A Nature Special In The Kitchen

Yesterday was not a good day on a lot of levels.

Sometimes I'm stressed but more or less ok: I tell myself that if I fail the bar, I'll just take it again in February and that I will pass and that I'll get a job and I'll be able to pay off my loans and it will all be ok and the world will not end. That's what I tell myself.

But somedays I don't quite buy it, and I get jittery and stressed and so perhaps I need a drink to settle my nerves so I can continue productively studying. Yesterday was one of those days.

EZ was sharing my anxiety, so we decided to have an afternoon cocktail. I proceeded to the bar to retrieve some glasses and said something like "Goodness it's dusty over here. It' s like something died."

EZ, viewing dust as our common enemy, came over to inspect our dust problem, when his face contorted and he said "Something did die."

I took a closer look and -good god- realized that there was a dead mouse nestled in the glassware. EZ had said several weeks ago that he thought he heard skittering, but I told him that a) he was completely paranoid and b) he was imagining things. Guess he gets the last laugh on that one.

But what I love is that even though my mind processed what it was (i.e. a dead mouse) my consciousness didn't allow it to process (i.e. [chuckle] *looks* like something died over here). I guess that's how the Stepford wives do it. But hey, when you're already stressed out to pre-heart attack levels that last thing you need is a dead creature as a momento mori. Would you like a side order of death with your bad day? Apparently so.

Also, dead mousie had been on the bar for a *while* and was at fist only visible as a puff of fur which looked like a ton of dust. But on closer inspection, you can see the little carcas complete with maggots at work (if you click on the picture you can enlarge). It's like having a PBS special on what happens after death going on in the kitchen. EZ and I both wanted to retch as we realized we had been using glasses off the bar for a few days now without having noticed the creature (for the record, we were using smaller glasses from a different section of the bar).

And as bad as seeing the dead creature is, dealing with it is much worse. EZ and I flew into a panic realizing we actually had to deal with this and decided to consult with Tiny, who was upstairs and unaware of the critter. We basically just shouted "Oh my god" and "gross" at each other for about five minutes before trying to come up with a disposal plan.

My first impulse (which I did not share) was to vacuum the damn thing up. But I was afraid that it might clog up the vacuum or, depending on it's stage of decomposition, break up as it was being vacuumed sending maggots everywhere. Either prospect is horrifying so I kept it to myself. Tiny volunteered to dispose of it once provided with gloves and many many plastic bags. EZ, being man of the house, pulled himself together and said he'd do it and before losing his nerve he quickly grabbed a cereal box from the recycling bag and scopped the mess into the trash. Clearly I am worthless as I volunteered to do nothing.

I am going to need to be very very drunk by July 26. Please make the bad man stop.








Present Terror Level: 5 Bobby Pins

The Female Urinal Cake?

At our Bar review location the janitorial staff seems to be reacting negatively to the students.

I have come to this conclusion because they have left what must be urinal cakes on the floor, under the sinks in the ladies room. Not only do these items have the unholy pink complexion of a urinal cake, but they emanate that pungent smell of chemicals meant to cover the smell of pee but actually smells worse than pee. Like weed, urinal cake smell is unmistakable. And revolting.

This incident reminds me of this idiot I used to work with whose Turkish girlfriend put stick-ups -which may I remind you, you're supposed to put in a trashcan- in his car. Consequently his car smelled like a trash can, due not only to the stick-ups but also his special funk, and it always made me slightly queasy to be in or around. She was apparently unfamiliar with the car air freshener. Similarly, urinal cakes in the female bathroom seem at the least a misuse of materials, and at most unnecessary.

Honestly, I know that if I were ever pregnant/suffering from food poisoning one whiff of the bathroom I must use would cause me to empty the ol' digestive track. Then it would become an endless cycle: I would need to be in the bathroom to vomit, but the smell that caused me to vomit would be in the bathroom. Thank god I'm not pregnant/suffering from food poisoning. However, I hope we can make peace with the janitorial staff.

And now gentle reader, you may ask, how is it that I know so intimately the urinal cake? Well, before I worked for the museum I was summer help at my college school of the arts in the facilities office. My duties included things like cutting locks of lockers, delivering the mail, and other assorted gopher work. My favorite activity while on duty was to read a magazine called Bathroom World.

Bathroom World was magical. Not only advertised were many different types of urinal cakes, but the ad wizards at bathroom world had thoughtfully staged a number of tableaux to advertise their products. My favorite one depicted an older wheel chair bound man chatting to a young boy in the comfort of a Bathroom World commercial bathroom. Because men of all ages stop to chat in the bathroom. Right guys?

No matter how many times I had read it, I could pick it up, open it to any page, and it would cause me to giggle. Sadly, the Facilities Manager deemed my love of Bathroom World to be slightly unnatural, and threw it out on my day off.

I was devastated.