Reporter’s Notebook -- June Casagrande

Someone took my mayonnaise. I’m sure it was an accident -- that, after

the office Christmas party, someone just assumed it was a surplus jar and

took it home. But innocent intentions don’t make my turkey sandwich any

less dry.

I guess there’s no one to blame but myself. I’ve worked in enough

different offices to know the rules of the communal refrigerator. Some

things are going to disappear, others are going to take root, and,

invariably, someone is going to appoint herself chief of the refrigerator

police.

It’s a thankless job, but somebody’s got to do it. She sends out

myriad e-mails warning everyone in the office: “The refrigerator will be

cleaned out on Friday. Mark all your food with your name and the date or

it will be thrown out! Not even good Tupperware will be spared!�

To anyone who thinks it’s sexist of me to assume that the Cleaninator

is a woman, I pose this question: Ever seen a man in your office on his

knees with a scrubby sponge in one hand and bottle of Fantastik in the

other slopping 5-month-old chicken chow mein out of the crisper drawer? I

rest my case.

Often the Cleaninator will justify her indignation by sharing the

details of how she was traumatized by seeing a green fuzz-covered

container of what was once spaghetti or witnessing a 3-year-old cup of

yogurt come to life and let out a menacing growl.

Somehow, though, she never can bring herself to throw out the cans of

soda. They’re good forever, right?

Sodas are special. They possess a certain magic that works like a

siren song on anyone who opens the refrigerator door. They’re completely

anonymous. With the exception of the occasional renegade cans, there are

only a handful of different soda brands in any office refrigerator: two

types of cola, one brand of diet cola and the occasional lemon-lime. This

makes it conveniently impossible to prove their ownership. They could be

just about anyone’s. The inevitable group e-mails ranting “Someone stole

my Coke!� are hardly a disincentive for the thirsty thief. It’s the

perfect crime.

Cartons of coffee creamer, especially those fancy, flavored ones,

provide a similar temptation that proves none of us is as honest as we’d

like to believe. The owner won’t miss just a little splash of the Irish

cream flavor. No harm done if I just pour a drop of French vanilla into

my cup of the horrible brown liquid that management tells us is free

coffee. It seems perfectly justified.

I’m certain that my jar of mayo disappeared by the hand of such a

thief and not to the Cleaninator, because once it had disappeared, I

discovered behind it a quart of milk I bought in October.

Of course, in lamenting my lost condiment, I fell into the same trap

as every victim of public-refrigerator larceny. I became a cliche of

office politics by sending out my own series of e-mails.

I have observed over the years that there are three ways to approach

this. There’s the wisecracking messages -- either posted via group e-mail

or Scotch-taped to the refrigerator. There’s the scathing, unabashedly

angry response. Then there’s the wisecracking response that’s really just

a poorly veiled version of the scathing-rage response.

I usually opt for that last one.

Here’s what dozens of my co-workers heard from me.

“Who made off with my 32-ounce jar of mayonnaise? Perhaps someone

dangerously low on cholesterol? . . . Your identity and your motives are

unimportant to me. Just return the jar and no questions will be asked.�

Then, when pleas directed to the culprit failed, I tried to whip up a

mob rule mentality, turning worker against co-worker. I wrote: “Reward:

two dry slices of rye bread and a quarter pound of 2-day-old ham for

anyone who returns my mayo unharmed.�Still nothing.So now I’ve devised a

new approach: Broadcast the injustice to 70,000 Daily Pilot readers.

That’ll teach that rotten thief.

* June Casagrande covers Newport Beach. If you know where her mayo may

be, she may be reached at (949) 574-4232 or by e-mail at o7

[email protected] .