I feel somewhat cheated. For as long as I can remember, it has been a convention in TV and the movies, yet real life has apparently failed to meet one expectation that I feel was unfairly set for me. What might that expectation be? Well, the awarding of a key to the executive washroom upon being promoted to that lofty level, of course.
It seems like a small thing. For most people, it probably would be less valued than, say, a reserved parking spot. But not for me; No, for me the opportunity to rise above the riff-raff that typically inhabits the public restroom was the ultimate reward for success? Why? Well, I'll just have to come out and say it bluntly: men are pigs. Not to put too fine of a line on it, but the sounds, smells, and general ambiance of the typical public men's room is not conducive to a relaxed, restful visit. And, as an IT Director, I need to find relaxation when and where I can.
As if it wasn't bad enough already, we also had to contend with The Mystery Pooper. Allow me to set the stage: as a result of living almost directly on the opposite side of the city from where I work, and given that I am pathologically compelled to avoid any traffic at all, much less rush-hour traffic, I have through the years cultivated the ability to wake up at 4:45 am, sans alarm clock or any other time keeping device. This results in my being the first person to the office building that houses the company that I work for. An additional benefit of arriving so early is that I typically have the restroom to myself for an hour or so, should the need arise. Which it nearly always does.
Odd, then, that at least once a week I would go in there only to find that someone else had used my favorite stall (third on the right, if you must know) and had failed to flush the resulting obscene mess. When I first encountered this, I wrote it off to carelessness. Through time and repetition, however, I came to believe that this was a deliberately anti-social behavior. I also came to realize that this was being done by someone that gets to the office building even earlier than I do. There were clues pointing to this, the most obvious of which was that the other three stalls where in the sanitary, pristine condition that indicated that they had not been used since their middle-of-the-night cleaning. Plus, the seats in those three stalls were all up, and we all know that men never leave the seat up. Well, married men, anyway, what with the years of nagging that they have endured on that very practice.
If it was any other stall I would have just let it go, but this was my stall - the mystery would have to be solved.
One fine day, I went in to use my stall (spiffy and clean, this time) and on the way out I was surprised by seeing another of the building's tenants entering the bathroom as I was leaving. I recognized him, having seen him around the building now and then. I wondered if....
Back in our suite, I decided I would perform a little stake out. One of our conference rooms has a window that looks out in the general direction of the restroom door. If I were to stand off to the side, I would be able to see when the other guy came out. It was the perfect plan, except for one little thing:
As it turned out, not only could I see him emerge from the restroom, he could see me watching. Our eyes met across the intervening space - there could be no doubt that he saw me standing there watching through the window.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I figured. It was time to check the evidence. I waited for him disappear down the hallway before going back into the bathroom to check. And there it was! The same big, messy pile of crap (literally) in my stall.
The mystery was solved, but what precisely could I do about it? I've seen the guy's car; it has Vietnam Veteran license plates. That may mean nothing, but it also may mean everything. I did not want to approach this guy about his odd behavior.
Fortunately, I haven't needed to. Proving almost beyond doubt that there was no accident here and this was a deliberate behavior, it hasn't happened again since that day when our eyes met and his secret was uncovered.
Which is nice, but at the end of the day? Men are still pigs, and I still want my key to the executive washroom.
Ire to Spare? Go by Air!
I don't travel for work all much anymore. There was a time when I used to traverse the country along with the rest of the office dwellers, but after a particularly abysmal sixteen hour trip back from SFO I mentioned to by boss that I would like to stop traveling. This ended up being one of those fortuitous meetings of the minds: he responded by telling me that he no longer wished to pay for me to travel.
Win-win!
I made an exception just the other day when I had to make an out-and-back day trip down to Dallas, albeit a pretty long one given the 7 am departure, 11 pm return. With the late-ish return after what would surely be along day, I thought it might be nice to pack a little flask of rum in order to have a drink for myself and to potentially share with the two FCWs (Female Co-Workers) that would be traveling with me. This was to prove to be a bad idea.
It all came apart when I came under scrutiny by the overbearing TSA. One look at the innards of my bag on the Scan-O-Tron flagged the "suspicious" nature of my possessions, resulting in an immediate redirection from the "normal" line into the full-body scanning Peek-O-Matic where the contents of my other bag would be also investigated. I've never had to go through the Peek-O-Matic before; I fail to see what all the fuss is about. But then again, I didn't get to see the results of my full-body portrait - I might be flattering myself when I think that they weren't totally disappointed in what they saw.
Post non-invasive peeping, I was directed back to the conveyor belt, where a somber-looking "officer" wearing a meaningless badge took me to task for trying to carry more than "two point four fluid ounces" onto the airplane, the potential danger of which eludes me. In any event, I was informed that I would have to pour it all out.
"All of it?? Can't I keep two point four ounces of it?" I inquired, incredulous at the precision to which this is all taken. I mean, seriously: how long did the 17-person senior committee of high-salary government brainiacs take to arrive at precisely two point four ounces? What critical mass is reached at two point four five? God help us at three point zero, right?
No, it would all have to go, and to add insult to injury, I would have to leave the secure area to dump it out, thus putting me back at the end of a very long line. "No worries, Mate, I'll escort you out." Which he did. He actually shadowed me the entire time, watching patiently to make sure every single drop of devil rum was disposed of. He was as good as his word and let go to the front of the line, but then sent me right back through the Peek-O-Matic. Seriously??? I just went through that thing, you saw me go through that thing, and you haven't left my side since. What could possibly have changed that would require another full-body virtual grope??
I console myself thusly: they must have really liked what they saw the first time.
Luckily, the morning of meetings went well and we enjoyed an average lunch at a "very average" Mexican restaurant, as described by the locals. We got to know the local group a little better, which was one of the softer business goals of the trip but important in its own way nonetheless. After lunch, the hosts repaired to their individual domiciles to attend to some of the pressing needs that tend to stack up in the in-boxes of technical people during the work day, while we returned to the conference room where we played with our respective iDevices.
As we were sitting there, a daddy longlegs started to descend from the ceiling.
FCW #1: "I heard that those are the most venomous creatures on the planet, but their teeth are too small to bite a human."
Me: "Really?" I was willing to let that go without making any jokes about the obvious unlikeliness of that. "Comity over comedy" sometimes being the better route, I think, especially when it comes to the younger (and, if I'm honest, quite attractive) FCWs.
FCW #1: "I also heard that their legs fall off if you scare them."
Well, so much for the comity thing. I can only stand so much.
Me: "That seems unlikely. Let's try it. I'll say "BOO!" to it and see what happens."
I thought for a moment about the consequences to the spider should the factoid ultimately been proven correct.
"Maybe that's where ladybugs come from," I theorized.
In the event, saying "Boo!" had no noticeably deleterious effect on the little guy's extremities whatsoever. Even as all three of us crowded around shouting "BOO!" at the poor little spider, he steadfastly, or stubbornly, maintained possession of all eight legs.
Naturally, just as three almost-strangers are gathered around yelling "BOO!" at a spider, the local folks returned to the conference room.
It must have been their innate southern politeness that kept them from making any comments on our strange behavior. Comity being the order of the day, right?
Wondering if perhaps our BOO test was invalid because we weren't frightening enough (after all, "Boo" is a human thing, and not all that scary even for us once we're over the age of three), I whipped out my trusty iPad to Google up some information about Daddy Longlegs. As it turns out, there is a germ of truth to the assertion that their legs fall off under duress. In general, it seems, their legs fall off quite easily. Wiki postulated that it's a defensive tactic against predators, although having your motive appendages simply fall off in response to a threat from a predator seems somewhat self-defeating to me. That said, it probably helps somewhat to have the fight-or-flight decision tree halved for them. Because their brains? Nothing to brag about. According to me, not Wikipedia.
Back at DFW and yet another trip through the Peek-O-Matic, we chased our homeward bound flight from gate to gate, as is the norm at DFW. One change took us to a completely different terminal, a fact that initially had me somewhat irritated at the idea if yet another trip through the security machinery. Fortunately, there is an automated, driver-less shuttle train that runs between the terminals on the "safe side" of the probing electronic eyes. I couldn't help noticing, as we sat at the very front of it, that it had a windshield wiper. Being as it was a robotic train, I had to wonder just who was expected to reap the benefits of a windshield wiper.
One of life's little mysteries, I guess.
Later, after a very long day and a forty-five minute departure delay, we settled into our miniature seats fervently hoping to get some rest on the plane ride home. As I had predicted, though, the inevitable family-with-screaming-infant plopped down in the row in front of us. Well, if I'm honest, I had predicted that the screamer would be behind us, but hey, close enough.
FCW #2, who is of the age and gender that allows her to see such a menace to our peace and quiet as "cute," started playing peek-a-boo with the noisy little dude.
"Boo! Boo! I see you! Boo!"
Trying to discourage such fraternization with the enemy, I leaned over to pass along a tidbit of advice:
"Stop saying 'BOO' to that kid! His legs are gonna fall off!"
The pain doesn't end after the flight, though, even when cases where injury is added to insult: we didn't get back until after midnight. The hassles continue back in the office with the over-complicated process that I have to go through to itemize the expenses incurred. Each item, no matter how mundane or routine, has to have a reason for it entered into the system. Perhaps is was the lack of sleep, or perhaps it was simply an exhibition of my rebellious nature, but when it can time to explain why I had charged $17 to park my car at the airport, I entered:
"Could not carry car on airplane; greater than 2.4 ounces."
Win-win!
I made an exception just the other day when I had to make an out-and-back day trip down to Dallas, albeit a pretty long one given the 7 am departure, 11 pm return. With the late-ish return after what would surely be along day, I thought it might be nice to pack a little flask of rum in order to have a drink for myself and to potentially share with the two FCWs (Female Co-Workers) that would be traveling with me. This was to prove to be a bad idea.
It all came apart when I came under scrutiny by the overbearing TSA. One look at the innards of my bag on the Scan-O-Tron flagged the "suspicious" nature of my possessions, resulting in an immediate redirection from the "normal" line into the full-body scanning Peek-O-Matic where the contents of my other bag would be also investigated. I've never had to go through the Peek-O-Matic before; I fail to see what all the fuss is about. But then again, I didn't get to see the results of my full-body portrait - I might be flattering myself when I think that they weren't totally disappointed in what they saw.
Post non-invasive peeping, I was directed back to the conveyor belt, where a somber-looking "officer" wearing a meaningless badge took me to task for trying to carry more than "two point four fluid ounces" onto the airplane, the potential danger of which eludes me. In any event, I was informed that I would have to pour it all out.
"All of it?? Can't I keep two point four ounces of it?" I inquired, incredulous at the precision to which this is all taken. I mean, seriously: how long did the 17-person senior committee of high-salary government brainiacs take to arrive at precisely two point four ounces? What critical mass is reached at two point four five? God help us at three point zero, right?
No, it would all have to go, and to add insult to injury, I would have to leave the secure area to dump it out, thus putting me back at the end of a very long line. "No worries, Mate, I'll escort you out." Which he did. He actually shadowed me the entire time, watching patiently to make sure every single drop of devil rum was disposed of. He was as good as his word and let go to the front of the line, but then sent me right back through the Peek-O-Matic. Seriously??? I just went through that thing, you saw me go through that thing, and you haven't left my side since. What could possibly have changed that would require another full-body virtual grope??
I console myself thusly: they must have really liked what they saw the first time.
Luckily, the morning of meetings went well and we enjoyed an average lunch at a "very average" Mexican restaurant, as described by the locals. We got to know the local group a little better, which was one of the softer business goals of the trip but important in its own way nonetheless. After lunch, the hosts repaired to their individual domiciles to attend to some of the pressing needs that tend to stack up in the in-boxes of technical people during the work day, while we returned to the conference room where we played with our respective iDevices.
As we were sitting there, a daddy longlegs started to descend from the ceiling.
FCW #1: "I heard that those are the most venomous creatures on the planet, but their teeth are too small to bite a human."
Me: "Really?" I was willing to let that go without making any jokes about the obvious unlikeliness of that. "Comity over comedy" sometimes being the better route, I think, especially when it comes to the younger (and, if I'm honest, quite attractive) FCWs.
FCW #1: "I also heard that their legs fall off if you scare them."
Well, so much for the comity thing. I can only stand so much.
Me: "That seems unlikely. Let's try it. I'll say "BOO!" to it and see what happens."
I thought for a moment about the consequences to the spider should the factoid ultimately been proven correct.
"Maybe that's where ladybugs come from," I theorized.
In the event, saying "Boo!" had no noticeably deleterious effect on the little guy's extremities whatsoever. Even as all three of us crowded around shouting "BOO!" at the poor little spider, he steadfastly, or stubbornly, maintained possession of all eight legs.
Naturally, just as three almost-strangers are gathered around yelling "BOO!" at a spider, the local folks returned to the conference room.
It must have been their innate southern politeness that kept them from making any comments on our strange behavior. Comity being the order of the day, right?
Wondering if perhaps our BOO test was invalid because we weren't frightening enough (after all, "Boo" is a human thing, and not all that scary even for us once we're over the age of three), I whipped out my trusty iPad to Google up some information about Daddy Longlegs. As it turns out, there is a germ of truth to the assertion that their legs fall off under duress. In general, it seems, their legs fall off quite easily. Wiki postulated that it's a defensive tactic against predators, although having your motive appendages simply fall off in response to a threat from a predator seems somewhat self-defeating to me. That said, it probably helps somewhat to have the fight-or-flight decision tree halved for them. Because their brains? Nothing to brag about. According to me, not Wikipedia.
Back at DFW and yet another trip through the Peek-O-Matic, we chased our homeward bound flight from gate to gate, as is the norm at DFW. One change took us to a completely different terminal, a fact that initially had me somewhat irritated at the idea if yet another trip through the security machinery. Fortunately, there is an automated, driver-less shuttle train that runs between the terminals on the "safe side" of the probing electronic eyes. I couldn't help noticing, as we sat at the very front of it, that it had a windshield wiper. Being as it was a robotic train, I had to wonder just who was expected to reap the benefits of a windshield wiper.
One of life's little mysteries, I guess.
Later, after a very long day and a forty-five minute departure delay, we settled into our miniature seats fervently hoping to get some rest on the plane ride home. As I had predicted, though, the inevitable family-with-screaming-infant plopped down in the row in front of us. Well, if I'm honest, I had predicted that the screamer would be behind us, but hey, close enough.
FCW #2, who is of the age and gender that allows her to see such a menace to our peace and quiet as "cute," started playing peek-a-boo with the noisy little dude.
"Boo! Boo! I see you! Boo!"
Trying to discourage such fraternization with the enemy, I leaned over to pass along a tidbit of advice:
"Stop saying 'BOO' to that kid! His legs are gonna fall off!"
The pain doesn't end after the flight, though, even when cases where injury is added to insult: we didn't get back until after midnight. The hassles continue back in the office with the over-complicated process that I have to go through to itemize the expenses incurred. Each item, no matter how mundane or routine, has to have a reason for it entered into the system. Perhaps is was the lack of sleep, or perhaps it was simply an exhibition of my rebellious nature, but when it can time to explain why I had charged $17 to park my car at the airport, I entered:
"Could not carry car on airplane; greater than 2.4 ounces."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)