Carting in the Ladies Room -- Be back real soon
I'm only trying to make the mail run a little less dismal.
For some reason, the powers (it might as well be Stephanie Powers if I'm referring to the level of earned control of the administration) that be thought it was a good idea to keep the ever-so-handy chrome carts in the first floor women's restroom.
I don't like going into the women's restroom, particularly this one because it smells like vanilla feet. I'm jealous because they sofas, chairs and side tables too. They have an entire living room where the deed is done. I'm fairly certain that most women (except Trudy, she's beggin for it) would rather I stayed out as well. Men don't talk in public restrooms regularly unless it's the following statements:
"I guess paper towels are a thing of the past."
"Where's my sharpie? I guess I'll have to use my pocket knife"
"Sirs, you are under arrest."
Each day, I face this dilemma and it's usually rendered by asking a female coworker to retrieve the cart for me and I'll set it outside the women's restroom when completed.
I try not to let this frustrate me so. Since living in my thirties, I try to only let the things worth getting frustrated over, frustrate me. With that said, today's coping mechanism went as follows:
While strolling the cart along the hallway, there were a few colleagues' office doors open. With a brightly glazed look in my eye, I walked in, took an attractive item off of their desk, put it in the cart, and went on my way looking slowly in all directions above me.
When I complete the mail run, I returned the items to them stating that I saw this while I was shopping and thought of them.
Pathetic.
For some reason, the powers (it might as well be Stephanie Powers if I'm referring to the level of earned control of the administration) that be thought it was a good idea to keep the ever-so-handy chrome carts in the first floor women's restroom.
I don't like going into the women's restroom, particularly this one because it smells like vanilla feet. I'm jealous because they sofas, chairs and side tables too. They have an entire living room where the deed is done. I'm fairly certain that most women (except Trudy, she's beggin for it) would rather I stayed out as well. Men don't talk in public restrooms regularly unless it's the following statements:
"I guess paper towels are a thing of the past."
"Where's my sharpie? I guess I'll have to use my pocket knife"
"Sirs, you are under arrest."
Each day, I face this dilemma and it's usually rendered by asking a female coworker to retrieve the cart for me and I'll set it outside the women's restroom when completed.
I try not to let this frustrate me so. Since living in my thirties, I try to only let the things worth getting frustrated over, frustrate me. With that said, today's coping mechanism went as follows:
While strolling the cart along the hallway, there were a few colleagues' office doors open. With a brightly glazed look in my eye, I walked in, took an attractive item off of their desk, put it in the cart, and went on my way looking slowly in all directions above me.
When I complete the mail run, I returned the items to them stating that I saw this while I was shopping and thought of them.
Pathetic.