Liquids on floors: OOTD Log

It's about time that I had one of those days and wrote about it...after all, that's what this blog is named for.

Follow me, if you will, back to two Tuesdays ago, when I was working my last night before heading down to Florida for ACDA and family visits. It was approximately 8 p.m. and I was the only hostess on at this point.

Enter random girl. She came running up the stairs and I swear to god she sneezed. I will forever claim that the noise she made sounded like mucus being expelled. And so I said, "Bless you," and she sort of looked at me with her hand over her nose and mouth and I was like, Oh poor thing, she snotted everywhere and now she has to run to the bathroom to go blow her nose.

Incorrect.

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, one of my coworkers came up to me and told me that the lady at his table said there was a problem in the ladies' restroom. And I said, "Those damn toilets. They really have to fix them." Oh how I wish it were the toilets. I can handle a good plunge.

So I walked into the bathroom and saw a few paper towels on the ground with a little wet spot underneath. And I almost picked them up but then I thought, let me see what's going on in these stalls, because that doesn't seem like enough to warrant there being a "problem in the restroom."

What I saw in the first stall will haunt me for the rest of my life. The toilet was filled (FILLED) with vomit, and topped off with about half a roll of paper towels that were spilling out over the edges. Now, I have a vomit phobia, so I got out of there real fast, but not before noticing the lovely chunks that were spilling out from under the paper towel pile on the floor. SO glad I did not pick those up...

Apparently the girl was just sick; she wasn't drunk or strung out or whatever. And I sympathize. But come on. I know it would be SO embarrassing, but you have to tell someone about that before it, you know, marinates in a public restroom for an hour and a half. The worst part is that, as we all  know, paper towels don't flush, so the poor janitorial staff had to take all that shit out of the toilet. Stupid girl. I just feel like, a) we're all adults here, and we know the feeling of an impending barf, so go to the damn bathroom if you feel sick, b) we use toilet paper to wipe our mouths after. Toilet. Paper. And c) I repeat, TELL SOMEONE.

THEN. I got off work and came home like any other normal working night. It was raining, and when I came inside and went to the bathroom, I left footprints on the rug in front of my sink. I figured it was because my shoes were wet from outside.

Incorrect. Again.

About half an hour later, as my bladder is the size of my pinky fingernail, I had to pee again, and this time when I walked on my rug, it made a disturbing squish squish sound. And so I bent down to touch it and see what was going on and my whole floor was SOAKED. I mean, freakin' flooded. And then I noticed the drip coming from the corner of the cabinet under my sink. And I opened it up and the whole cabinet was drenched, including all my lady product boxes and my toilet paper.

Then I had to figure out a way to get my rug (which, by the way, weighed five pounds) across my apartment to the washer to put it on a spin cycle without ruining my floors and carpets in the process.

I should also mention that my sink had been leaking before this and had supposedly been fixed by maintenance already. It was not fixed. It was actually significantly worse. And even though they came to fix it while I was gone, when I got back yesterday there was still a little drip coming from underneath. Beautiful.

And now my washer is leaking also.

COME ON.

Part-time Hostess, part-time plumber

Last May, I applied for and obtained a job as a part-time hostess. My job description is pretty basic. I greet the customers, I seat the customers, I wish the customers good day when they leave. There are some side work things, like wiping down menus and taking out trash and keeping the bathrooms stocked.

But what hostesses don't tell you is that they also usually get stuck on toilet duty. That is, unclogging and generally cleaning up toilet-related messes.

At my place of employment, we have three toilets in the women's bathroom. Let's think of them as children. The first one is well-behaved and has never gotten into trouble in the time I have made its acquaintance. The second one is a little bit of a problem child. It has flushing issues in general, so if there's even a little bit of a backup, it gets really nervous and needs the warm suctioned embrace of a plunger to return it to its normal state. The third one, however, is literally the worst rebel toilet child in the history of plumbage. Nearly every time I work, it is either clogged or overflowing, and usually it's both.

This isn't always the toilet's fault though. It's half toilet issues, half user error. And although I have become pretty handy with a plunger, a squeegee, and a mop, I wanted to share this message with the world. Are you ready? Here it is:

YOU CAN FLUSH MORE THAN ONCE.

If there is ever a point during your bathroom visit where you think, "Wow, that sure is a lot of toilet paper that I've used," that is the time to employ your first flush. Or, if you have emitted a large amount of waste such that even without any toilet paper, the bowl is looking pretty packed, flush away my children. This is called a courtesy flush. You should use it frequently and without hesitation to save your poor hostess from plunging a toilet FOUR TIMES and overflowing it FOUR TIMES in one shift because you can't take the time to reach back and push the damn lever. 

Yes, I am pretty professional at squeegeeing a whole lot of water into a tiny little drain, and yes, I can usually unclog a toilet with one mere round of plunging, but just because I possess these talents does not mean I enjoy them. 

Flush. Just, flush. 

Honest Hostess Part Deux: Honest Responses 10 Popular Customer Questions

Are you open?

No. I snuck in and I'm answering the restaurant's phone for fun.

How long will the wait for four be at six p.m.?

Hang on, let me grab my crystal ball I DON'T KNOW GO AWAY.

Is it okay if we bump up our reservation from ten to 14 people?

It is not okay. I will probably have to move you to a different table, which means you'll have to wait, which means you'll be mad at me. Also, that means two servers will have to split the table which means they make less money which means they will also be mad at me. Leave. Now.

How much longer is the wait for *insert name here*?

Well, sir, I told you it was going to be a 45-minute wait ten minutes ago. I wan't kidding. If you come back up here again in another ten minutes I will slap you.

Where's the bathroom?

It is located under the large sign that reads "bathroom" right behind you. No more stupid questions, please.

Did a couple of guys/girls come in here asking for a table?

Yes. Quite a few, actually. In fact, every single person that is currently seated has come in here and asked for a table. Could you be more specific, please? Actually, no, don't bother. I won't remember them anyways, because as you can see, there is a cornucopia of people here and I talked to every single one of them when they came in. Look for them yourself. Go on now.

*Tells large party they can split up to be seated quicker* Can you seat us near each other?

Just because you asked, I am going to do everything in my power to seat you across the restaurant from each other. The odds were pretty low anyway that two tables right next to each other would open up simultaneously, but now this is a matter of vengeance.

Where is the bar?

I bet you can find it. Just look for the large wooden slab of counter with a gigantic wall of alcohol behind it. I believe in you.

Can I make a reservation for *whatever time is an hour from now*?

Nope. Try planning ahead next time.

Did you know you're out of paper towels in the bathroom?

Thanks for telling me. Now I have to walk all the way across the restaurant to the storage closet to get more and then fight with the damn dispenser to get the roll in there. AND WHO WILL GREET THE PEOPLE WHILE I'M GONE???

BONUS QUESTION:

Can we have a booth?

You will sit at the table I take you to and you'll like it.

The time that I bought my camera back from the guy who stole it from me

Our story begins in May of 2010. That's when my parents bought me this beaut for a graduation gift: 

It was pretty much the best day ever. I'd been lusting after a quality camera for a few years, and man, was this one quality. At the time, this camera would run you more than $1,000. I know, I'm a lucky girl. This amazing present started my obsession with photographing people, and I took pictures like this: 

And this:

And this:

I named him "Big Daddy" because he is a large. I took him with me on a zillion trips. Such as:

New York

Italy

and Austria

I even won a photo contest with that last one! Big Daddy and I had grown very close by the time I went to Austria, which was the Summer of 2012. We had gone through two years of college by that point, after all. 

Now, in Fall of 2013, I moved into a new apartment in a neighborhood that is safe and quiet. Big Daddy had a table all to himself (well, except for a candle) in the living room. It was splendid. I went home for Thanksgiving break that semester, of course, and left Big Daddy here because I would only be home for a few days and because my mom has a great camera as well, so any pictures of family or whatever could be taken on her camera.

I got back on Black Friday because I had to work the next morning. Iron Bowl and all that. And when I got home my door was unlocked, which was weird and kind of freaked me out. I thought I had locked it before I left, but maybe I didn't...or maybe maintenance came in to do something and didn't lock it after they left? This is still unsolved...

I didn't notice Big Daddy was missing until a week or so later, because I was up to my eyeballs in stress due to graduation and also grad school applications and also finals. And I didn't do anything about it, because I thought that maybe I had brought him home after all.

But after thoroughly searching both my apartment and house in TN when I was home for Christmas, it became clear that Big Daddy was, in fact, gone. But worse: he had been stolen. From my nice, quiet, safe apartment. 

I filed a police report when I got back to Auburn, and checked craigslist and eBay like mad. I even called all the Pawn Shops in the area, but no luck. I hadn't written the serial number down, like an idiot, so there wasn't much that could be done. I gave up searching near the beginning of January. I figured he was just gone.

But then, on the first day of Auburn's Snowpocalypse 2014, boyfriend and I watched a documentary about this guy who photographed a porn convention (it's actually really good....check it out. It's called Naked Ambition). And I thought, Man, I really miss Big Daddy. Photography is so awesome. And so I got on craigslist one more time and there was this suuuuper sketchy post about a Nikon D90....Dude Man was selling it for $150 and had pictures of a lens and lens cap whose brands weren't visible, but they looked an awful lot like mine....

I knew I had to play it cool, because I couldn't prove the camera was mine (no memory card in it, no serial number), so I couldn't get the police involved. But I figured $150 was chump change for a camera like that, and I might as well buy it even if it wasn't mine. So I emailed him and texted him and he FINALLY, AFTER AN EXCRUCIATING 36 HOURS, responded. 

I asked what brand the lens was, and he said, "I think it's a Tamron."

Mine. My lens was a Tamron.

I asked if he was selling the lens with it, and he said, "Yeah, but I don't have a charger for it."

No, you don't, because it's still in my room, asshole.

And we decided to meet at Walmart, near the entrance, where there were lots of people. And the dude looked something like this:

And I paid him $150 in cash and got the hell out of there. 

It was my camera. It is my camera. Big Daddy is back where he belongs, with his serial number written down in a safe place. 

THAT, kids, is why you always double check that your door is locked. And also write all your serial numbers down. 

And that is the very true, very ridiculous story of how I bought my camera back from the guy who stole it from me. 

Me and Big Daddy reunited

Got it back. Suck it, douche bag.

Lather, rinse, ABORT, ABORT

I am become a real person.

I graduated in December and now I sit in my apartment all day while all my friends are in class because I have not yet acquired enough work hours to be full time.

So I watched all of Orange is the New Black in one week. And I take a lot of naps. And I play a lot of Candy Crush. And I basically don't do anything productive. But I have been going to the gym.

Boyfriend and I signed up for Maxx Fitness in Auburn so we could stop being fatty fat fat walruses and get healthy and whatnot. And they're doing a student special (shh don't tell them I lied) that includes one free personal training session.

So yesterday I went in at 11 a.m. and met with this really buff bald dude who was asking me about my fitness goals and took my body fat percentage, which was quite discouraging, and then told me that I should gain 11 pounds of muscle and lose 29 pounds of body fat. Which actually only means I need to "lose" 18 pounds. That is far superior to the 50 I originally thought I would have to lose.

And then we decided that we would do a chest workout. And that, friends, is where my mistake lies. I thought, my chest is really weak so maybe a training session would be good for me.

Ooooor it would make me unable to wash my hair for weeks.

Firstly, I would like to say that I bench pressed 45 pounds, which amazed me because I thought I was literally strength-less in the chesticles. I mean I only did it like...15 times but still! Go me!

And then I did a whole lot of flies (I think like 100 altogether) and then I felt like jello. I always thought I felt like jello after my workouts, but I guess I never knew what it felt like to truly fatigue a muscle because Jesus H. it was intense. I struggled to drive home.

Then I had to shower, because, you know, sweat. And I sort of lifted my arms very slowly to wash my hair, but I just could not sustain the movement. So I turned toward my shower wall, propped up my elbows, and moved my hands around my head as best as I could without using any upper arm/chest strength. It was not the best lather I've ever had.

And now my range of movement is shockingly limited. It will probably be moreso tomorrow, as I did back today and it was just as difficult.

I just want to be able to wash my armpits and wash dishes, you know?

I wish binge watching TV shows was considering exercise. I would be such a professional.

Raise your hand if you want to help me bathe. Unless your chesticles hurt too. Then you wouldn't be able to help me. In fact, you wouldn't even be able to raise your hand. Maybe we could clean each other with our feet.

Okay this just got weird.

Bye.

Mutant Centipede

Tonight, I took a shower. A normal experience on any other day. 

But not this day.

I haven't showered at my apartment since before Thanksgiving break, and apparently one week is enough time to breed a fucking rainforest.

As I was puttin' the 'poo in my hair, I tilted my head back and noticed a very large spider in the ceiling corner above my shower. I did not like this, but he was on the side opposite my head, so I figured I would just grab my swiffer after I got out and murder him. No big deal. 

Side note: I was actually very proud of myself for this, as I have a strong dislike for spiders. I thought it was a phobia, but then I felt a fear like I have never experienced before.

As I went to put the 'poo bottle back in its rightful place, I saw a creature which, even after confirming that it was in fact there, I still do not believe can exist on this planet. I cannot accept that a life form so disgusting found solace in my shower. 

Look at your thumb. Back to me. Back at your thumb. Back to me. Your thumb isn't really that big in the grand scheme of things. But it suddenly seems bigger when it is comparable to the size of a centipede. 

I have never gotten out of a shower faster in my life. I'm pretty sure I still have conditioner in my hair. I have just confirmed: I do still have conditioner in my hair. 

I'm trying to be lighthearted about this, but I honestly did not realize just how terrified I was of those things. I never understood paralyzing fear until I saw the thumb-pede. That sounds ridiculous. And I feel ridiculous. But it's true. I had a legitimate panic attack and hyperventilated for about ten minutes, almost threw up, and somehow got dressed and made it to my couch where I am not moving from until Matthew gets here, which could be hours. 

I kind of have to pee. And I need chapstick. And deodorant. But all that will just have to wait. 

IT WILL JUST HAVE TO. 

Awesome sex

My neighbor's name is Ryan.

How do I know this?

Ryan apparently got himself a girl who forgets all other words when aroused. Oh, and the F word. That one is in there a lot. Ryan and his lady enjoy having very loud and vigorous sex frequently for extended periods of time.

It's pretty exciting.

It was the perfect ending to the chapter of Wintergirls I read last night.

It was a terrific soundtrack to get dressed to before I left for work this evening.

My life has been enhanced by the sound of the amazing, mind-blowing fuckery that has become the surround sound of my bedroom. A porno home theater for free? Who doesn't want that?

Thank you, Ryan and lady friend, for the auditory gift of your coital endeavors. I hope that she is literate and can actually say more than two words so that whatever children may result from these escapades will be successful in the world. Worry not, Ryan, I have no resentment for your shocking 40-minute endurance. It is indeed impressive. I only hope that your female will not wear out over time.

That is all. I hope your evening holds as exciting a soundtrack as mine certainly will.