There are perks to working in the same building as my aunt, but perhaps none so singular as my ingression to that twinkling beacon on the top floor known to the laymen as her desk.

I've mentioned the drugs before, haven't I? Brenda has a stockpile of drugs...everything over-the-counter-treatable from heartburn to headaches. One will find neither a shortage of chewing gum there—nor of lipstick, gloss, balm, and salve.

A lint roller, anti bacterial wipes, and deodorant are stocked in her wares, and I've been known in the past to steal a granola bar here and there. I use "steal" lightly, naturally...as when I met with her last week and admired her box of Lipton Herbal Peach Tea (Me: "Mmmm. I bet that's delicious!"), she said in her virus laced hoarseness, "I think it's yours." She chuckled, picking up a bottle of the Tylenol cold syrup I first romanced last January and have pledged faithfulness for all the viral attacks of my life. "And I'm finishing your cold medicine," she taunted. That's ok...I figure it's only fair. She has this splendid pair of minty-lime green sandals that clothe my feet like a dream...I used to borrow them all of the time, even when I wasn't wearing a speck of green, minty-lime or not. I wasn't so hot at asking first.

Today, frustratingly enough, I noticed a nail beginning to tear. I do not typically have a problem with taking a machete to my nails and hacking them down to size, but I have a wedding to attend this weekend and dude I totally know everyone is going to be staring at my right thumbnail. I quickly emailed Nick: "IS THERE SUPER GLUE AT HOME!?" His reply was sketchy and I considered my options when inspiration struck: Brenda.

I emailed my aunt, pleading for a rescue attempt. Finding her fully equipped with nail glue, I sped to her desk and nearly genuflected in my gratitude. Excitedly, I rushed back to my desk and contacted Nick to relay the continuation and subsequent conclusion of my saga—because he has nothing better to do during the day then listen to his girlfriend get all upset over a broken nail. Like, duh.

In his reply, he seemed to understand the extent of my aunt's stock, and even went so far as to inquire what she didn't have stocked at her desk. I was forced to reply—as it is a glaring oversight on her part that I have noted many a late Friday afternoon at work—, "Beer, sadly enough."