The worst jobs to be working when you have to… you know… poop.

So, obviously, I’m a female and a classy, sophisticated member of an evolved species, so I don’t do it, but the subject came up; so here it goes. My apologies.

I work for a company that is growing way faster than it anticipated. In fact, it is growing so fast that some newer employees do not even have desks. One of the conference rooms has been temporarily transformed into a workspace, and about eight people share the conference table in a fishbowl-like glass room. More office space is currently being conquered, but in the meantime we all have to endure some pretty crowded quarters.

A prime example of this would be the fact that I am never the only person in the ladies’ room. There are only three stalls, and they are nearly always full. This creates an awkward moment when I have to stand idly waiting, slowly realizing that the smell and the silence of the room (no one is grabbing for the TP yet) indicate that at least two out of the three stall-dwellers are dropping their respective deuces as I try not to be in the way of the girl who is washing her hands, pray I don’t get smacked by the door if someone else comes in, and pretend I can’t see right through the crack of the first stall.

Any time I’m in the ladies’ room alone is a time for celebration, even if I’m only there to look in the mirror or wash my hands. It’s such a glorious occasion that it makes me want to save up my pee and claim every throne to be mine – like my dog used to do with bushes on a ten foot walk.

Now, I’m not one to shit where I eat, or work where I shit, or whatever, but I am surprised by the sheer number of females who partake. I have to admit, it would be nice to know that I was being paid to drop the kids off at the pool; it would take “stickin’ it to the man” to a whole new level of satisfaction. Still, the thought of having to commit such a heinous act (haha, it sounds like anus) in the middle of that small and crowded, sorry excuse for a female latrine, makes me think I’d rather make like Finch in American Pie and just go home, if the situation presented itself.

So, I know that I still haven’t gotten to the point here (and I thank you for sticking around when the topic is so… shitty); allow me to transition into the point of discussion that was brought about the other day while the husband and I were walking home:

My job would be a terrible place to be working when someone has to… you know… poop. BUT, I have a theory that there are some professions out there that are FAR worse off.

Public transportation driver. 

 I have a theory that every time the L train goes “express” and kicks everyone off, it’s because the driver’s got to drop off a brown package, and might not make it to the station in time to deliver.

Race Car Driver

 I’d bet a nearly worthless American dollar bill that a good portion of accidents in NASCAR have been caused by a driver getting the shitty shakes.

Plumber

This guy is IN YOUR HOUSE. He's fixing some plumbing issues, which may have been caused by this very same situation (but by someone who owns the toilet in turmoil), and can’t contain himself. It’s one thing to clog your own toilet… but when you’re in someone else’s house it becomes Harry in Mary Swanson’s bathroom all over again. Awkwardness ensues… turning on a faucet, over flushing, coughing, ANYTHING to make it sound like you’re not dropping a deuce in a stranger’s john. What are your other options, though? Pinch your cheeks and drive to a Micky D’s to use a public restroom like a peasant, when this person has such soft yet durable Charmin? Not gonna happen.

There are also professions that seem like they would be terrible, but really wouldn’t be so bad… as long as you’re into finishing the rest of your shift in your own feces.

Professional football player

Astronaut

  

These dick holes wear diapers! They are grown-ass human beings (but not so grown that society deems diaper-donning normal again), and they willingly strap on the Huggies before they punch their time cards. What a bunch of lazy, disgusting, rich mother fuckers. 

xoxo.

Brace yourselves... the election is coming...

With the election approaching, everything is on the line. Do we re-elect the guy who has been (slowly) moving us in the right direction? Or do we say fuck it and elect the white guy again and see what happens? 

Don't come at me with pitchforks; I know there is more to it than that: foreignpolicyeconomytaxes99percentabortiongaymarriagereligionhealthcaresmallbusinessjobsFREEDOMetc.

Does it even matter? When you really break it down, line by line, both candidates are in favor of some things that I am morally against. Both are against or indecisive on matters which I approve and would rally for. 

BUT, with all of this weighing on my mind, all I can think is

xoxo

Dreams are like zombies… I hope.

My entire life I have been told to dream.

“You can be anything you want to be.”

My eager, childish mind was filled with hopes and aspirations which stretched further than imagination itself – a rockstar life, pools filled with Jell-O and hundred dollar bills, a unicorn pony in my back yard – all backed up with the notion that the world would welcome adult-me open armed, bursting with opportunity and no career out of reach.

Ok, so maybe I had big dreams to begin with, that’s not the point.

What childhood failed to mention was that every job has some sort of prerequisite – whether it be a high school diploma, a college degree, a talent that was discovered early and improved upon over time, or simply the ability to be an asshole all day long.

Customary side note: If I show up at the coffee shop before 6am, excuse the fuck out of me for forgetting what your specific shop calls a large.

I’m up before the fucking dawn, my friend. Just put some caffeine – espresso, coffee… hell, I’d take a redbull at this point – in any cup behind your ivory counter that’s big enough to cure my ZZZs… I think there’s a common word for “big” that’s sometimes used in the restaurant industry, I just can’t quite… LARGE. It’s a large. Survey says… LARGE! And the Jarvis family gets to play Fast Money!

I know it’s not that hard. I know that you have special terms for it, but you know that you’re not the only coffee shop in this area and you know god damned well that hipster shop doesn’t give me this crap – the only reason I’m here is that you’re closer to where I need to be at this painfully early moment.

I filed in here with the rest of these sleep depraved zombies looking for my morning fix, and we’re all lucky I was awake enough to manage clothes. Your pious, bright-eyed attitude is enough to make me want to rally up these zombies for the attack.

So, I had dreams. Some of them did not turn out, but that’s ok. It wasn’t really logical for me to become a country singer, because I don’t have a southern accent. And it was silly of me to think I wanted to work as an entertainer, because it isn’t as exciting as it sounds to a child – blinded by innocence, I never thought about the creepy old men who spend entire pension checks at those places… eew. And, going to Harvard was never a realistic goal – mainly because I didn’t really know what “Harvard” was, I just figured if I went there I’d make a fuckton of money.

I didn’t understand that I would first need to have a fuckton of money to even be accepted.

After learning a bit more about the world that we live in, I decided to zone in on one dream – a bit more realistic – and that was to become a teacher. I have always loved learning and helping others learn. My stuffed animals had an amazing AYP, and they did story problems better than most of the kids in my third grade class.

  

I was born to teach, because I love to inspire. This seemed like a reachable goal; all I needed was a degree and a certification. That would be like taking candy from a baby – if the candy was a degree and certification and the baby was an established university.

… and “taking” was paying tens of thousands of dollars (not including interest accrued on loans) and devoting years of my life to schooling.

After spending the most recent part of my life chained to a no-degree-required cubicle with a handful of overly energetic micromanagers barking orders at me every five minutes for 50 mandatory hours a week and pressuring me to work nights and weekends (yeeeeaaaahhhh, we’re gonna need you to come in on Saturdaaaaay), I have come to suspect that I can essentially wipe my ass with the piece of paper that has plunged me into debt for 3 – 4 times the number of years that I was in college in the first place – and the only thing college was good for in the end was being irresponsible and making friends.

If I would have only suspected this sooner, I would have been involved in way more shenanigans, worried less, spent all of my grant money on booze, and put in just enough effort to pass – because no recruiters look at your GPA anyway, so what was the point?

Something that my high school counselor failed to mention? Our country is in a rut, and there are basically 5 open teaching positions in the entire United States. There would have been a few more, but some asshole decided to fire a ton of great teachers and increase the average class size to about 200 to one. They killed education… those bastards.

So, degree and certification in hand, tail between my legs, I have turned to Corporate America for a paycheck in order to pay back the sickening amount of loans which I have amassed. Even though my country is in debt up to its ass, they will come after me, the painfully deceived citizen, if I neglect to repay the debt that I was told I needed to accumulate to become a successful part of society. My so-called “realistic” dream has died, just like all of the childish ones.

I’m just hoping that dreams are like zombies; they come back after death with more strength than they had when they were alive.

xoxo