I’m back from a wicked fun tour of Oregon and Washington and Jesus Christ it’s fucking hot in California. I know my absence from the internet was physically painful to you guys but it’s okay. You don’t have to all go commenting at once. So while in Washington talking with Westies over many, many blueberry-infused drinks, we got on the subject of the cock-slapping bad time that was working at Tuesday Morning. One event in particular made me puzzle anew at the shamelessness of some people.
A woman in her early to mid forties sidled sheepishly up to one of the workers who was at our store from another and whispered, mortified, “I had an accident in the bathroom…I missed the toilet.” She told our manager David and he told Wes to get in there and clean it up. Wes pretty much laughed in his face. As I saw him looking toward me, I immediately told him no. Cleaning up old lady poop was not worth the 25 cent raise they had given me and I did enough of that at home (maybe one tell I’ll spin you a tale of my mom’s murderer’s hovel). So David sighed in frustration and trekked into the bathroom to go clean it up. I’ll intervene finally to state the obvious: YOU should have cleaned it up, Rogue Pooper. But no, this lady fully expected us to go into the bathroom and clean up her poop off the bathroom floor. Had it been my own store, I would have handed her some paper towels and antibacterial cleaners and sent her on her way. If I had accidentally shat on the floor of someone else’s bathroom (friend’s house, store, wherever), I would have damn well cleaned it up. This is especially true in Tuesday Morning where you have to ask the sales assistant for the key to the bathroom and then give it back when you’re done. What if they remembered that I had been the last person in there?! And in the rare case that I had been too disgusted to clean it up, I wouldn’t have told anyone that it was me that shat on their floor. I would have walked my ass right out of the store, avoiding all eye contact, and never come back. This lady, however, handed the key back to a girl who didn’t even work at our store usually and then shopped for at least 40 more minutes!
And how the hell do you miss the toilet in a pantsuit? Did she have her pants and underwear down and sidle in a sitting position over to the toilet? Was she trying to fire it from across the room? I don’t get it. There has never been a time where I was like, Uh oh, poop’s a’comin’ and there’s no stopping it. The whole accident baffles me.
There is a golden rule around my house: You clean up whatever comes out of your body. I believe this is best illustrated by the time that I laughed so hard, I puked up barg (Persian kabobs) all over the floor and Brittany was so disgusted that my puke smelled exactly the same as before I ate it, that she puked an entire 2-liter of Hawaiian Punch up. I think my mom (saint that she sometimes it) even offered to clean it up but we told her no. It came out of us and we’d be damned if we were going to force someone else to clean that grossness up.
So old ladies of the world, I know in your day salespeople were friendlier, lawyers were honest, and customer service was key, but for Christ’s sake, if you don’t want to clean up your own shit, you can be sure that no one else does.