TOASTER TALES: An ongoing feature of Male Mannequin about the toaster at work.

Yesterday morning I was standing in front of the toaster, empty plate in hand, waiting for my toast.

Woman:"Is this thing going?"
Apparently my standing in front of the toaster with an empty plate, plus the heat and moving conveyer belt of the toaster were not enough to tip her off. I decided to be a bitch.

Me:"Is what 'thing' going"?

Woman:"The toaster."

Me:"Uh...yeah..."

Ok, this isn't much of a story, but I am fascinated by how vexed everyone at work is by the commerical toaster. More tales to come...

Last week the IKEA dresser I had orderd finally arrived, in three extremely heavy boxes, so I needed help getting them up to the apt. I asked the doorman, who loaded them onto a luggage cart, and we got in the elevator. He said something about the boxes being really heavy, and I nodded. His accent was so thick and indistinguisable that I had barely understood a word he'd said the entire time. So then he said something about "That's why you need muscles," pronouncing "muscles" like "mus-kulls," as if he were Popeye or something, and he proceeds to squeeze my upper arm. He squeezed my arm! I can't believe he touched me in the elevator all cramped up with boxes! No wonder our building can't keep a doorman to save it's life. I did not want to be in the apt. with him alone while he unloaded the boxes. He had suceeeded in creeping me out and I didn't trust him. So I stood in the doorway, keeping the door wide open the entire time. He said if I needed help putting the dresser together to call him and I said my BOYFRIEND would help me, thanks, and he just nodded his head saying God knows what and I gave him $5 and that was that. I hate needing help.