So, I've had some random rage lately. It's not like I haven't always had rage, but ever since last weekend when Shark Bait forced me to watch the football game, and then I subsequently screamed at the TV like a mad woman, my rage seems to be on some sort of "slow leak" status that apparently flares up here and there. You know what makes it flare up? Everything? Well, yes, but you know what my hot buttons are? I'll tell you.
Bad drivers? It's been done. We all hate them. I've almost been crashed into twice this week. You could say I've lucked out. Look at me counting my mother trucking blessings.
FCD's, I've had more drama with fat control this week than Obama has had with heath care reform. I've had to seek refuge in the bathroom at least twice this week alone to remove a "foundation garment." I've walked back to my desk with the spandex blend in my hand acting like it's no big deal. My body is being a real bitch and is not taking this attempt at control the fat laying down, no, it's fighting back. It's like this years strain of the flu, it morphs and changes and gets meaner. Pretty soon, by current calculations, I will be full blown Stay Puffed Marshmallow man in no time.
Anyway, that brings me to the bathroom issue.
It's not bad enough that we have recently (within the last couple of months) found used undies and socks on the staircase, but the bathroom continues to be a constant drain on any belief that may still exist in my body that there is a shred of human decency left in this world. Now, I will say, no one has finger painted shit on the walls or taken a dump on the floor or played "magic lasso" with their tampon strings in a while. Those shenanigans have subsided. I am relieved of that. Stall number one, for the most part, seems to be an adequately safe place to whiz or poo. Even the fire hose vagina girl seems to have stopped spraying the seats. Stall number three, however, seems to have a frequent flyer that passes turds the size of a weiner dog and then uses enough toilet paper to make a queen-sized bed sheet. Look, I have a fat ass, but at the end of the day, when we compare body parts, I don't care of you are a size 4 or a size 24, your butthole is not the black hole of dark matter that requires that much toilet paper. It just doesn't. I don't care if somehow the poop shot out at a velocity that you were unprepared for and you became startled and slid off the seat. Still does not require that much TP to clean up the mess. You can't convince me of it. I mean, I don't need pictures or any sort of proof, but seriously, let's be realistic. If you are using that much, that means you are not done pooping and you need to wait until it's over. This isn't a grunt, wipe, repeat situation. If you are doing that, get help. I mean, not with your pooping, but psychologically. Help is available.
Yesterday, I had one of the supervisors send me an instant message, "So-and-so says it stinks in the women's bathroom." I respond, "Does she know people poop in there? What exactly should I do about it?" I just sat there in disbelief. Was it my job to run in with some Glade air freshener? Shortly thereafter, the stink reporter came to my desk and informed me it wasn't poop. It was like rotting fish. Okay, okay, this just entered a territory I was not prepared for. Look, I am not sending out an email to the floor asking women to please freshen up their girl parts because we have a fish stench in the "ladies" room. Sweet Jesus. She said it was so bad she was gagging and it was really, really bad. To appease her, I called and had the Selfie Janitor to go in and check the trash etc. If taking the trash out didn't do it, then we were going to need a vagina evacuation drill of some sort. I don't know what else to do. As luck would have it, the smell seemed to dissipate.
Today, I'm already on the edge, okay? New Boss even said, "you okay today?" I guess after drinking mudslides every night this past week to help me sleep and then challenging my therapist, The Rug Doctor, to a pony draw-off last night, I was feeling kind of weird about life. I even had someone looking for tools this week, and so, I was digging through my drawers and found a brand new hack saw. I had it sitting out on my desk still today as I hadn't put it away yet. New Boss asked what it was for. I told her I liked to put it up to my neck and see what it feels like to be that close to actually cutting. It comforts me. Freaks Stiletto Barbie out, but you know, not everyone shares in my moments of clarity.
Anyway, I went over to get the mail today, and there, inside the inbox are two huge packages that some schmuck left for me. It's safe to say, I probably over-reacted. Lost. My. Mind. I do letters, not packages. I do my own packages, but the masses, they do their own. I'm nobody's bitch (that's a lie, I'm everyone's bitch). I found the sender's name and stomped over to his desk. I was in the middle of chewing him out (also known as educating him on the correct process) when Loud Mouth comes over and interrupts, touches my shoulder and loudly tells me there is a problem in the bathroom. I whipped around on her, surely with flames in my eyes and said, "What makes you think I care about the bathroom? Why do people tell me this shit? I don't care! Deal with it!" She just laughed and said, "Because you seem to be the only one that gets shit done around here!" and then she walks away. She. Touched. Me. I was fuming inside, and frankly, on the outside. I turned my attention back to the package violator and said, "Look, because I adore you, I won't decapitate you and use your head as a bedpost, but please take those packages where they belong, please?"
I walked back over to my desk. I was sitting there thinking about how pissed I was. I sent the Building Dude an email asking him what the official process was with the bathrooms other than, "tell Cassondra." I was disappointed to get back a response saying tickets needed to be entered for all issues. Well, I'm the ticket bitch, so I guess nothing I can do.
About then, someone brought me these cut-out Seahawks hats. I gladly took them and started cutting on them. Cutting makes me happy. Just then, Queen of Purple People arrived to let me know there was a problem with stall three. I like QPP, but this, this was too much. She went on to tell me she was concerned someone might try and flush the already bursting toilet and cause a catastrophe. I said, "You know what I do when I see that? Do you? I say, 'Gross!' shut the door and use a different stall and MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE!!! Why can't other people do that?? Why?" QPP just smiled, "I don't know, but it's bad." Sigh.
You know, I don't know why she was worried about someone flushing it. I mean, I can barely get them to clean up after themselves, are you telling me suddenly someone is going to have initiative? No. Not a believable story.
Look, apparently, I'm screwed with this responsibility, but I beg you, unless there is a steaming pile of poo on the floor with a river running through it surrounded by what can only look like globs of snow on a mountain top, do not tell me, just figure that eventually the bathroom toilet crew will come and it will be okay. To date, the building has not been flooded from the third floor restroom. No one has been physically assaulted by shit zombies, so just go use a different floor, okay? OR, stop plugging the fucking toilet! How about that? Change your diet, drink enough water. Hydration is key to a healthy bowel movement. And, I had the ice machine/water maker fixed, so really, no excuses. Stop making the shitter full.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a mudslide waiting.
- The fucking mail at work and people's inability to address a mother trucking envelope. It's a basic M-F'ing skill, people.
- When people tell me about the bathroom conditions.
- Bad drivers.
- FCD's (Fat Controlling Devices)
Bad drivers? It's been done. We all hate them. I've almost been crashed into twice this week. You could say I've lucked out. Look at me counting my mother trucking blessings.
FCD's, I've had more drama with fat control this week than Obama has had with heath care reform. I've had to seek refuge in the bathroom at least twice this week alone to remove a "foundation garment." I've walked back to my desk with the spandex blend in my hand acting like it's no big deal. My body is being a real bitch and is not taking this attempt at control the fat laying down, no, it's fighting back. It's like this years strain of the flu, it morphs and changes and gets meaner. Pretty soon, by current calculations, I will be full blown Stay Puffed Marshmallow man in no time.
Anyway, that brings me to the bathroom issue.
It's not bad enough that we have recently (within the last couple of months) found used undies and socks on the staircase, but the bathroom continues to be a constant drain on any belief that may still exist in my body that there is a shred of human decency left in this world. Now, I will say, no one has finger painted shit on the walls or taken a dump on the floor or played "magic lasso" with their tampon strings in a while. Those shenanigans have subsided. I am relieved of that. Stall number one, for the most part, seems to be an adequately safe place to whiz or poo. Even the fire hose vagina girl seems to have stopped spraying the seats. Stall number three, however, seems to have a frequent flyer that passes turds the size of a weiner dog and then uses enough toilet paper to make a queen-sized bed sheet. Look, I have a fat ass, but at the end of the day, when we compare body parts, I don't care of you are a size 4 or a size 24, your butthole is not the black hole of dark matter that requires that much toilet paper. It just doesn't. I don't care if somehow the poop shot out at a velocity that you were unprepared for and you became startled and slid off the seat. Still does not require that much TP to clean up the mess. You can't convince me of it. I mean, I don't need pictures or any sort of proof, but seriously, let's be realistic. If you are using that much, that means you are not done pooping and you need to wait until it's over. This isn't a grunt, wipe, repeat situation. If you are doing that, get help. I mean, not with your pooping, but psychologically. Help is available.
Yesterday, I had one of the supervisors send me an instant message, "So-and-so says it stinks in the women's bathroom." I respond, "Does she know people poop in there? What exactly should I do about it?" I just sat there in disbelief. Was it my job to run in with some Glade air freshener? Shortly thereafter, the stink reporter came to my desk and informed me it wasn't poop. It was like rotting fish. Okay, okay, this just entered a territory I was not prepared for. Look, I am not sending out an email to the floor asking women to please freshen up their girl parts because we have a fish stench in the "ladies" room. Sweet Jesus. She said it was so bad she was gagging and it was really, really bad. To appease her, I called and had the Selfie Janitor to go in and check the trash etc. If taking the trash out didn't do it, then we were going to need a vagina evacuation drill of some sort. I don't know what else to do. As luck would have it, the smell seemed to dissipate.
Today, I'm already on the edge, okay? New Boss even said, "you okay today?" I guess after drinking mudslides every night this past week to help me sleep and then challenging my therapist, The Rug Doctor, to a pony draw-off last night, I was feeling kind of weird about life. I even had someone looking for tools this week, and so, I was digging through my drawers and found a brand new hack saw. I had it sitting out on my desk still today as I hadn't put it away yet. New Boss asked what it was for. I told her I liked to put it up to my neck and see what it feels like to be that close to actually cutting. It comforts me. Freaks Stiletto Barbie out, but you know, not everyone shares in my moments of clarity.
Anyway, I went over to get the mail today, and there, inside the inbox are two huge packages that some schmuck left for me. It's safe to say, I probably over-reacted. Lost. My. Mind. I do letters, not packages. I do my own packages, but the masses, they do their own. I'm nobody's bitch (that's a lie, I'm everyone's bitch). I found the sender's name and stomped over to his desk. I was in the middle of chewing him out (also known as educating him on the correct process) when Loud Mouth comes over and interrupts, touches my shoulder and loudly tells me there is a problem in the bathroom. I whipped around on her, surely with flames in my eyes and said, "What makes you think I care about the bathroom? Why do people tell me this shit? I don't care! Deal with it!" She just laughed and said, "Because you seem to be the only one that gets shit done around here!" and then she walks away. She. Touched. Me. I was fuming inside, and frankly, on the outside. I turned my attention back to the package violator and said, "Look, because I adore you, I won't decapitate you and use your head as a bedpost, but please take those packages where they belong, please?"
I walked back over to my desk. I was sitting there thinking about how pissed I was. I sent the Building Dude an email asking him what the official process was with the bathrooms other than, "tell Cassondra." I was disappointed to get back a response saying tickets needed to be entered for all issues. Well, I'm the ticket bitch, so I guess nothing I can do.
About then, someone brought me these cut-out Seahawks hats. I gladly took them and started cutting on them. Cutting makes me happy. Just then, Queen of Purple People arrived to let me know there was a problem with stall three. I like QPP, but this, this was too much. She went on to tell me she was concerned someone might try and flush the already bursting toilet and cause a catastrophe. I said, "You know what I do when I see that? Do you? I say, 'Gross!' shut the door and use a different stall and MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE!!! Why can't other people do that?? Why?" QPP just smiled, "I don't know, but it's bad." Sigh.
You know, I don't know why she was worried about someone flushing it. I mean, I can barely get them to clean up after themselves, are you telling me suddenly someone is going to have initiative? No. Not a believable story.
Look, apparently, I'm screwed with this responsibility, but I beg you, unless there is a steaming pile of poo on the floor with a river running through it surrounded by what can only look like globs of snow on a mountain top, do not tell me, just figure that eventually the bathroom toilet crew will come and it will be okay. To date, the building has not been flooded from the third floor restroom. No one has been physically assaulted by shit zombies, so just go use a different floor, okay? OR, stop plugging the fucking toilet! How about that? Change your diet, drink enough water. Hydration is key to a healthy bowel movement. And, I had the ice machine/water maker fixed, so really, no excuses. Stop making the shitter full.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a mudslide waiting.
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