About a month ago, the receptionist where I work told me that someone had shown up at my office suite the day before looking for me. The receptionist didn't get the guy's name or why he was there, only that he seemed to know me, my full name and some basic information about me. This may not seem like that big of a deal, but the fact is that no one I know knows where I work. It's not like I've made a big secret of it...I'm sure that a couple of friends could figure out where I work...it's just that I don't have friends hanging around the office and would be kind of put off if they showed up. That's why this situation gave me pause.

The more I thought about it, the more it freaked me out. Was someone trying to serve me? Was a long lost relative trying to find me? Was someone trying to kill me? I quickly go to extremes. Soon, something shiny caught my attention and I totally forgot about it.

Today I walked into my office and the receptionist reminded me of the mystery visitor. I immediately felt an ominous wave wash over me.

"He was a salesman," the receptionist continued, almost cursing himself for the rookie mistake. "He left you guys a package." I looked down and there was a pastry box.

I brought the box back to my office and read the letter attached to the box. He was peddling some payroll service that my job couldn't even use. I don't know how he tracked me down or learned that much about me or why he's being so insistent. On second thought, he is a salesman, so he's just doing what he does...but I can't stand salesmen.

Now before you go and call me "careerist," I have my reasons. Salesmen killed my father.

OK. That wasn't true...but they've been incredible pains in my ass over the years. When I waited tables back in the day, any time I had a table of salesmen, they tried to trip me up in anything I said so they could get free stuff. They just ensured getting an automatic tip added onto their bill. When I worked retail, salesmen were hired to motivate us to increase our sales. I had to sit through a day of lectures about how great of salesmen they were, after which I would go back to my own way of selling, because at the end of the day, no matter how much I sold, i was still 19 and only making $6 an hour, no matter how many extra socks and underwear I sold and as soon as I graduated there's no way in hell I was ever selling anything again.

When I left the world of customer service, I was convinced I would never have to deal with salesmen again...except maybe agents. But, oh, how naive I was.

Every couple of months a Michael Scott or a Dwight Schrute will show up and my boss just lets me deal with them...after the boss has already set up an appointment with them. We're pretty set in our ways, so there's little chance that we're going to change anything we use, but I have to sit through the appointment.

The appointments are usually set up for when I'm alone in the office so that I can use the big office with the wonderful panoramic views of Los Angeles behind me. I sit through the spiel, as Willy Loman lays out how great his widget or service is, but then I start to drift.

I start to think about how funny it is that I'm in that situation, like I'm a little kid holding the sword of Damocles over this old man. Then I think about how sad that is. Then I start to think about script and sketch stuff, an idea I need to tell Brian about, what I need to buy at the market. Then I realize I have no idea what the guy is talking about and I've just been nodding for ten minutes. Then I get in the giggle loop. I try to keep it in, but my lips are forced into a smirk and the salesmen starts looking at me like I'm an asshole, but continues with his pitch until he finally finishes and I promise to pass on the information to my boss. He leaves, then I dodge his follow-up phone calls. The system works.

So back to present day, I'm waiting for the inevitable meeting for the service we don't need...but with pastries. My boss told me I could have them. I told my boss there was no way in hell I would eat mystery pastries from this salesman who knows way too much about me for reasons I don't know. For all I know he could be lying about his service and conducting some sort of pastry based attack on random citizens (see? Going to extremes).

At this point we couldn't have the potentially deadly pastries in our office, so we did the only right thing...left them in the break room.