Workplace Restroom Etiquette: You’re Doin’ It Wrong

Hey there, lady with whom I work.  You are thoroughly disgusting.  Just sayin’.

It’s not your incessant humming while in the stall next to me.  It’s not the endless fountain of noises that come out of your body.  It’s not the fact that you want to strike up a conversation between straining.

It’s not any of that.

It’s actually ALL of it combined, because these nuggets of joy take place on a daily basis.  How do I possibly go about finding a time when you are not in the restroom?  Apparently it is impossible, as you are always there.  I am not one to criticize the situation goin’ on in your bowels, as Lord knows I have my own set of issues – but I do not advertise them loudly whilst attempting to take care of business.  I wish you would kindly return the courtesy.

But no.  That’s too much to ask, evidently.  What you fail to comprehend is the simple fact that what I am asking is not completely unattainable for you.

1) Walk in the restroom.
2) Shut the fuck up.
3) Do your thing quietly and respect the flush.
4) Wash your hands, please.
5) Get the fuck out.

It’s that easy.

And yet, here you are today, barreling toward the restroom door WITH AN OPEN GRANOLA BAR in your hand.  You are chewing.  Which leads me to believe that you are taking it with y…oh, I’m just giving the fuck up.

Today is the Day I Might Kill the Receptionist

…was I so angry this morning upon walking in to see her horribly vapid face that I forgot the Sweet n’ Low in my coffee?  And why the fuck is my boss not responding to my “Spicy Hot V8 Emergency” email request?  Unbelievable.

Look, I usually don’t act quite this indignant.  I assure you, however, THIS LADY IS INSANE.  She is a shrill ridiculous harpy that somehow fills me with venom at the sound of her voice.  She squeals out of joy or pain or if she makes a whoopsie.  She is unable to give people directions, even though she has worked here for 11 years.  She confuses “Bryan” with “Brandon” and refuses to actually look at a directory in order to pronounce names correctly.  These drawbacks, in my opinion, make her a terrible receptionist.
I took a picture with her in it at a company function one year.  She was furious and told me to delete the picture, which I did.  She has not spoken to me for 2 years. She has had open screaming matches with her adult children IN THE LOBBY.  These children that she is apparently so fond of receive a phone call from her every morning upon her arrival at her desk, whereupon she asks them if they are going to have a wonderful day.  I can only imagine what goes on in the poor grown child’s head: “Sure Mom, my day has started out miraculously just because you’ve called.”  I was getting coffee one morning when I overheard her tell one of the kids, “Don’t let anyone take your joy.”  Whatever that means, I am pretty certain she is the #1 source of joy drainage in their lives.

So, Dear Lord, Dear Baby Jesus in the Sky that Makes the Magic Happen and Makes Food Grow and is Somehow Watching Over Everything We Do, please avert your sweet Baby Jesus Eyes while I more than likely throttle this woman directly on top of the granite reception area in our lobby and beat her senseless with either the handset or her time/date stamp.  When I am done, I will puncture her neck a la Godfather III with her glasses, and cover her in Styrofoam coffee cups.

Sorry for the ultraviolence, Oh Holy Ghost and Baby J, but it’s been a long morning, I need more coffee and my contacts are making me want to throw up.  So really, Hosanna, in all your forms, I beg for your all-forgiving mercy.

Bitch, don’t you page me one more time.