A Case of Mistaken Identity

Ever have one of those days where everything goes wrong? Where you oversleep and miss breakfast? Where you’re late for work and are on the boss’s bad side? For the third time in a week? I watched a day like that unfold, but not from a safe enough distance.

I swear it wasn’t me. If it had been me, you would never be reading this. I was an accomplice of sorts, but I didn’t start the whole mess. Please believe me.

I’d like to introduce you to my co-worker, Stephanie. She and I shared an office a few years ago. Names have been changed to protect the innocent, or in this case the not proven guilty. Stephanie was a sweetheart, though maybe a little flighty. She meant well, and she tried hard, but our boss was not her biggest fan. Stephanie was the one who showed up late at least a couple of days a week because her car wouldn’t start, and she had been sent home a couple of times for Dress Code Enforcement, but she never did anything really bad. Except for once.

I remember her dashing into the office, late and breathless. I don’t remember what the excuse was. I do remember that she was complaining because she missed breakfast, and she’d had to pack one. She’d have to be super sneaky because we weren’t supposed to eat at our desks, and our boss was just around the corner. I was busy with my own stuff, so I tuned her out. Until…

“Oh, my gosh! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!”

Considering the source, that could mean anything from “I just sawed off my leg and fed it to a shark,” to “My roommate ate all my Captain Crunch,” so I still didn’t pay her any mind. I think it was the frantic whispered swearing that finally made me look up from my reports.

Stephanie’s eyes were as big as grapefruits, her face bloodless and pale. “I am so fired” was all she could say.  And she was right. Violation #346 sat right there on her desk.

On her way out of the house a few minutes earlier, she had reached into the refrigerator for this:

Refreshing! Delicious! Orange juice!

But sitting on her desk was this:

MMM. Tastes like hops. And unemployment.

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Yeah, that. And did I mention that we worked in a preschool? A federally funded preschool with rather a poor view on its employees consuming alcohol for breakfast? With a boss sitting just around the corner?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or pretend I didn’t know her. That’s not true. I laughed. Quite a bit, actually. And then I got worried because though our boss’s sense of humor had been surgically removed years before, she was pretty darned good at sniffing out shenanigans. We heard her coming down the hall.

I like to think of myself as a quick thinker, but honestly, the Three Stooges would have handled the situation with more aplomb than Stephanie and I did.

Given that Boss Lady lacked  mind-reading talent and the ability to see through walls, we could have:

a) stuffed the can in a desk drawer until Boss Lady went to the bathroom and then taken it to the dumpster

b) put it back in the bag and walked it to the dumpster

c) hidden it in a purse or brief case

d) dropped it into a garbage can and covered it with, well, garbage

Here’s what we did instead:

She freaked out and threw it to me like it was on fire. I threw it back at her like I didn’t want to be on fire. Or fired. She fumbled and dropped it on the floor, then accidentally kicked it. I grabbed it and pushed it into her hands, she thrust it back at me. I was quitting anyway, so couldn’t I just take one for the team? Finally, I tucked the thing into my bra (don’t ask) and walked very carefully outside and tossed it in the dumpster.

Never let it be said that I don’t work well under pressure.

 

There May Be Worse Jobs Than Yours

Because I think I’ve found one.

A friend and I took our kids to a municipal pool this summer. It’s the pool in the little town I grew up in. When I was a kid, I thought it was as big as an entire ocean. As adults, sometimes we find that the giants of our childhood have shrunk. Not this pool. It’s just as big now as it was to my child’s eye. Maybe bigger, since I’m now responsible for keeping three kids above the water’s surface. Big job, right?

Oh, speaking of big jobs. Some kid did one. I mean, I hope it was a kid. We were all paddling happily about, when suddenly the lifeguards were rushing us out of the water like someone had spotted Jaws. Code brown, people! This is not a drill!  As per health code, we were beached for sixty minutes, which was annoying. But it could have been worse.

My friend and I were not responsible for finding the floater. Which sadly for the lifeguard involved, turned out to be a sinker. Imagine it. One minute you’re all Baywatch with your rescue board and some mad CPR skills, the next you’re the chump with a haz-mat suit and a fishnet. And it’s a big pool.

Seriously. Hazmat suit. Not kidding. I’d want one, too.

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If that’s not you in the picture, go hug your boss.

 

The Post Where I Think I Failed a Drug Screen

As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, I’m branching out a little from stay-at-home motherhood. I got a fun little part time job a couple of weeks ago, and last week I got another. One small hurdle. The second job requires a drug screen.

I didn’t bat an eyelash when I was told I’d need to trip off down the road to go pee in a cup. I don’t do illicit drugs, and I drink a lot of water, so I was good to go all around. Should have been a piece of cake, right? Wrong.

It’s been awhile since I’ve done a drug screen. Let me just say that criminals have gotten sneakier. The last time I jumped through this particular hoop, they handed me a container, I went in the bathroom, took care of business, passed (pardon the expression) the cup through a little door, and went on my merry way. Let’s just say that a great deal has changed.

I was told to put my personal effects in a drawer and empty my pockets, which was understandable. You never know when someone might sneak in a vial of urine in their purse. Movie theatres have this trouble all the time. Or maybe that’s just with candy. I forget. I dutifully tucked all my stuff away. I am now surprised that they didn’t check under my skirt to make sure I wasn’t hiding a small pee donor. Then the nice urine lady said “Now wash your hands with that soap.” That soap. There was only one kind of soap available, but it’s nice to feel like maybe I had options and was choosing the right one. It’s a test, after all, and I like passing tests.

While I pondered the significance of that particular soap, Nice Urine Lady disappeared. And then reappeared. And handed me a cup. “Fill it above the line and bring it back to me. Don’t flush the toilet. You have four minutes.” I hate working on a deadline, but I soldiered on to fill the cup.

The first thing that I noticed was the pretty blue water in the toilet. I wouldn’t mind having a car that color. The second thing I noticed was that the bathroom had no sink. At all. What kind of fun house bathroom was this? How’s a body to wash their hands before exiting the restroom if there’s no sink? I finished my duty (duty, people. Not doody. Just not.), and all I could think of was how much I did not want to touch that door handle. And that’s when I failed my drug screen. By flushing the toilet.

I challenge anyone in a public restroom who was not born in a barn to consciously walk away from their work and see how difficult it is. (Just make sure you walk back, though. To take care of things.) But Nice Urine Lady had told me not to flush. I remembered that as my foot came down on the flushy thing, but it was too late. In the split second that followed, I racked my brain for a way to bring it all back. I was unsuccessful. Everyone in the waiting room was treated to a “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” To catch the full impact, it must be read aloud with Doppler effect. Or just click this:

Cup in hand, I did the walk of shame back to Nice Urine Lady. “I guess you know what I did,” I muttered, shamefaced. She nodded. “Don’t worry. It happens all the time,” she said in a tone that implied that it never happens. Let me just say that being asked to pour my own pee-pee down a sink was not one of my finer moments. I picked up my purse and told her I’d be back next week. She shook her head. “If you leave now, we have to count that as a refusal to test.” Refusal to test. Awesome. So now Nice Urine Lady thinks I’ve got something to hide. I took a deep breath and resolved to see this thing through.

I may be limited in many regards, but by golly, I can pee in a cup. Nice Urine Lady gave me three hours to get the job done. Thirty minutes and a glass of water later, I was ready to try again. What can I say? I’m an overachiever.  ”Are you sure?” NUL asked. “Because if you can’t fill it past the sticker, you have to start over…” But sometimes you just have to believe in yourself.

In that 30 minutes, though, I learned some things. First off, the water was blue because Nice Urine Lady made it that way when she disappeared. I still don’t know why, other than it was to indicate if I poured something naughty into it. I have no idea what that substance would have been. Second, the rules say there can be no running water in the room, which explains the lack of sink. Again, I don’t know why. Because it interferes with magical energies? Third, there are some seriously sneaky people in this world if this many rules are needed.

It’s a crazy world we live in, people. A crazy world.

 

 

All-Purpose, Handy Excuse #457

Why I was late for work:

What could I do, considering the circumstances?  I’m sure you understand.

 

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There was this snake, see.

This excuse is 87% guaranteed to get you out of trouble, provided that you have an 8-foot boa constrictor to begin with. If you don’t have one, get one, or plan to be on time for the rest of your career.

disclaimer: It’s only guaranteed 87% because at least 13% of the population isn’t afraid of snakes. And that’s a number I totally pulled out of thin air. I can pull other things out of thin air, too. Mostly excuses.

 

 

Jobs I Would Never Want

As Squish gets older, I find myself contemplating what my next career move will be. Will I be a full-time writer? That actually gets paid regularly? Do I pursue something at the zoo for fun? I’m not sure yet. But I do know that there are some jobs I hope I’m never forced into.

1) Barista at Starbucks – I once took my coffee cup Edward to Starbucks. As I handed him over, the guy behind the counter looked inside and said with heartbreaking sincerity “Thank you so much for bringing it in clean!” I don’t want to know what he was expecting to see.

2) Children’s hair stylist – I don’t know how they do it. It takes me four days to get from this:

A little shaggy, yes?

To this:

Blame the caffeine in my bloodstream or the bounciness of a three-year-old boy, but every time, he ends up nearly losing an ear. It’s bad enough when it’s my own kid. I can’t imagine gouging a stranger’s child. Because I would still expect a tip.

3) Any kind of costume character - especially the ones that stand on the street corner and wave to people. There’s a business who does tax prep in my area that has someone on the corner dressed as the Statue of Liberty. Rain or shine. Because nothing says America like being squeezed for your hard-earned bucks by the IRS? The worst I ever saw was a poor guy dressed like a mattress. I am sure there have been a few misunderstandings.

 4) Janitor at Wal-mart – I have been in lots of soulless big-box stores, and I’m not sure what makes Wally-world so very special in this way, but on any given day, I’ll tip the doorman if any of the toilets are flushed. Raised in a barn? Go do your dirty business at Wal-mart.

5) Taster in a fast-food test kitchen – because if a taco with a shell made entirely of Doritos actually made it to market,  I really don’t want to know about the stuff that didn’t.  I’m pretty sure it’s nothing I’d want to eat.  Although if Marble Slab Creamery needs a taste-tester, they need only ask.

6) Electronics store employee – on Black Friday. I hope they provide decent life-insurance policies. I think I would rather poke rabid squirrels with sticks than deal with bargain-maddened shoppers.

7) Party host at Chuck E. Cheese – Unrestrained kids on a caffeine/sugar buzz. That I’m sort of responsible for. Where do I sign up?

 

It’s Good Work If You Can Get It

I am the queen of creative employment. I’ve have managed to turn some pretty unique hobbies into (legal and moral) employment opportunities. And now I’ve got hit the big one. I’ve discovered my calling in answering nature’s call. That’s right. I’m going to be a restroom critique.

Don’t laugh. It’s a worthy and under appreciated profession. Google the words “restroom critic,” and you’ll come up with nothing. Well, not nothing. It’s Google, after all. If you’re looking for critique of some fantasy football (yeah, THAT’S useful), you’re all set. But if you’re looking for someone to tell you if your business’ sandbox is,shall we say, up to scratch, you’re out of luck. Until now.

If you want your establishment to be voted #1 for #2, here’s what I’m looking for:

Size: When it comes to public restrooms, size does matter. I don’t want one of those one-stall wonders. Privacy is great and all, but a line for the ladies room can grow faster than bacteria on a toilet seat, meaning you’ve got to get your job done fast or risk ticking off a bunch of people. I don’t need that kind of pressure. I prefer at least five stalls. Ten is an even better number. Anything to increase the odds that there is someone slower than I am.

Toilet paper: Have enough to get the paperwork done. Invest in those fancy dispensers that contain more than one roll if you don’t get the chance to do a potty check often. I don’t like to do my business and then be left high and dry. Or not so dry, as the case may be. And forget the dispensers that stack the rolls one on top of the other. They have a serious design flaw. Even if you provide the good paper (and big, fat bonus points if you do), the weight of the top roll impedes the spin of the bottom roll, allowing it to dispense your paper one square at a time. One single, solitary square at a time. Are you getting me here?

No air toilets: I am all about being environmentally friendly, but air toilets are loud enough to make any toilet trainee swear off indoor plumbing for life.

Auto-flush: You gain big points if I don’t have to touch anything with my hands when my work is done. You will lose points if it refuses to flush until I am out the stall door. My business is my business, after all. Nor do I want it to flush as I enter the stall as if in greeting. I cannot do what I am about to do if the toilet is making small-talk.

Paper towels: Again, I try to be environmentally friendly, but there is nothing like a good paper towel with which to wipe my hands. And if I realize that my kid has a big booger hanging out of his face as we are washing hands, I don’t have to dash into a stall ahead of someone to get a paper product with which to remove it. Cutting lines in the ladies room can get you killed. And I have yet to meet an electric dryer that actually gets the job done. It’s why I have taken to wearing patterned skirts.

Cleanliness: It should go without saying, which is why I’m saying it. Please check your facility often enough that it stays sanitary. An occasional spritz of strawberry air freshener doesn’t cut it.

Proper Layout: If sinks are between the hand-drying opportunities and the door, you’re going to have a traffic flow problem. Proper flow should be your aim in a restroom. And everyone’s aim should be proper.

No urinals: It’s a ladies room, you know. Urinals are a bit awkward for gals to use.

I think that sums it up for now. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the movies and ordering the biggest soda I can find. It’s time for some market research.