Housing Preservation & Development) in a low income housing development. I inspected the room of some sleeping teenage boy, in the dark!, while an HPD official and the kid's mom waited outside in the living room... Like seriously, what the fuck are you doing? It's 11 am on a Wednesday! Get your ass up! So, so awkward.

Last Friday I found myself in another slightly uncomfortable sleeping situation, but at least this one was a million times more legitimate. I was up in Riverdale performing an inspection for an extremely old woman. I guess she had recently been in some sort of accident and was having trouble moving, in addition to other more long term ailments. The woman greeted me, but just didn't have the energy to stay awake during the inspection. Thankfully I was not the only conscious body in the apartment, I had her friendly housekeeper for company. Before the lady had drifted off, I learned that she was super cool and friendly, and had an amazing terrace garden with the most spectacular view of Manhattan. We compared notes on our gardening likes and dislikes (I love deserts and have been working on growing my own cactus/succulents garden). I didn't want to be a total creep and take a million pictures of her garden, but check out these shots from her terrace. What a view!

So much green!

'Sup Manhattan

Boom! A section of my very own BADASS cactus garden! :)

Photo credits: WAFF-48 News, The Bed Intruder Song, Antoine Dodson

Appurtenances

Appurtenance |əˈpərtn-əns|
noun (usu. appurtenances)
An accessory or other item associated with a particular activity or style of living: all the appurtenances of luxurious travel.
ORIGIN Middle English: from Old French apertenance, based on late Latin appertinere ‘belong to’ (see appertain).

A teal crushed velvet scrunchie is an excellent appurtenance to jazz up any outfit

Why did I just post the definition of "appurtenance" (other than to, you know, contribute to expanding society's vocabulary via a beloved reminiscence of the Word of the Day from third grade English class. Now, go use it in a sentence!)? Anyway, I was recently assigned to do a mold inspection of a building in downtown Manhattan in the midst of a large legal battle. My company had been given several documents outlining various problems with the property. Along with a lot of other bizarre terms and out of place references, the building owner had used the word "appurtenances" instead of "accessories" in one of the documents to describe a component of the building. I love a good two-dollar word as much as the next person, but something in the documents was throwing me off. People frequently ask me if I've ever seen any "really scary mold" situations. My response is always that the mold is never the scary part, it's the people. The use of the word "appurtenance" should have told me that this whole situation was only going to go downhill from there. 

The job was at an absolutely disgusting building, but came with an even more disgusting property manager. I can barely even go into the details because they're just too stupid, so I'll stick to the highlights reel. That day it was pouring, the weather and the streets were a mess. I arrived to the site twenty minutes late (which in my book doesn't even count as late) but from the way the guy reacted, you'd think I had showed up four hours late, drunk, and missing half my equipment. 

If only.

He showed me around the building for a half hour or so and repeatedly said things like, "I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but...", "I've been in this business a long time, so I know what I'm talking about", and "I've never seen a girl at a job site before". Okay Mr. Genius of the Universe, if you're so smart and perfect and prompt, oh, and a man, why don't you do the mold test yourself? You seem to clearly know what you're talking about. Obviously as a girl, it's much too complicated for me. *Eye. Roll.*

The building manager had set up an appointment with other people at the same time as my investigation. So of course as soon as they arrived, I was completely ignored so the real men could finally get down to business. Thank the lord! I could finally do my job in peace!

I normally don't wear a respirator on the job, most places I go are in very good shape. Unfortunately this building was so disgusting that I seriously considered burning my outfit afterward.

Technically the building had been a "family friendly" pizzeria. At least according to a sign that had been left behind

But apparently, the third floor had also been home to a secret brothel

If only the building manager had kept all his "tips" to himself!

Photo credits: Moulin Rouge, Futurama, riverfronttimes.com, The Simpsons

The Magic Touch

A while ago I performed a mold inspection at the home of what I suppose you could call a D-list celebrity, who's job title includes the word "magic". Guess what the person does for a living, I'll even be generous and give you two chances: 

Unfortunately you'd be incorrect guessing Channing Tatum back during his Chippendale days :-/

That's more like it, a magician!

I am rarely given an apartment resident's name prior to an inspection, but for whatever reason I was provided with a name on this particular occasion. I had thought nothing of it given that the name is rather common, although it became quite evident upon arrival that I was indeed inside the home of the famous-ish magician himself. He was not present at the time of inspection, but his foreign model baby momma who looked younger than me was. 
The classiest part of the apartment was a large epic oil painting of the magician hanging upside down from some telephone wires with New York's skyscrapers far below in the distance. The painting pictured him calmly struggling inside of a buckled straightjacket while four scary devils creeped along the wires towards him. It was fabulous. If only I had asked for the artist's name so that I could commission a similarly epic Mold Girl painting. I have the perfect spot to hang it! *le sigh* If only.

I had wanted to image search "epic devil oil paintings" for this picture, but I was afraid of all the creepy things I'd find. So here's what I came up with after googling "magician art": The Magician by Alexandre Evariste Fragonard. #Culture

And now I will wrap up this post with a song that I was introduced to in 1999 by the soundtrack to Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Enjoy.

#MoreCulture

Photo credits: Magic Mike, Fun Factory Parties

No Sex and the City

I have a coworker. We will call him Silent Bob. Hey Bob!

*crickets*

Why is my coworker Silent Bob? Well, in the roughly 18 months that he has been employed with my company, below is a complete list of everything we know about Silent Bob:

• He served in the military
• He is a snappy dresser - he has the best sweater collection of any heterosexual man I know
• He has a girlfriend, and the pair went to the Caribbean that one time
• He LOVES the New York Knicks - the Knicks homepage is the only non-work related website we've ever seen him waste company time on. Also, one time he shot me a death stare when I mentioned a desire to catch a Brooklyn Nets game...
• We used to be desk buddies although my coordinates on the office map have since changed. I was informed that he does not miss me. 

That's it. Boy does not talk.

...At least until recently. I have no idea how, but I have personally broken Silent Bob. In the past month, I've had at least four (albeit short) conversations with Silent Bob, some of which he even started! At my own expense, our new budding relationship has taught me another personal fact about my quiet comrade - SB has quite the sarcastic sense of humor.

My office employs a number of rather fashionable ladies. I care about and enjoy fashion, although for me, practicality, comfort, and my own personal bizarre tastes are usually prioritized over style. I evoke descriptions akin to "hot mess shit show" rather than "put together" or "au courant". I am a walk-aholic and therefore sneakers play an important part in my life. Silent Bob had shamed me for wearing holes into my everyday pair of sneaks. I consulted a couple of coworkers during a recent quest to find a new pair. To our surprise, Silent Bob joined the conversation on his own accord. I had always thought Asics  were now and forever classically cool. Apparently not - "they were cool... like three years ago". *Okay, now I can never wear a certain pair of shoes to the office ever again!* While showing off various potential options to my colleagues, SB makes a statement regarding a pair of shoes, "Yeah, you can't work those". Okay, well, umm, thank you for the honesty? (Side note! I did end up getting new sneakers! Two pairs to be precise - and Silent Bob was appalled at how they became "dirtier in two weeks than the pair he's had for five years". 

MG's sneaker collection - stains and dirt and all! Excuse me SB, sorry I don't oxiclean my laces and obsessively Mr. Clean Magic Erase the soles like you.

I will admit that I do have a small obsession with one aspect of fashion - lingerie. All of my female friends are well aware than I could moonlight as a sales rep for one of my favorite companies, True & Co. Periodically I order items from the website. As every New Yorker in a non-doorman building knows, you must have all packages delivered to your office if you ever want to actually, you know, receive them. Today I accepted such a package from True & Co and was immediately asked about its contents by Silent Bob. After informing him that it probably wouldn't interest his fashion senses, he quickly and correctly guessed the purchase. All my ladiez and I quickly retreated to a corner of the office to quietly ogle the lacy prettiness. At one point Silent Bob ambles on over and asks, "Come on MG, who you got to impress?"
My response: "...ummmm, me?"

SB's face

My second response: "...ummmm, I'm optimistic?"

SB again

My third response: "Okay, fine! Nobody!"
SB: "Exactly."

Ouch, Silent Bob. Well I guess that's one way to keep me grounded.

Despite the fact that there's nobody except for yours truly to appreciate any of my new acquisitions, I guess I can seek the infinite wisdom of Carrie Bradshaw when NYC and a lackluster social life gets a girl down:

Designer shoes

Carrie may favor Manolo Blahniks, but I recently picked myself up a pair of Prabal Gurungs from Barney's. Okay, fine. Just kidding, they're from Target. You happy, Silent Bob?? Damn, why you always gotta bring me down like that?!

Eat your heart out SB

Photo credits: Clerks, Sex and the City, Tyra

Neighborhood Watch: East Harlem

Last week I was scheduled to perform a mold inspection at a large building complex in East Harlem. Upon arrival, the management office called up a security guard to escort me to the sampling area. Below are three conversations discussed over the course of this inspection. Enjoy:

Security Guard: Hello, my name is [I forget...oops].

Mold Girl: Lovely to meet you! I am [my name].
We shake hands

SG: Wow, what a nice, strong handshake! 

MG: Haha, yeah, there's nothing worse than a limp handshake.

SG: Oh yes, I hate weak handshakes! Whenever somebody tries to give me a limp handshake, I just shoot the guy. Right then and there. Boom, just like that!

MG: ...Oh, wow. Ha, ha...

SG: Yeah, seriously! If I'm falling off a cliff and you have a weak handshake, I know you're not going to be able to save me! I weight 240 pounds easy, that ain't nothing to laugh at! I need to know you can hold on!

MG: Wow, yeah, I never thought of that...Good point!

And speaking of Obama...

I am doing the inspection and am writing down notes

SG: Oh you're left handed?

MG: Mmhmm, sure am! Are you?
SG: Oh yes. Lefties are the best!

MG: Yeah we're supposed to be more creative. And I believe four of the past five presidents were lefties too! ...Although unfortunately I think George Bush falls into that category...

SG: Ehh, there's a bad egg in every bunch. We'll just forget about him. So, Obama's a leftie!

MG: Yup and Bill Clinton.

SG: Awww yeah, Bill is a G. We should have a lefties party! You, me, Obama, and Billy C!

MG: Haha, great idea. Let's make Bill bring along his saxophone to really get the party started!

Left is Right!

As I finish up the inspection, we make our goodbyes...

I extend my hand for a handshake

SG: Oh no, you know how we do up in here! Let's hug it out!

SG opens his arms wide

MG: Uhhh, okay!

Epic hug ensues

In honor of Groundhog Day (happy Groundhog Day!), I will illustrate my hug with this scene from the 1993 classic movie. In this hug situation SG is Phil...

...And I'm Ned!

Despite my creepy description of this incident, the guy was actually very entertaining and funny (Mom, I swear he was totally harmless!) I enjoyed hanging out with him, I mean he kept things interesting to say the least. He even gave me a great recommendation for lunch - the local fish market with amazing $5 fried fish sandwiches. Who can say no to that? 

Major props to the Lenox Fish Market

Photo credits: sportstalkchicago.wordpress.com, The Simpsons, Groundhog Day 

PS, Here's another great awkward hug picture :)

Jews Gone Wild

Today I saw something that I never thought I would see. Never even imagined. Shit got real. Really real. 

In New York, it's not uncommon to come across a van full of Orthodox Jews spreading the good word about how awesome it is to be a Jew. I love when it's Hanukkah and they hand out free menorahs and doughnuts. I've seen the Mitzvah Mobile, or "Jew Canoe" as we say in my family, on more than several occasions over the years, especially since I've lived in two of Brooklyn's heavily Hassidic neighborhoods. 

Ask you annnyythinggg? Yeah, you're prob gonna regret that by the end of our conversation...

This is how us Jews keep it pimpin'

I've never seen more than a single mitzvah mobile at a time. Until today. This afternoon I was making my way back to the office, and legit saw about thirty vans and trailer trucks speeding up Sixth Avenue all adorned with this banner:

When I say speeding, I mean speeding. We're talking about the vans not even bothering to stop for red lights. They refused to close ranks for reds as they blasted celebratory Jewish music at top volume. Come on people, Moshiach is here! There's no time for red lights!! 

I was personally almost run over when attempting to legally cross the street (for once I wasn't even jaywalking) before I realized what was going on. I thought their message of "just add in goodness and kindness" was a tad ironic given that the group almost committed several hit-and-runs. To add to this madness,  five or six cop cars were following the unsanctioned parade, sirens wailing and all, trying to stop this major traffic violation. The Jewish crusaders weren't having it. They kept on going. Obviously if Moshiach is more important than red lights, he's most certainly more important than the measly popo! Duh!

Please enjoy this educational video. It's informational and highly entertaining!

JOIN THE MOVEMENT! CLICK HERE! WOOHOO!! 

(If anyone's wondering, I'm Jewish, so this post is 100% A-Okay and anything I say can't be considered racist, so there.  :p)

Photo credits: greetmoshiach.com

About Time

Finally! After almost two years as a mold inspector, I've finally visited the home of what I'd call a true "crazy cat lady". 

I aspire to be a combination of Eleanor Abernathy and Captain Horatio McCallister one day

The story is actually rather tragic, the woman is the soul heir to a multi-billion dollar fortune and I guess suffers from some sort of mental disorder. I googled her family – apparently her grandfather (?) gained notoriety during his life as an archetypal representation of a Robber Baron. He has been ranked as one of America's top ten richest men of all time as well as one of America's worst CEOs of all time. Sheesh! What a legacy. Okay history lesson over, back on track. The apartment owner was not present at the time of inspection, although her love of cats most certainly was. The apartment was a bit scary, I felt like I needed to burn my clothes afterwards, but below is a sampling of some of her fabulous knickknacks: 

"Mr. Whiskers, Butterscotch, Katy Purry! Let's get your party bonnets on in time for afternoon tea!"

An avid lover of all animals – no h8 for the dogz out there

Lipstick? Check. Push-up bra? Check. Cat hair? Check. Okay, let's go tear this town up.

Um....

Photo credits: The Simpsons

Ask Moldy

I studied every rerun of Ask Ashley for advice-giving inspiration

Just wondering, anybody have any burning questions regarding the fascinating world of mold? The Mold Girl? Subway shenanigans? Mold related advice? Well feel free to ask them here! Email the Mold Girl at: themoldgirl@gmail.com, ask a question on the facebook page, or post a comment on the Mold Girl website! Even if it's completely unrelated, I'd be thrilled to respond to anything thrown my way...

...Especially situations involving this statement

Or this...

Photo credits: Anne Taintor, The Amanda Show

What a Strange, Strange Day

Yesterday I had a job that was bizarre from start to finish. I was asked to test an apartment in Tudor Village for Volatile Organic Compounds (VOCs). If you can believe this, the people who request VOC testing are even crazier than those I meet for mold testing. Residents demand this sort of test when they are certain that they smell some sort of chemical odor (of course I have yet to perform this test where anyone other than the resident could smell anything). The concerned tenants are convinced said odor is toxic and will kill them. In one case, I met a woman who described in great detail all the reasons she believed her neighbors were purposely trying to poison her. That's a whole other story to be shared at some point. Anyway, I have performed roughly twenty VOC tests during my career and have not once found anything of concern. This particularly investigation involves three separate tales of strange:

Zip up your space suit and buckle on that helmet, things are about to get weird

Tale of Strange Part I

VOC sampling involves large, awkward metal canisters. When I have to haul these puppies around the city, people always stare. The canisters are suspicious looking and give me some terrorist vibes. I hopped on the 1 train at 28th hauling this embarrassing equipment and an old woman grabs my attention. She asks me whether I'm pregnant and if I needed her seat. First of all, unless a woman is clearly about to pop, you do not ask if she is pregnant. No. Just no. Everybody knows (or should know) this question is a serious social faux pas. But more importantly, DO I LOOK PREGNANT?!?!? I do not consider myself as having a prego bod. I kickbox, zumba, and do pilates each at least once a week. Clearly I need to start going more often. Oh man, I just googled pregnant women and am starting to hyperventilate a little bit. They just are SO BIG! It looks really uncomfortable! Why is nature so cruel? Aghh!

The pregnancy question is an especially sore subject for me, because about a year ago I was also asked this two or three times within a span of a few weeks. I swear, I've worn the same pant size since seventh grade. I do not go around with a pained expression on my face and my hands supporting my lower back shouting, "where the hell are my pickles and ice cream?!?". I was doing my best to appear normal and not pregnant. My friend who shall be known as Denile Daboo tells me I have an awkward posture that may make people think I'm pregnant. Ugh, I know I have weak back muscles. I'm working on them, 'kay??

If I WAS pregnant, I promise I would not post photos of myself and my baby daddy like this

Or this

My response to the woman was, "Ummm... No. Or at least I hope not..." She defended her question with something like, "No, I'm serious. I always like to ask, just in case. Because, you know, a MAN would never ask. OR get up for you". Interesting. I consider myself a hardcore feminist but that was way extreme even for my standards! I'm guessing she must be some bra-burning, second wave feminist, although does this woman really ask every female on the subway if she's pregnant? I find that difficult to believe...

Here's an idea, let's castrate all the men! I'm serious. Never again would I be asked if I was pregnant!

Tale of Strange Part II
After this exchange, I move further into the train car. A bunch of people had made eyes with me to silently laugh (or smize à la Tyra Banks) about the absurd situation. One of them leaned in and whispered to me, "You don't look pregnant. She must have noticed your glow". Our conversation continued on from there and was particularly interesting because this person was from Australia. Red Coats are a dime a dozen in this city, but I have rarely ever met an Australian. Pretty much everything I know about Australia can be summed up by Men At Work's "I Come from a Land Down Under":

My one burning question - do Australians really eat vegemite? Okay, my second burning question - what is vegemite??

This person seemed rather interesting and we made plans to reconvene Friday night. WHICH THIS NAMELESS INDIVIDUAL FLAKED OUT ON (yeah, I'm calling you out :p). 

Tale of Strange Part III

Finally, I arrive at the job site. The apartment's resident is Italian. Very Italian. As in a flirty old man with rather limited English skills.

He was what I imagine Chef Boyardee to be like, just minus a couple of teeth

Despite his lack of English skills, this man was quite a talker. At one point he says something that I don't quite understand and I just nod and smile in response. Then he goes to the fridge and I hear him say "arancia" (orange in italian). I got all excited thinking that he was about to serve me that San Pellegrino knock-off of Orangina. He steps away from the fridge with a bottle of Tropicana. 

HEY! I'm eating for two here and my raging hormones require aranciata! STAT!

So even though I did not particularly want a glass of orange juice, I was stuck drinking it. While sipping, or I guess gulping–the man tells me to, "Slow down! Relax! You Americans do everything too fast!"–he then proceeds to discuss Italy's relationship with orange juice. Allegedly,  the world's best oranges are grown in Sicily, although it is rare to find real orange juice in Italy. If you do find it, the juice is very expensive. According to him, the Italian mafia owns all of the country's orange groves. Whenever anybody attempts to produce orange juice, the mafia quickly "teaches" them to find a new line of business. And now you know. #Learning! Should I have been honored by his gift of such a delicacy?

Tale of Strange Epilogue: Appreciate the little things in life while you can. Like orange juice. Because you never know when the mob is gonna ruin it for everybody.

Photo credits: pregnantchicken.com, DC Comics: Strange Adventures, phem.or, Men at Work, Chef Boyardee, San Pelligrino, The Simpsons

Do we need a Meeting with HR?

My company is far from the most politically correct of organizations. This being my first big girl job out of college, my feminist self was shocked at the rather serious amount of sexism that pervades the office arena. Here I was thinking that had all died with the seventies. Unfortunately not. For instance, a colleague repeatedly told me when I first started working here, to stop flirting with all my clients. Umm, excuse me? This is how I talk. This is what friendliness and cordiality look like, asshat. We had to have several sit down conversations about what is and is not okay to say to me. Problem has been (mostly) solved.  

I can show you what it looks like when I'm NOT friendly. And trust me, you won't mistake that for flirting!

This isn't to say that I am the pinnacle of professionalism. I'm probably the most inappropriate and obnoxious person at my office. I tell myself I'm obnoxious in a totally adorable way? The other day a package came for a coworker. I accept all packages and mail, (the UPS, FedEx, and USPS guys are totally my BFFs). Printed on the box was the phrase, "miscellaneous toys". I couldn't let that one pass without making a completely inappropriate announcement to the office. Apparently inside was a figurine of some Mets player. Allegedly. Although I think that actually might be the more embarrassing package of the two options!

"Due to anonymous complaints, we are required by law to host a sensitivity seminar at the office"

A friend/colleague called me out and said I was a total asshole in response to accidentally humiliating the "miscellaneous toys" guy. He also sent me the following picture:

Amirite?

At the office whenever my friends (or, let's be honest, mostly me) say something inappropriate, the typical response is, "do we need to have a meeting with HR?". Well joke's on you, suckers, we don't have an HR department! No sensitivity training for me! :)

 TGIF BITCHEZZZ 

I am told this literally every day

Photo Credits: someecards, Division of Labor, The Office