Apparently my soup-ervisor needs one of those global satellite tracker things that people on house arrest wear on their ankles. Cow-orkers are constantly looking for her in her cube, and then when she's not there (as is often the case) they look over at me, like I'm the one with the satellite tracker thingee. Ack! The latest method employed to locate her is shouting her name. It doesn't work, trust me.
