I just poured rubbing alcohol on an open wound (read: hangnail) and it burned like a mother fucker, but I did not care. I, infact, couldn't have cared less at that moment because I was in a mad dash to sanitize my desk.
Step back a second with me while I describe the scene to which I came to find at work tonight. A quiet night as far as C-shift is concerned. A hand-full of people including myself, working diligently in Data to the hum of printers and John Tesh. Doing what little data workers do so as not to receive bitchy, pointless, entirely round-about and unclear emails about petty things like the volume of individual radios in each cubicle.
Within moments of entering Data my cellphone was a buzzin' and I listened to my mother babble about something for a few minutes on the work phone (While she dialed my cell), discussed dinner with Sunshine, checked my email, sadly looked over the pictures from James Brown's funeral and then realized...something was tickling my palm.
I lifted my hands lightly from the keyboard, wondering what had me distracted from pictures of the late, great, Godfather of Soul...and then I saw it.
Thinking back now, I should have expected it. B (a pious cowoker) had been telling me for weeks my desk was disgusting. But seeing as I shared it with two other shifts and managed to keep it reasonably organized on my own, I didn't think I should do much more than occasionally shifting a stack of papers from this side to that or perhaps heroically ridding my little space of excess paper clips by launching them at Sunshine.
But lately there had been a used toothpick stashed somewhere about my desk nearly every night I came in. And it was really starting to bother me but not to the point of bitching at the ladies from another shift who would no doubt take it as a grave insult and write a serious letter of disdain to my boss or worse...my mother (the boss' boss' boss). So I lived with the toothpicks, taking great care to wrap them in layers of napkins before throwing them in the trash.
Oh, but the background gets better before we return to the mysterious object tickling my palm. Poor B swears she got herpes from one desk in Data. Not mine. No, thank God, not mine. The desk next to mine has from then on been dubbed "Herpilicious." I refuse to sit there unless it comes down to the Herpes desk or the desk of a man that can't wear any sort of deodorant or cologne due to his wife's allergies. (Bullshit.) And smears dear pee all over himself on a regular basis in hopes of gutting Bambi. (A hole.) No thanks I'll take cautious herpes over callous deer pee. Thanks though.
So back to my palm...it was a pube. I shit you not! A fucking pube wedged between the Alt & Start key of my keyboard. I nearly puked. Right there. Right on my monitor. Nearly let loose and let fly chunks of...what did I have for lunch...soup. Soup! Oh the soup could have flown! Instead I kept my composure, in that I did not puke but instead ran frantically for B's secret stash of orange-scented sanitizer. I ran like the fricking wind (If the wind was wearing jeans and clogs) and poured the alcohol all over my hand (And hangnail) and desk in giant puddles of orange. I was nearly in tears as I flipped my keyboard and hit it frantically against the desktop. Things went flying everywhere! Bits of skin! Nails! More short, dark curly hairs that should never have seen daylight except for perhaps at a retired nudist colony in Florida! Oh! I was nearly in tears as I yanked the collar of my shirt over my nose so as not to inhale the bits of body scraps that had flown in the air and were now circulating stealthily around the room. Crazy Bob laughed as I dropped my keyboard on the desk with a sharp bang and shrieked at the continuous stream of things pouring out from between the 'k' and 'j.' I yelled at him to 'Shut up Bob!' This was no laughing matter.
It took me well over an hour of sanitizing before I would touch my desk again. I cleaned everything from the keyboard to the monitor to the speakers to my phone and chair and even wiped gently over the frames placed on a shelf a foot above my head (Though how someone would get a pube way up there without odd looks from fellow data slaves, I can't even imagine.).
I don't want to know who's pube it was. I never, ever wish to think of it again. I only bring it up here and now because there was no way not to bring it up in my blog. You people are privy to the most embarrassing and humiliating moments of my life.
The story of the pube that had made itself at home between my Alt & Start key will live in infamy till the day I die...or I get bored with blogger. Whatever.
Step back a second with me while I describe the scene to which I came to find at work tonight. A quiet night as far as C-shift is concerned. A hand-full of people including myself, working diligently in Data to the hum of printers and John Tesh. Doing what little data workers do so as not to receive bitchy, pointless, entirely round-about and unclear emails about petty things like the volume of individual radios in each cubicle.
Within moments of entering Data my cellphone was a buzzin' and I listened to my mother babble about something for a few minutes on the work phone (While she dialed my cell), discussed dinner with Sunshine, checked my email, sadly looked over the pictures from James Brown's funeral and then realized...something was tickling my palm.
I lifted my hands lightly from the keyboard, wondering what had me distracted from pictures of the late, great, Godfather of Soul...and then I saw it.
Thinking back now, I should have expected it. B (a pious cowoker) had been telling me for weeks my desk was disgusting. But seeing as I shared it with two other shifts and managed to keep it reasonably organized on my own, I didn't think I should do much more than occasionally shifting a stack of papers from this side to that or perhaps heroically ridding my little space of excess paper clips by launching them at Sunshine.
But lately there had been a used toothpick stashed somewhere about my desk nearly every night I came in. And it was really starting to bother me but not to the point of bitching at the ladies from another shift who would no doubt take it as a grave insult and write a serious letter of disdain to my boss or worse...my mother (the boss' boss' boss). So I lived with the toothpicks, taking great care to wrap them in layers of napkins before throwing them in the trash.
Oh, but the background gets better before we return to the mysterious object tickling my palm. Poor B swears she got herpes from one desk in Data. Not mine. No, thank God, not mine. The desk next to mine has from then on been dubbed "Herpilicious." I refuse to sit there unless it comes down to the Herpes desk or the desk of a man that can't wear any sort of deodorant or cologne due to his wife's allergies. (Bullshit.) And smears dear pee all over himself on a regular basis in hopes of gutting Bambi. (A hole.) No thanks I'll take cautious herpes over callous deer pee. Thanks though.
So back to my palm...it was a pube. I shit you not! A fucking pube wedged between the Alt & Start key of my keyboard. I nearly puked. Right there. Right on my monitor. Nearly let loose and let fly chunks of...what did I have for lunch...soup. Soup! Oh the soup could have flown! Instead I kept my composure, in that I did not puke but instead ran frantically for B's secret stash of orange-scented sanitizer. I ran like the fricking wind (If the wind was wearing jeans and clogs) and poured the alcohol all over my hand (And hangnail) and desk in giant puddles of orange. I was nearly in tears as I flipped my keyboard and hit it frantically against the desktop. Things went flying everywhere! Bits of skin! Nails! More short, dark curly hairs that should never have seen daylight except for perhaps at a retired nudist colony in Florida! Oh! I was nearly in tears as I yanked the collar of my shirt over my nose so as not to inhale the bits of body scraps that had flown in the air and were now circulating stealthily around the room. Crazy Bob laughed as I dropped my keyboard on the desk with a sharp bang and shrieked at the continuous stream of things pouring out from between the 'k' and 'j.' I yelled at him to 'Shut up Bob!' This was no laughing matter.
It took me well over an hour of sanitizing before I would touch my desk again. I cleaned everything from the keyboard to the monitor to the speakers to my phone and chair and even wiped gently over the frames placed on a shelf a foot above my head (Though how someone would get a pube way up there without odd looks from fellow data slaves, I can't even imagine.).
I don't want to know who's pube it was. I never, ever wish to think of it again. I only bring it up here and now because there was no way not to bring it up in my blog. You people are privy to the most embarrassing and humiliating moments of my life.
The story of the pube that had made itself at home between my Alt & Start key will live in infamy till the day I die...or I get bored with blogger. Whatever.
Labels: Workin' Hard or Hardly Workin'?
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on 10.1.07 at 7:37 PM.
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