(Oprah.com) -- On any given day here at "O, The Oprah Magazine," there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 69 very talented, extremely detail oriented, high-energy, hardworking women and men all doing their jobs and doing them well. I love a few of them, I like a lot of them, I despise one of them. She is the Magneto to my Wolverine, the Saruman to my Frodo, the Dr. Octopus to my Spiderman. I call her The Tinkler.



It's a typical Tuesday; the office is humming along. I'm answering e-mails, writing cover lines, scheduling a dental appointment here, partial highlights there, kicking myself for not getting sushi at lunch. The sun is shining, the color printer is working -- my life is good.



I mosey into the ladies' room, glance at the mirror, remind myself that fluorescent lights make everyone look as if they're in the final stages of tuberculosis, and head for a stall. And then I see it: The seat, even the floor, is covered in little yellow droplets. The Tinkler strikes again.



To date, I have been able to deduce only four things about her:



1. She is female.



2. She attacks between the hours of 10 a.m. and 8 p.m.



3. She works alone.



4. She was raised in a barn.



I've been her victim more times than I can count, and it has turned me from a happy-go-lucky columnist into a bitter, paranoid germaphobe.



She has become the bane of my existence. We live in a world where our soldiers lack sufficient body armor, where Rupert Murdoch is blurring the line intended to keep the business and political interests of media owners from influencing the presentation of news, where the White House still refuses to respond to questions they promised to answer as soon as the Scooter Libby case was closed, where studies indicate that worrying you're going to get sick will actually get you sick -- and yet I am devoting an entire column to The Tinkler.



Any shrink worth his or her salt will tell you that it is a mistake to think of your colleagues as family. But what is a family if not a group of people who care about you and irritate you and show up for cake on your birthday and look at pictures of your kid even when they don't feel like it and think it wouldn't kill you to put on a little makeup and a pair of heels once in a while?



I've been earning a paycheck for 30 years. Whether rinsing conditioner off a Lhasa apso during my stint as shampoo girl at Mr. Whiskers Pet Boutique or breathing on the chicken breast I was about to serve a rude diner during my waitressing days, I've always found that the people I work with matter to me. Their moods, their opinions, their style influence my life. They've appreciated me, humiliated me, surprised me, and antagonized me. I've gotten flowers and I've gotten fired (and I'm pretty sure I didn't do anything to deserve either), but I've never experienced anything like The Tinkler.



"Dammit!" I say upon encountering her latest Jackson Pollock imitation. Pat, Suzan, and Valerie each come out of their stalls to see what's wrong. I point in horror. Pat groans, Suzan moans, Val throws up her hands in disgust, and we fall into silence.



Then I rally, "At least we know it's not one of us." But everybody else is a suspect. "It can't be Sudie," Suzan volunteers. My eyes narrow. "What are you basing this on?" I ask. "I've seen her," she answers, "she always heads straight for the paper seat protector." "And," Valerie adds, "we can cross Mamie off the list -- it happened twice while she was in Sweden."



Sixty seconds ago, the four of us were editors; now we are FBI profilers. "She probably likes
Who is called a cavewoman?
The Tinkler
question: Who is called a cavewoman?, answer: The Tinkler