I swear, I am not passive-aggressive. I think passive-aggression is the responsible for much of what occurs at the less important end of the wide spectrum of evil. The less apocalyptic end, far away from "mortal sin."

Honestly, I am too wishy-washy and stubbornly naive a person to believe in evil, at all, partly because it's something best described in sort of a biblical mindset which I don't have. But, for the sake of argument, let's pretend I do share a belief in the Judeo-Christian definition of evil, and that there is some divine spectrum which determines the difference between "kind of evil -- spend time in limbo before earning your get-out-of-jail-free card" and "really frickin' evil -- descend directly to hell, do not pass 'Go,' do not collect $200."

Now that I've beaten that into the ground with some really crappy and inconsistent analogies, could you give me a moment? I need to consult my stone tablets of Proclamation Against the Rather Evil.

Ahhh, yes. Here it is. "Passive Aggression." Tablet VIII. The lost vice.

As it was written,

"Passive-aggression begets passive-aggression, which begets pissiness, which begets bitchiness, which begets unspoken resentment, which begets ill will, which begets mayhem and war and rape and pillaging and famine and all things bad."

What? So sayeth the tablets. I wouldn't make this up.

Right. So, I work with a woman we'll call Mary, who is sweet as pie. She sends smiley faces in her interoffice emails and and tells me to "have a blessed day." She has a gigantic ceramic coffee mug with rose-colored bas-relief hearts all over it. She calls me "sweetie," she squinches her nose and closes her eyes when she smiles. She tells me I have pretty eyes. Some days, it's all I can do to restrain myself from disemboweling her with my letter opener.

Oh, shoot. I think I've lost track of which one of us is passive-aggressive. Bah. Anyway ...

Despite all her "Jesus Loves My Son's Soccer Team" placards and her calendar of inspirational quotes, I'm not sure I trust Mary. I don't think I've ever seen her move her jaw when she talks, and that makes me suspicious. Is she a puppet? An android? What would happen if I "accidentally" doused her with water one day while trying to wash out the coffee pot? Would she melt? Short-circuit? Would I cause her tempera topcoat to run into her comfy jogging shoes?

I think our Mary has an agenda. I think she's sneaky. Everything she says is uttered in a legato whisper, which really makes my hair stand on end. I hate when people whisper unnecessarily, and usually respond to their whispers by being inappropriately loud, like some kind of deaf hillbilly.

Here's a (slightly hyperbolic) example of the conversation that takes place over the M&M bowl on my desk:

Mary: (whispered) "Kelly ..."

Me: (inappropriately loud) "MARY! HOW ARE YA?! C'MON IN!"

Mary: (w) "Can I have some chocolate ... ?"

Me: (i-l) "SURE THING, MARY! LIKE I TELL YOU EVERY DAY, IT'S THERE FOR THE TAKING!"

Mary: (w) "I know, I just don't like to take it without asking. I feel bad."

Me: (i-l) "DON'T FEEL BAD. TAKE A HANDFUL. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD."

Mary: (w) "I feeeeeel baaaaaddd. Thannnkkksssss."

Every damn day, people. Oh my, how I hate that ritual.

Mary is meek with all of her requests, but her timourousness drips with an insidious need for control. Speak up, Mary. I'm not a mind-reader, nor am I a lip-reader. Grow a pair or get out, unless you want to see your small intestine dangling from the end of my blunt and crooked envelope-slicer. I don't have time for these holier-than-thou guilt trips.

OK, that's a flagrant lie. I absolutely have time for holier-than-thou guilt trips. I have mastered the ability to spread over the course of an 8-hour work day the mere 45 minutes of actual hands-on work my job usually requires. Maybe I deserve a little irrational annoyance. It's attitude karma.

Sorry, folks. You caught me on an off day. Truth to tell, Mary really is a genuinely sweet person, and I there's no good reason why she should piss me off so much. Other than the whispering, of course. And the jaw thing. Oh, and the fact that she's controlled by strings.

Wow, that was mean. I fear I may have become a shameless, audience-pandering, diaryland whore. I fear even more, that I may love it.

A cool thing about my office:

There is an enourmous, winking, Santa head hanging high up on the glass door of my office suite. It happens to be at the eye level of our tallest, skinniest, baldest accountant, who reminds me of a human cotton swab. Subsequently, when he approaches the door, his head is obscured by the Santa portrait, and it looks like Santa is coming to visit me after dropping about 75 pounds and exchanging his red flannel suit for a denim Polo shirt and a pair of Gap khakis.

Not only for that reason, I think Cotton Swab is my favorite accountant. He came in to grab some mini candy bars the other day, looked at the little Snickerses in his hand, looked up at me, smiled, and said, "Fun sized! They're fun!" I replied, "Yay!", and he walked away. It made my day.

Another cool thing about my office:

In most offices buildings, mine included, there can oft be found plates of cookies or bowls of pretzels that are free for the taking. In my office, next to these yummy sundries, you will likely also find a terra cotta pot filled with brilliantly colored chili peppers. I can only assume that people do eat them, because the number dwindles.

Yet another cool thing about my office:

There is a mural featuring kids' paintings in one of our hallways. I may be the only one to have noticed this, but part of the mural appears to be a full-bodied, Highlights-esque rendition of a very bare-breasted Carmen Miranda. She's got a colorful skirt, produce-piled hat, kid-drawn and rake-like hands, and round, gloriously be-nippled bosoms.

I suppose they are an easy part of the anatomy to draw, perhaps due to the fact that they're the first ones with which we become closely acquainted as infants. You're born, and before you even know you have hands, some woman's tit is in your face. Stands to reason that you've studied the form by the time you learn to draw.

One more cool thing about my office:

Rico, my Main Maintenance Man. He is a doll. Big, barrell chested man with an enormous smile who calls me "Boo" and can always read my mood.

"I gotta make sure you OK, Boo," he says, "I gotta take care my Boo. Anything's wrong, you just tell Rico, and he'll fix it for you."

Rico is never passive-aggressive. He's sometimes unintelligible, because he mumbles, but he's never passive-aggressive.

In other news, the mundanity of my recent dreams are making me concerned for the health of my imagination. The other day, I dreamt I went to the store to buy strawberry jelly, only to discover upon returning home that -- gasp! -- I already had a full jar in my refrigerator!

Dream interpretation: I eat too much jelly? I buy too much jelly, and should share it with others? I need to lay off the jelly and go outside?

In another dream, I was eating cheese in my apartment. Know what's weird? The next day, I ate cheese in my apartment! Man, that is so weird. I'm totally clairvoyant. Move over, Miss Cleo.

Dream interpretation: I seek aged and cultured food-products, indicating a need for more culture and maturity in my life? I am repressing a fear of calcium-deficit-induced osteoperosis, which is, in turn, a fear of old age? I wish to be neutral and peaceful, like the Swiss?

A little tidbit: I've been informed by numerous roommates that I often laugh in my sleep; sometimes giggles, sometimes full-out belly guffaws. I'm sure I'm doing an REM recount of all the delightful and witty things I've said that day. That, or I'm losing my mind.

Sometimes, my wisdom and insight overwhelm me so much, all I can do is suck my thumb.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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