Friday, September 9, 2011

Feliz Cumpleanos to me....

Last Saturday, I turned 23 and was told to clean up human shit. Or rather, I sort of got pressured into volunteering myself to do the deed while working in the lowest echelons of the well-established beacon of suburban consumerism: Bullseye! (I don’t want to use its real name due to an irrational fear of a lawsuit?—so just think red concentric circles…) I guess my Virgoan nature kicked itself into overdrive that day; not only did I sort of play the martyr and earn myself a sympathy (birthday) card , but I begrudgingly acquiesced to my people-pleaser proclivity (with a fast, fun, and friendly attitude, no less! (Bullseye lingo)). Fret not, concerned reader! I was recompensed with $3.48 worth of Starbucks….. So an old man had gone all incontinent and dropped some brown on the bathroom floor (which in hindsight is super depressing—you know, underscoring our cyclical human nature as we regress to trouser-shitting baby-status even though we’re well past the age of 70.) With half an hour left in my shift (notice the ‘shit’ in ‘shift’?), I was told to perform a bathroom check-up to make sure everything was A.O.K. When I entered the bathroom, I immediately stepped in the putrid. Naturally, I swore loudly, ignoring those nagging scruples that would normally berate me to censure my voiced rage for fear of offending guests within earshot. Whatever. So with a shitted right foot, I hobbled back to guest services to obtain a plastic bag with which to act as a momentary barrier, all the while receiving many o’ perplexed stares. Upon returning, a geezer puttered out of the bathroom, who probably was the origin of all the dross. After cleaning up the mess, I checked the stalls to see if there was any more incriminating evidence only to behold a heavily soiled pair of old-man-granny-panties marinating contentedly in the toilet bowl. With a hard roll of the eyes and a quick, self-pitying “What the HELL did I do to piss off Karma??”, I lifted the (not-so-tighty and certainly not-so-whitey)  tighty-whities from their wicked broth and dumped the awful in a trashbag. After disposing of it all in the backroom, I returned only to see that another trashbag I had carried to the back (unsoiled, THANKYOUJESUS) had dripped the length of the floor. There was definitely some teeth grinding and rage induced eye-twitching. So I got some paper towels and drug them through the mess allllll the way down the lane of the store (with the help of another, danke shoen). Soooo how was my 23rd you may ask? Pritty shitty.


  1. Great training for your parents' incontinent years.

  2. Hey girl, you didn't tell me you had a blog, girl! Hate that green dress, girl!

    Have you read any Nicole Krauss? She's married to J-Safran Foer, and, unfortch, is usually overlooked because of it COMPLETELY unfairly. Ugh. J.S. Foer or J.S. Mill, amiright? Anyway, she wrote this one novel that you'd actually probs love and I should've told you to read it before now...The History of Love. And I thought of it because the main character (kind's a weird narrative structure, obvs, since she's one of those Brooklyn-literati-types, but it's not obnox)is this old man who goes out in public and intentionally makes an ass out of himself because he's terrified of dying on a day without having done something that someone remembers. Jeez, I made that grim, super-fast, didn't I?

    Also, mail that Starbucks up here if you're gonna be all ungrateful about it!