Sunday, September 13, 2009

Work my fingers to the bone and what do I get? Bony fingers

posted Fri, 30 Jul 2004

I just had to clean the microwave in the break room here at work. Well, I guess I didn’t have to do it, but it was filthy and I was about to warm my lunch and I didn’t want to use a dirty microwave. But the whole time I was cleaning it, I was wondering why the person who had – apparently – melted cheese and other foods that get hard right on the turntable hadn’t cleaned it when he was through. Or when she was through. Probably a she – there are way more of them on my floor than there are hes – and the hes usually don’t bring lunch.

The point is – what is it with these people who make a mess in the common areas and then leave it? Don’t they have any home training? It’s not like the people who work here probably grew up in homes with maid service (those are the private school girls who swim at my gym and boy does it show). And it’s not like they have maids at home right now. Is it so damn hard to clean up after yourself?

I don’t drink coffee, so I don’t keep up with the coffee sagas of who should make the next pot, but I do see the aftermath: those who put an empty pot back onto the hot burner so that all the moisture boils away and you’re left with nothing but a stinky burnt offering, those who spill coffee grounds all over the counter and don’t wipe them up, those who leave their coffee stirrers on the counter rather than throwing them into the trash.

I would like to blame this all on the men, but I cannot. As I said, there just aren’t that many of them. My ‘A’ in probability and statistics gives me the authority to say that it is highly likely that a woman or women are the culprits here. Maybe a hidden camera to track the transgressors might be appropriate.

I will also say this: whose stupid idea was it when designing this building (it is new – designed just for my company) not to put garbage disposals or at the least drain traps in the sinks in the breakrooms? Let’s see: there is a fridge, an ice machine, a coffeemaker, and a microwave in our breakroom. Did they think that maybe people might be storing and preparing food there? Did it occur to them that maybe, just maybe, people might be rinsing dirty dishes in the sink? Guess what happens if you wash food down a sink with no drain trap? Yes! It gets STUCK!!!

They made sure to have everything be wheelchair accessible, which I don’t mind because my friend Larry is in a wheelchair and I want him to be able to get coffee or whatever he wants. They made sure to put the badge scanners not only at the main entrance but also in the elevators that you can’t even get to without passing through the main entrance and its associated scanners. (I guess if you managed to sneak past the first scanners and the 90-lb guard, they’d catch you in the elevator. This would all make more sense if we were a tremendously profitable company that had secrets worth stealing. But we are not.) They made sure to put TVs in each elevator lobby on each floor so they could broadcast company news 24/7.

But they don’t put draintraps in the sinks! Sheesh.

In other news: I feel a moral obligation – well, maybe not moral – maybe more just a good citizen obligation – to try the new Edy’s ice cream flavor: Elvis All Shook Up. It would be a sacrifice to force myself to swallow the mixture of “rich chocolate ice cream and swirled in marshmallow, caramel, and chocolaty coated peanuts” but I do these things so you do not have to. No need to thank me. That’s just the kind of person I am.

We are approaching ‘dead Elvis’ week here – a week marked by all sorts of celebrations, including the Elvis 5K (where some people run in full Elvis costume), the Dead Elvis ball (you’re supposed to wear polyester, apparently), and of course the candlelight vigil. Elvis impersonators abound here that week. In the airport, they even give impromptu performances. One of my favorites was the grown Elvis with a baby Elvis – a toddler in an Elvis jumpsuit and glasses. I haven’t seen the latino Elvis, but I like the name: El Vez.

My friend Leigh and her husband are planning a white trash (maybe they called it trailer trash) party for that week. Planned appetizers (I was going to put “hors d’ouvres” but spellcheck is questioning me but won’t give me the proper spelling) include Kraft singles on white bread, jello salads (which are normal food as far as I am concerned) and more white bread. More details as this story develops.

Harpo and I fly to Colorado tomorrow. I hope. He is stuck in Atlanta right now trying to get home. He went to Florida to see his mom and also to see Kristina, the daughter of his former girlfriend. He and Kristina’s mom were together for seven years, starting when Kristina was two. Kristina’s father has never been a part of her life, so Harpo is the only dad she has ever known. She is now 15. Harpo has sent her letters and emails over the years, but gotten no response. He finally called a few months ago. She had never gotten the stuff from him but was thrilled to hear from him. This is something I really like about him – that he still loves Kristina and wants to be in her life even though he’s not with her mom any more.

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