Margaret’s Annie’s Parmesan and Something:
I can’t remember the full name and I was in a rush because I didn’t want to get caught drinking out of the bottle. It was really salty and way too white. It got on my shirt. I had to go into the weird shower bathroom and maneuver my neck area to get under the faucet. Not worth it. Not even for the health benefits.
The Stupid Lady from the Fourth Floor Corner Desk Who Always Makes Fun of Fat People’s Raspberry Low-Fat Vinaigrette:
I would eat all your salad dressing if it meant you were going to have a bad day but this shit was unpalatable. It tasted like the smell from the garbage when it leaks. The kind of garbage with both cat poop and hard boiled eggs. I still really dislike you for making me listen to a news story about animal violence. I threw your dressing out. You’re welcome.
Mitch’s Homemade Vinaigrette:
I know you made this at home. I would ask you how you got the vinegar and the oil to stay not-separated, but then you would know I stole some of your dressing. Seriously this one was a winner. Well-balanced – savory and sweet with maybe some garlic and lemon and spices. Thanks so much! I probably won’t get you back or help you move chairs when you ask for volunteers like every week, or tell you thanks in person, or share my food in return. Or anything.
Three Different People’s Ranch Dressing:
Is it that fucking hard to share ranch dressing? It’s the same brand even. I licked all the bottles out of spite.
Jeanie the Accountant’s Goddess Dressing in the Upstairs Fridge:
I’m coming for you. Strategically, the upstairs fridge is tricky when you are trying to steal salad dressing because it’s in a high-traffic area and the fridge door alarm starts beeping after like five seconds. But Jeanie has commented on my appearance and habit of forgetting to turn off the bathroom light a few too many times for me to not take it out passive-aggressively on you, my precious baby salad dressing who makes a normal salad an exciting meal. Tomorrow I am bringing a whole tub of greens and tomatoes and I plan to stay late. Super late. To be with you. Let’s be honest with ourselves, you don’t love Jeanie anyway. She only loves you for your low calories. She counts them like the accountant she is, measuring your math parts like a nurse taking your weight, reducing you to your boring chemical compounds. But you. are. so. much. more. than. that. She doesn’t respect your tasteful ambitions and the unpredictability of your experience. It’s up to you in the end, but if you want to be in my salad, secretly, between 4-5pm tomorrow night, meet me in the upstairs fridge area and I will appreciate you for who you really are.