Thank you, Work.

Thank you, Work, for exposing me to new cultural experiences.

Annually, I am forced to go with my fellow coworkers and eat Thanksgiving lunch with the law firm downstairs. These are a different breed of lawyers than one would imagine. They are insanely obese. They are openly alcoholic. They are smokers. They dress wrong. They smell funny. I am thankful for nothing on this day.

On this special day, we surrender our lunch break, we trudge downstairs, and we merrily greet people we'd normally only have to smile at on the elevator. They proudly usher us into the room with the feast. There are at least 20 tin containers of unidentifiable casseroles that have been prepared at the various lawyers' homes. I do not allow myself to ponder upon the cleanliness of a 400 pound woman's kitchen. She can't possibly clean her knee pit, so how she could adequately clean her counters..never mind.

We hesitantly begin to fix our plate. Each dish contains a regular-sized plastic dinner spoon because, in the 30 years they've employed this tradition, no one has ever suggested they invest in serving spoons. I get the smallest portion possible - which is still like 50 spoonfuls - of the few dishes I recognize. I avoid any and all meat. And then comes the worst part.

Where do I sit? Which bizarre mix of people, whom I would never speak to in real life, must I be forced to share a room and meal for half an hour? Last year, I was crammed into the small break room with an eccentric old man and his wife, who referred to him as The Colonel. This year, there weren't enough seats. Freedom at last! We made our way to the front of the office to eat in peace. I was the last one about to take my seat, when I realized the 4 waiting room chairs had been filled. Then, Earl the Chain-smoker appeared and announced that two chairs had just opened in the break room, and he motioned for me to follow him. No! I almost escaped and now I am being taken away from the only people I know to go sit in the break room ALONE! This cannot be happening.

I follow Earl in disbelief and enter the break room that is partially filled with an enormous television. The smell of its inhabitants immediately overcomes me. This year I'll be sharing my lunch with a portly alcoholic, a bizarre-looking computer nerd type, and a 400 pound woman with 6 elbow rolls. How can I possibly eat macaroni while looking at your elbow rolls? This is cruel and unusual.

I scarf down my food in record time and make an excuse about having to get back to work. On the way out, I hear the usual..going so soon?...stay and have some dessert!...at least take some for later!...you're not going to try my pumpkin pie?? What is it with you people trying to force food on me? When I reach the elevator, I literally have to shake all over to rid myself of the awkwardness.

For the rest of the day, I have the warm fuzzy feeling of raging heartburn to remind me of the holiday cheer. Do these people actually use some sort of heartburn additive in their cooking? I do not experience this level of discomfort any other day of the year.

Lewis Will Die of Natural Causes

There is no chance that Lewis will ever be murdered, kidnapped, or have any other unfortunate encounter with a criminal.

Most of us fear being victims of crime, you know, late at night when we're home alone. After watching a scary movie. Or in those wee hours of the morning when your brain is in freak-out mode and you wonder why you walk from your car to your house without mace in your hand. But then we wake up, the fear drifts away, and we go about our normal day, not always looking over our shoulder or remembering to lock the car door.

But not Lewis.

I have previously discussed our elevator bell that chimes to announce someone's arrival. Most of us ignore it since reps come and go all day and the mail man comes in. But not Lewis. If there is a chime that is not immediatley followed by an announcement of one's presence and title, you will hear Lewis begin to mumble. "I guess this is some sort of axe murderer," she'll often say. Yes, Lewis. That is a plausible guess.

I was the first to arrive this morning, after Lewis - who always locks the elevator behind her. I unlocked the door and came in. Yet I was still greeted with a frantic "Hello??" I imagine that every morning when she hears the first bell ring, she thinks, "Maybe I didn't remember to lock it back. Maybe this will be THE morning when one of those homeless guys finally kills me."

Rest assured, Lewis. You are the last person who will ever be attacked. The rest of us dicey risk-takers who aren't sent into panic mode at the sound of a door bell will definitely go before you do.