Monday, August 07, 2006


So there’s this girl in my office that drives me absolutely crazy, and I don’t even know her. I realize I’m a terrible person for having such negative feelings towards someone who I know next-to-nothing about, and I also know that it’s even more despicable that I have decided to go as far as to write about how much she aggravates me here, but to that, I say, “whatever”. I’ve never claimed to be nice.

What do I know about this girl? Hmm… let’s see, I know that EVERYDAY she wears white high-top sneakers and tapered jeans (which are way too tight and surely must be painful to wear, as they cause me, an innocent bystander, to wince with pain whenever I see her sporting those crotch-separators.) I know that she just recently got her hair cut because the style she’s sporting is that whole stacked short bob/triangle cut I’m sure you’re all familiar with, and it is very obvious that the back of her neck has recently be shaved. I also know that she and I have somehow gotten our bathroom usage routines almost perfectly in synch, which continues to aggravate me on a daily basis. Truthfully, this is the main source of my annoyance with her, so let’s just quit with the introductions and break it down right now. This girl is the most irritating stealth pooper EVER!

We’ve already established that she is pretty much in the bathroom every single time I go there. I know this because we either fatefully end up walking in there at the same time, or I see her glaringly white high-tops from under the stall as I enter. Well, I’ve come to find that the poor girl has some serious issues with taking a “number two” when another lady is in the room. This is not something I begrudge her, as I, myself, am a practicing stealth pooper, however, the way we differ is that I have perfected the well-known routine and she just camps-the-hell-out in the stall. FOR AS LONG AS SHE HAS TO. It’s without fail: if I have to take a crap (yea, I know, I hate that I do it at work but I am a very regular girl and it is just unavoidable), she will be in there, and it’s almost as if she’s waiting for me, just waiting to thwart my plans to do my business. Thus, I go into my stall, listen for her, realize she is making no sounds whatsoever which means she is in there for the long haul, so I make a quick piddle, wash my hands, and get out of there, hoping I can come back in ten minutes and, God-willing, she’ll be gone.

This crap also happens when I’m the first one in there. I sit down, ready to get going, and I hear the door open. At that point I know I just can’t do it until the intruder is gone (I guess I’m sort of a sad character in this story as well, huh?) so I usually try to stall for a minute, playing with the toilet paper, pretending to adjust my clothing, hoping they’ll be quick. If there’s not a lot of movement from the other stall, I resign to the fact that it’s just not going to happen and I’ll have to come back later. And what do you know… I swear to God nine times out of ten, whose shoes do you think I see when I exit the stall and head to the sink? You’re damn right; it’s those ridiculous white high-tops. Sometimes the whole situation makes me so angry that I take my sweet ass time while washing my hands, maybe I’ll start fixing my hair, adjusting my outfit, cleaning scuffs off my shoes, checking for smudged makeup, anything that will make her sweat in there just a little bit.

I mean, seriously! Why can’t she be the one to (just once-in-a-while!) surrender and try again later? She has some major resolve and some crazy huge balls, I know that. I should also mention that on the occasion that the two of us are concurrently in the restroom to perform the less foul of the two bodily excretory functions, and if we end up at the sink washing our hands at the same time, the chick refuses to look me in the eye. I swear she knows how much she pisses me off, and she’s scared of me. Even though I am evil on the inside, and I blog about the gross bathroom antics that take place at my workplace, I am very nice in-person. I always give her a little half smile and a nod when we’re at the sink together, or when we pass each other in the hall, but she just looks down at her feet like a scared little boy. To which I say… “Whatever, don’t look at me punk, I really couldn’t care less, but you need to seriously look into the etiquette of office pooping. There’s a courteous way of doing it, and there’s a bitch way of doing it. Figure it out.”