November 16, 2010

Stealthy Poo Bombers

Today is a work from home day, which is always nice because:
1) I manage to accomplish more at home than I ever do at the office.  The early wake up, minus the time it takes to 'paint the barn door' as my dad says, minus commute time, minus long walk to bathroom, breakroom, etc.  I'm automatically working a hugely productive day;

2) I can wear my Pajama Jeans. Well, not really, because I don't have any. Yet.  But I am thinking of rush ordering along with my Snuggie; and

3) Avoiding the Poo Bomber at the office.  As previously posted, we have stealthy Poo Bomber in office. She hits the bathroom at 10:00 and 2:00, like clockwork. It's lethal.  Now, we have learned that her schedule does fluctuate, but there for a while, I could have set my clock by the smell.

So, I'm working this morning in my home office, which happens to be near my almost-two year old daughter's room. It's early, and our nanny hasn't woken her up yet.  I start to smell something.  Poo bomber baby!  She made a bomb so stinky that it filtered through the walls.  By text message, I confirmed with our nanny what I was smelling.  Yep, she replied, it was gigantic.  I could not escape.  Home or office or home office, I'm surrounded by it.  And really, I have been most of my adult life.

My first job out of undergraduate, I worked in an optical shop.  A customer would eat at McAlister's Deli next door and while eating his loaded baked potato and phily cheese steak, he would see our sign and decide, "hey, I need new glasses." So here he comes, sometimes with a nagging wife in tow, both rolling in all full from lunch and with their plastic McAlister's cups. Well, fifteen minutes after picking our his frames, I see a change in his demeanor, and he would ask for the bathroom.  I would point towards the back of the store and crumple my nose, knowing what was about to happen.  B-b-b-bomb.  And then I would be stuck with it.  New customers would come in and glare at me questioningly, like I made that stink.

At a summer clerkship, I worked in a closet near the bathroom.  Every morning, the same associate would arrive with his giant Starbucks.  Approximately twenty-five minutes later, he would bomb the bathroom right next to my "office."  He kept Car & Driver magazines under the sink in the bathroom, and I could hear everything.  Horrific.

And then another person  and yet another one of my jobs would bomb the teeny office... and then bomb it with air freshener.  The worst.  Poo scented fruit.

Today, someone from my current firm reported to me that we not only do we have Poo Bomber... but we also have Guest Poo Bombers (yes, plural!).

Apparently, three or four men from other floors in our building, now arrive like clockwork (one with a magazine(!)) to bomb our floor.   This is funny, because I always declared that our original Poo Bomber should simply go to another floor and take care of her business.  Then she would not screw up her co-workers' days. 

Well, these Guest Bomber dudes are doo-ing just that.  Only under this scenario, we are the "other" floor.

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