Little Miss S and the Poo Parlor Division

Some people are so very obviously either unaware of their personal hygiene or just refuse to acknowledge it that it’s painful. I work with one of these people and let me tell you, knowing exactly who’s to blame does not make things any better.

Our bookkeeper, who has proved her competence on more than one occasion by screwing up my payroll and allowing her foster dog to poop in the break room (and not cleaning it up), takes a very cavalier attitude toward her bathroom dealings. It is actually much the same as the way she behaved toward her dog’s leavings, which really tells you a lot. It also tells you the reason she’s divorced. And if it does not, let me further elucidate.

I’m not going to lie to you; we have a codename for her. Trackstar. Anytime one of us sees her headed for the employee bathroom, we race to the wall chart with our fingers crossed, begging the chore gods to let it not be our turn to clean.

Not it, for the love of God, NOT IT.

And this is how I feel when it’s my turn. Which it wasn’t today, but I took over from my coworker because her whimpering was starting to make Dr. C think her hearing aid was experiencing feedback from getting too close to Dr. L’s hearing aid. No I do not work at a school for the Deaf, actually.

In any case, I gritted my teeth, put on two pairs of gloves and went in after waiting about an hour for the old priest and the young priest to show up. I took their non-arrival as a bad sign and went into the middle stall, which we also refer to as her office. She never goes in any other stall, and I suppose for that I should be grateful. Or something.

Look. We all experience what is known as a Code Brown. Every single one of us. Helper-Girl D at work has IBS, so she’s no stranger to the 50-meter dash, yet somehow the stall the rest of us use is damn near immaculate. We all poop. It happens. Sometimes it happens messily depending on the size and quantity of tacos you have for lunch. The real test is the maturity you display in dealing with the aftermath. You can either clean up after yourself fully, clean up after yourself half-assedly (snerk) or leave it for someone else to deal with.

Yes it was, kitty. Yes it was.

This is not an every-now-and-then occurrence, either. This happens numerous times on a daily basis, which means that she knows damn well what she’s doing and just doesn’t care. “It’s discourteous,” I said to Helper-Girl D, to which she replied “It’s disgusting.” “Well, yes,” I said, helping her off with her biohazard suit, “Dropping a Dirty Bomb in the ladies’ is disgusting, but it happens. It’s leaving it for us to clean up that is discourteous.”

The solution we’ve come up with is a super-easy one. All of us who are forced to clean up after her on a daily basis are going to sign a letter to our boss, who makes the cleaning schedules, saying that either she gets added to the cleaning rotation or takes her business elsewhere. This is a very adult way of dealing with things, we think. Less adult is the fact that when it’s her turn we are all going to Taco Bell.

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