On public restrooms:
There's that cutesy expression, "If you sprinkle when you tinkle please be neat and wipe the seat." I vaguely recall the first time I saw that message taped on the door to a bathroom stall. I thought it was short 'n sweet enough even though I couldn't imagine women would pee on a seat and just walk away. However, this was before I realized my mama raised only two children (really more than that, but not nearly enough as it turns out) who'd have the decency to clean up after themselves. Period. Not just in the bathroom, but in all matters of one's home, in public, in personal relationships and perhaps most importantly (for the purpose of this post at least) in work environments.
On my current job I am subjected to one of the funkiest, stank-nastiest ladies' rooms in corporate America. I push through the doors like a surgeon because they are marred with icky brown handprints that can't be bleached off (I've tried), and my carbon footprint is Bigfoot's size due to the number of paper towels I consume to prevent from grasping the handles on my way out. The soap in there is like placebo soap: it lathers and foams and has a smell, but it doesn't actually remove a pen mark or BBQ sauce around my nails or eliminate the smell of the hoagie I ate for lunch three hours earlier. There are TWO automatic air fresheners and yet I can count on one hand the number of times in more than three years when I've walked in there without immediately face-diving into my bosom and shirt while shrieking to myself, "MAN DOWN! INCOMING! NAPALM! COVER! COVER!"
I understand that nature calls collect sometimes, but there are a few people who I guess just feel so at home here that the 1st floor loo is just where they handle all their bidness each and every day. (I have aseparate theory that they're all the sorts of girls who have deceived themselves into believing their husbands don't think they poo or pass gas.)
I sit next to the bathroom, and it's with a mixture of both fortune and misfortune that I now know if certain girls go in there how long I'll need to wait until I should venture in (or go to the 2nd floor). I've also armed myself with those travel sized cans of Lysol and Febreeze and am not opposed to dabbing the fragrant Bath & Body lotion on the insides of my nostrils.
You'd think that inhaling poo fumes would be bad enough, but you would be wrong. I reckon certain girls don't think stinkin' up the joint provides us with enough of a hint so sometimes they leave the toilet unflushed or worse, they leave the butt paper (i.e., toilet seat cover) on the seat for you. You know, just so you're aware. A potty FYI if you will. We have the automatic-flushing toilets with sensors that arguably have cataracts, but even still the leaving behind of the butt paper is my ULTIMATE pet peeve because I just can't understand it. It is the loudest apparatus I've ever encountered; there's no way I'd not realize that I'd left that behind (PUN point!). It's also soluable (obviously) so it's not like the toilet bowl has a hand that reaches up and pulls the paper down with it. Plus the stall is not so huge (and no girl is that skinny) that you can stand up, fasten your clothing, open the door and walk out without hearing whether the toilet had flushed. It's both rude and crude, which has led me to this:
If your daily deposit just cannot be deterred,
Please be kind and clean and flush your turd.
When nature calls and there can be no denying,
A courtesy spray 'n flush will keep the rest of us from cryin'.
There are others, but even I have my TMI limits.
On Inboxes:
I'm just sayin' - for the nthousandth time, I know - that inboxes exist for a reason.
I don't have anything on my desk that doesn't serve a purpose. If my keyboard could talk it would tell you, "Nuh unh! Don't be puttin' papers on me. I don't do papers. Unless we're in the middle of a Mavis Beacon typing test there ain't no reason for me to be covered by no papers. I'll tell the printer to keep an eye out for you and yo' papers. How 'bout that?"
My chair would say, "Gee. This sure is a light-weighted ass we've got here. There's no way whatever this is should be on me. Pooey!" And it would spit it out into the trashcan sitting nearby.
That would be justice.
On Unprofessionalism (Or, This Crap Just Annoys the Begeezus Out Of Me):
Men. The urinal shouldn't still be flushing as you exit the bathroom tucking your shirt 'n stuff back into your pants. I'm just sayin'. Your hands. HINT. They're nasty. Which means you shouldn't be jamming your entire forearm into the bag of cookies/chips that anyone else who's not interested in licking your ass might want to eat.
Running in the halls. Why are people still thinking this is okay? Did John Mayer give some kind of for-life hall pass that allows this? Can you not still hear [insert meanest elementary school teacher's name - MRS. FOSTER - here] screaming at you threatening to take away your recess?
Personal space is personal for a reason. Did I offer to share my personal pan pizza with you? No. Because it's personal, i.e. mine. Back the eff up.
Continuing to CC erry-damn-body on e-mails. I get why the CC feature is used when folks have a question; it's a great way to figure out who should actually handle your question. However, once you've figured this out it'd be really great if you'd just e-mail that one person and leave the other 87 of us out of your extraneous-punctuation-ridden conversation about how you need to do your job.