The Booger Flicker

So, there has been an ongoing problem in my workplace. In the lady's bathroom. And a solution is needed, and quickly. Because it's getting out of hand.

We have a booger flicker on our hands.

In the event that you are unfamiliar with the term or it is not already self-explanatory, we have an employee that goes into the bathroom stall and completely bypasses the obvious usage of toilet paper and flicks or wipes their boogers on the wall. Sometimes, the boogers are found inches from the toilet paper, which means that this person blatantly ignores the toilet paper option and prefers to graffiti the wall with her nose trash.

I find this both objectionable as well as unacceptable. I've decided to become the booger vigilante and I'm determined to find out just who this sick fuck is and bring them to shame. Or justice. But more shame.

I mean we are WOMEN. GROWN ASS WOMEN. Is this really an issue, flicking boogers onto a wall? This would be my expectation of a problem in the bathroom of a daycare. The women on my floor, with the exception of Lady Craft and my direct supervisor, are middle aged or better.

But, here's the good news: Things are looking up. I think I have a lead on who the culprit is.

There is a woman who works on my floor, in a different area. She's this little bit of a thing and so very unfortunate looking. She is the reason I have hope for my love life, because if a women could look like a combination of these two people:

Find someone to settle down with, and pump out a couple of kids (so you know that she and said husband had sex at least twice), there is hope for me. She wears sweatpants to work. And she has bangs that she looks like she cuts herself. And she wore a sweater today. A SWEATER. It's ninety goddamn degrees out! 

Anyways, this woman drops the NASTIEST shits in the world. She's allergic to everything, so I'm pretty sure her gastrointestinal system is all sorts of fucked up, but the ladies in my department (including myself) used to schedule our bathroom trips around this woman. We used to make sure that we never went to the bathroom after 2:22 PM, because that happened to be the time she would go and stink up the joint on a daily basis for the first two or three years that I was at the Inferno. Lately, though, she has been going whenever she damn well pleases, which is just fine with me, I mean when you have to go you have to go. But use the damn spray to tame that god awful cloud of death that hangs over the bathroom after you've left. It's like the bog of eternal stench, sometimes into the next day. 

Today, my supervisor came out of the bathroom. She said that she had tried to go about ten minutes earlier but Miss Stink was just going in and she figured she'd wait. When she couldn't hold it anymore, she took her chances and tried again. And although there was no smell when she walked into the bathroom, there was evidence of booger flicking. A fresh load of them on the wall just below the toilet paper. 

I mean, what is the fascination with the booger flicking? What is the purpose? Why is this person doing this to us? Like, do you enjoy picking your nose so much that you think others will appreciate your showing your support of it by seeing it hanging on the wall? Or is it that you pick your nose and you are just so disgusted by the boogers or yourself that you flick them off your finger quick as they are mined out of your schnoz? Or maybe it's one of those people who like to paint fantastic paintings with poop, maybe she thinks there's a market for booger wall murals, and pink 70s tile is her new medium. 

Whatever it is, it's freaking disgusting. 

What my supervisor and I did was taped a box of tissues next to the toilet paper, kind of like "I Know What You Did This Summer." Tagline: "You left boogers on the bathroom wall." But I mean, if this chick completely disregarded the toilet paper, she'll probably disregard the tissues as well. But at least she'll know that we know. Although I have no idea how she wouldn't have known, since it's common knowledge that once boogers are outside your nose they do not suddenly become invisible. Or go to seed like dandelions and just *poof* fly away. 

I told Sir Riddle about it, and he said to give this woman a break, since she is so unfortunate looking. I say that this is no excuse. As a matter of fact I think that she should work a little harder. I mean, I was a porker once. I didn't have much going for me in the looks department. I was funny and quirky, but that was pretty much where it ended. I had yet to discover tweezers, so I looked like a Hungarian peasant. 

I get it. I mean, everyone picks their nose. Everyone needs to mine some green gold every once in a while. Some people use tissues. Others use their mouths. This woman chooses to flick them on the wall of a publicly used area. But I'm going to exploit her. Someway. Somehow. It will happen. She shall meet justice. And shame. Especially shame. 

Irritants- of the skin and human kind.

There was one thing I forgot to mention last night.

So, I really like it when my neck is kissed or licked or nibbled on. It's a real turn-on for me. Gets me all tingly and jingly. And sir Riddle is more than happy to oblige. Yesterday, however, he may have gotten a bit overzealous after not seeing me for a few weeks.

As I was toweling off from the shower last night, I looked in the mirror and I saw...I saw...

A HICKEY.

In case you don't understand how I may have reacted to finding this, I'll show you kind of what I was like in the mirror:

A HICKEYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, I'll tell you that I don't really mind how I got the hickey. Because that part was really quite enjoyable. That being said, I'm not a fifteen year old slut. I'm a twenty-six year old slut. There is somewhere in the last decade where having a hickey became not so much a badge of honor as a badge of ho. Forget the nor. I mean, for example: I went into Panera a couple of weeks ago, and the guy that was making my salad had a couple of dark hickeys on his neck, and even though he was wearing gloves I legitimately was not sure I wanted him to be making my salad. True story. 

Anyways, I thought about taking a comb to it because the last time I had one I think I was fifteen and I tried to "disguise" it by putting a finger band-aid on it (because it was the biggest one I could find) and wearing a cloth headband around my neck with a broach and I called it a "necklace". That really fooled people. This guy that had a crush on me- it just so happens this same guy is 100% guaranteed to be at the wedding and perhaps the only one that will say hi to me besides my ex- knew the minute he saw me and wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the summer. Apparently summer is the only time of year I really get hickeys. Maybe my slender neck is so much more edible during this season, I'm not sure. Thank god there are no zombies around. I just know that I have never had one in the winter, when I could actually cover it up with a nice turtleneck. I remember that I took a comb to it and it seemed to help it along. Although I'm not sure if this was more wishful thinking and seeing what I wanted than it actually disappearing. 

I don't really have time for the comb. I don't really have time to cover it up with makeup in the morning, either. So I am reduced to hair fixing. I mean, thank god that this didn't happen when I cut my hair in the "pixie" style (aka lesbian short), where I had no coverage. And thank god I wasn't still with Signor Nookie, because then I would just be plain screwed, and I probably would have forcibly given one to Sir Riddle so that he could go down on the ship with me. Here is the one thing that I must remember at all costs: DO NOT FLIP YOUR HAIR. I have fixed it about my shoulders so it covers my neck with semi-accuracy, and it is hot as freaking hell, but at least I won't get questions from my co-workers at the Inferno. Because at times it seems like a henhouse in there, a bunch of clucking. 

About two hours before I left work, I got a little visit from this guy that works in another department at the Inferno. He used to be in this little menial position at a completely different town from where I am, and although even now that he is still in a different building, he visits like two or three times A DAY. And his department does not have anything to do with mine. He says that he's just bored and figures he'll just come over and see what's up. What's up is that you got your job with absolutely none of the credentials listed for the job position so you don't know what you're doing and they're paying you to do nothing but be a social butterfly, which they deserve since I'm pretty sure the only reason you got the job is because you're the only swinging dick who applied. And he acts like his job is so fucking tough, I want to punch him in his stupid face. 

He's a fat fucktard. Now, I know that you are probably thinking that I have it out for the fatties, that I'm somehow prejudiced against them. I'm really not. In all honesty, I used to be a fatty myself, well over two hundred pounds. My single, biological father used to make me a snack of saltines with slabs of butter on them. He used to make me PB,B&J sandwiches. In case you don't know what that means, it means peanut butter, butter, and jelly. Yeah, he put butter on it, on the side opposite of the peanut butter because he claimed that it kept the jelly from soggy-ing up the bread. You know what also does that? A little more peanut butter. Just a smidgeon. My grandparents used to butter my pop tarts in the morning. Listen, I get it. Food is delicious. Butter was my weakness. My name is Miss Mused and I am a butter addict. If butter was in trouble, I would don my superhero cape and fight to the death to save it. But it bothers me that people are that fat. Like, they say "oh, genetics," or "oh, processed foods," or "oh, it's just big bones." Really, your bones are six inches thick? Give me a break. My biological father is so fat his legs can no longer support the growth of hair because the skin is so stretched. He's like four to five hundred pounds. You don't see me that big. It takes discipline. The first step is putting down the butter-sicle. 

Anyways, this guy, I used to be ok with him. I thought eh, he's alright. He would call me and shoot the shit for a minute, but then a customer would come and save me and I got to throw my phone back on the receiver. That was before he was on my home turf, and I had to have exposure to him EVERY GODDAMN DAY. Now I think he's freaking annoying. I can't stand this guy. Like now he calls for every little thing, and since he works in a completely unrelated department, I have to consistently repeat myself that I can't help him. If you know Miss Mused, you know that I cannot stand repeating myself. It is like my number one pet peeve. If I have to ask someone to repeat themselves more than once, I just kind of fake a response like I heard them and hope it wasn't too important. If I have to repeat myself more than once, I either tell the person to never mind, or I speak very loud and very slow, like I'm talking to the mentally disabled who is also hard of hearing. He's also one of those people that is an over apologizer, which drives me fucking nuts. Like I could answer the phone and he could be saying "Hey, how's it going?" and later he'll be like: "Oh my god, I just wanted to apologize for asking you how it was going, I didn't mean it. I was in a mood, I'm so sorry. Here, I cut off my testicles and put it in a jar for you. Please accept it with my sincerest apologies as I had no right to ask how your day was going." As Garfield the cat would say: Argh. 

Well, I used to put these little payday going-out-for-drinks get togethers for some of the people here that I like. I was taking a break for awhile because a)the last time I was the only girl that showed, b) it was a ruse to spend more time with Sir Riddle and he doesn't work there anymore, c) it was nice to get away from Signor Nookie for a night, d) I am flat broke and have no money for superfluous restaurant food stuffs, and e) the last time the guys gave me a hard time about not reserving a table near a table near a television so they could watch "the game." I say that in quotations because I really don't remember nor care what game was being played, it could have been curling for all I care. And now Lumpy McSorry has got it in his head that he's going to set it up and has been talking about it for literally THREE MONTHS. And it's always the same conversation, and it's really the only thing that's holding this sick and sad "co-worker-ship" together, like he's going to be sending out an email momentarily, and I'm so glad I didn't hold my breath because I would be worm food right now. JUST PULL THE DAMN TRIGGER DUDE, IT'S A FREAKING EMAIL. The only way in hell I'm going is if Sir Riddle is going. Or Lady Craft. Sometimes I think I might be slightly in love with Lady Craft. I bask in her attention. Last night we spent hours sending humor pins to one another on Pinterest. We have so much in common and always have so much fun together. Although I lover her newborn son dearly, I'm a little jealous of him sometimes because he gets all this time with her and her attention, and I don't. Jesus, what's wrong with me. 

He freaks me out, Lumpy McSorry. I wouldn't be half surprised if I'm watching the news one day (and I mean one day, because I never watch the news, and it would have to be the one day I was watching) and they've found fourteen dead bodies in his basement. His girlfriend of like a ridiculous amount of time, like five years or something which I think is just too long to just be dating, she lives in Boston. She's cheated on him, which for some reason really makes me want to find out what she looks like. I'm dying to know, in all seriousness. To give you an idea of what he looks like, besides being large and oddly proportioned, he has an abnormally large bottom lip that hangs out and has these eyebrows that seem to be caterpillars coming in for a little smooch on the top of his jutting forehead. And because I'm sick and love to torture myself through my mind, I try to picture him humping and pumping some girl and I have no idea what type of girl would find him attractive. Honestly, I'm not 100% convinced that she even exists, because I've heard that he is a conjurer of fabrication. And you can practically smell the desperation on him: like the apologizing thing, it's so emasculating. 

I would say that I've begun to dread his presence, but it's well beyond that. He is the bane of my existence. I cannot stand the sight of him in my meager cube or the appearance of his extension on my phone. Whenever the name L MCSORRY comes up on my email, I want to run away from my computer like it's out of some Stephen King novel. I pick up the phone and call my mother when he comes into my department so I have an excuse not to talk to him. If she doesn't pick up, I sit and pray to the gods of the switchboard to give me a customer. And I hate customers. So, the jist of these past six paragraphs is, he's annoying, and I wish he would leave me alone. 

There is another guy that I work with, we call him Dip, he spent a majority of his day on the phone about his daughter making B-squad in basketball. This guy is the epitome of what is wrong with America today. It drives me fucking INSANE. She didn't make the A-squad and it's like he and his wife are in turmoil over it. Oh my god, Susan, she didn't make the A-squad. We should probably disown her and leave a bottle of your Valium pills by her nightstand with a big 'ol glass of water. Who the fuck cares that she didn't get on the A-squad. She is a kid, she's resilient. So what she's not on the same squad with her friends, she'll learn to make new ones. But no, you're going to call every coach and neighbor and daughter's friend's parents and she'll learn nothing. Just coddle her for the rest of her life, until you die and she's learned ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. 

Two of the people that I respect most in this world, my mother and my grandfather, taught me that life was not fair. It is one of the first things I can remember learning. And I was WAY younger than thirteen, which happens to be the age of Dip's daughter. When I was twelve, my parents signed me up for a swimming class at the local community pool. I walked into the pool area, and all the kids were around the age of six. SIX! I was mortified. And it was a month-long course. And the real shame is that I don't really swim all that much, so the doggy paddle wouldn't have done me wrong necessarily. But what I did learn was that I had to deal with it. It's life. God, why can't parents make their kids see that? 

A Case of the Mondays.

Sorry, Office Space.

Today I woke up late, as I do most Mondays. And, since I no longer have a cable box I had no idea what time it was while I was getting ready, so luckily I looked at my phone while I was eating breakfast and realized I should have left four minutes ago.

I talked to Sir Riddle all the way to work. We really didn't have the chance to talk all weekend since he had a birthday party in Stonington yesterday. We didn't even get the chance to say goodnight. He said that he had a dream about me last night from when he was in Technical School, and I was in uniform with a button shirt, skirt, and heels (how dream impractical of me). I told him that I started a blog, and dread him to try to find it (he can't). I told him about the code names and he asked if I took acid (so what if I did) (I didn't). I told him about some of the things I made. Sometimes I feel like I do too much talking. Like...I feel like I dominate most of the phone conversations. I love hearing his voice (save for the times he's road raging against someone in the Capitol City), but I just have so much to say and not enough time to say it.

I switched hours with my good friend Lady Craft, so I get out a bit early on Thursday. Stupidly, I asked Sir Riddle what he was doing on Thursday, thinking maybe we could spend time together. It may be the paranoia from this acid, but I swear he's starting to COME UP with lame ass excuses as to why we can't hang out. I mean, seriously? Not ONE DAY in three weeks you can find in your busy life (in which you get out at 11:00 AM two days a week) to spend with Miss Mused? Hmmm...I'm starting to think the acid has a point.

Anyways, I got a couple of phone calls from places I have applied for jobs. It's a better response than I got the last time I tried this, about two or three years ago, but then again perhaps I have that "experience" those places claimed I didn't have all those numerous years ago. Honestly, I can tell you that I don't have a lick more experience than I did three years ago, but whatever makes these recruiters and HR Managers sleep at night. Funnily enough, I had a place that I had applied to because they had openings for administrative assistants within their company- and I dunno, something about this company really rubbed me the wrong way. I applied, and then the next day I get an email from the President of the company, stating that he had recently relocated from Kentucky (say whaaaat), that he had multiple openings and pays for training and to contact his secretary SHYLA for more information. It's just odd. I mean, I'm used to companies that send you a cursory email saying "we've received your resume, and will be in touch with you if you meet the requirements of the job." NOT one that says "Hey, we liked you, now contact my secretary." Anyways, I didn't get this email until Friday night, so I figured I would contact them on Monday. Negative. On Saturday, as I'm driving with my parents to see Grammie Mused, SHYLA calls me. And she asks me if I'm free to talk to her. I wanted to be like, lady, SHYLA, it's Saturday. I'm doing my own thing. Buzz off. But I said that I would contact her on Monday when she and I were back in the office, and today she sends me an email saying that they had interviewing sessions that they were scheduling on Wednesday from 9:30 AM-2:30 PM. I wanted to be like, a) thanks for the short notice, and b) yeah, that totally works with my work schedule, everyone knows that the Inferno industry is only open from 12:00 AM to 6:00 AM, so that's perfect. I just made up some thing about being offered a job opportunity and sent SHYLA on her way. The company, I think, is most likely a scam. Or some sales job that I most definitely do not want.

Another place contacted me though, that is in the Goblin City, so I'm a little excited in my drawers about that one.

Funny enough, I thought about telling SHYLA that the Inferno had given me the promotion that I had been wanting as one of my lame excuses, and I get pulled down to one of the (fifty) Vice President's office with my Manager at about 3:30 PM. And as I'm walking down behind my manager, I'm thinking that:
a) they finally read all of those emails between Sir Riddle and I, and are canning my ass.
b) they are tired of me bitching about the health insurance and want to school me on how "great" it is.
c) the Vice President wants to talk about some more Maine restaurants (he spent a half hour earlier today bending my ear about it. What does that mean, anyways, bending your ear?).
d) they are, actually, finally (after five and a half goddamn years) promoting me.
It turns out that it was (kinda) option D. Although I'm not sure if it's a little too little, too late at this point. But the Vice President told me that he has plans for my department, and things that he would like to see me do in preparations for those plans, as then I could move into a better position. I hope that means both better position as I don't have to talk to all these uneducated assholes all day long, as well as I get paid better than a manager at a fast food restaurant (which, sadly, I have considered doing since I make ABOUT the same amount, and I have a freakin' degree). But I have my doubts, since I've heard this whole song and dance from the previous regime. Although they did tell me some things that made me feel better about previous gripes that I had- people that have been promoted, people that get the employee of the month, etc. Basically, both of these people (the promoted-s and the monther-s) are both so far up all the higher up's ass, the higher ups could probably taste their boogers. And that's not me. I mean, I'm nice and I'm helpful, but I'm no kiss-ass. Perhaps this is my problem within the corporate realm.

I also had to pull out the bitch guns with my PCP's office today. I had called them on Friday because I wanted a referral to see a gastroenterologist for some...butt problems I've been having (thank you Signor Nookie) since February. I had surgery for the problem at my PCP's office earlier this year, and have had problems ever since there, off and on every couple of weeks. So I thought, hey, maybe there's something I can do since I'm so close to this $1500 deductible on my health insurance plan, so if surgery is needed this is the year to do it. But, they never got back to me on Friday, and today when I called they said they needed me to come into the office.

I'm sorry, do you think I'm faking hemorrhoids? Do you think that I want to go see a gastroenterologist if I don't have to? Do you think I just have surgeries all the time on a whim? Like, hey, you know what I could really use, is a triple bypass. I mean, this shit is ridiculous. Who do I need to blow to get a fucking referral? You know I have them, you fucking cut one off of my ass earlier this year, so just give me a goddamn referral. But all these doctors only care about the almighty buck. He just wants to get his piece of the pie before this other doctor does. Well, guess what my friend, you're not getting a PENNY more out of me after this. So good job.

Anyways, I'm off to talk to Mister Wit. I want to see how his pioneer weekend, and if he has any more witch-like suspects. ;)

Lazy Sunday

Today I woke up late, which is my favorite thing to do on a Sunday. And then I made waffles, which is my second favorite thing to do on a Sunday (right after a cup of coffee).

I spent much of the day crafting, taking men's polos and creating peplum tops out of them. It's fairly easy, but there is a great tutorial on it here. She uses an elastic to create the gathered effect on the bottom half of the shirt, but I find a long straight stitch (on my Husqvarna the stitch length is a 6.0) with long tail ends also do the trick.

I also made a great Rorschach print on a plain old flyaway top that I never wear in my closet, and now I can't wait to wear it.

The tutorial for it is here, (I love INSTRUCTABLES, and they have a new app at the Playstore and App Store) although the short and skinny of it is putting a piece of cardboard underneath it, in between the two layers, and dripping some Tulip Soft Fabric Paint onto it and folding the cardboard in half. The paint dries rather quickly, so you don't have to wait on the cardboard long (and I wouldn't, since it bleeds through and may dry to the cardboard if you leave it on too long). 

If you want my psychiatric reading of this shirt, I see a warrior with a painted face, wearing a tiger's head on his own. Don't know what that says about me, but there it is. 

I spoke to Sir Riddle earlier this morning, when we had a discussion about the proper topping of waffles. I believe it is simply maple syrup and butter, while he believes it is strawberries and maple syrup. The strawberries, meh. I love them on cereal, but on a hot waffle? Then my damned phone went dead, and I haven't had a chance to talk to him since; he and Mrs. Riddle went to a birthday party hours ago and I have yet to get another text. It appears my treasured Sir Riddle has forgotten about me, a frequent if not temporary condition. 

I fixed my garbage disposal! Well, not fixed. More like hit the reset button I didn't know existed on the bottom of the unit. And now it works again! Glory be! 

Today, I made brown sugar bourbon glazed corned beef in my crock pot. The recipe can be found at the crock pot god's website. I don't know if you have ever heard of Stephanie O'Dea, but the woman is ah-maze-ing. She does some wonderful things with crock potting (is that a new verb?) and her recipes are, for the most part, wonderful. From the small piece I had, it was delicious. And I took the leftover glaze and made a brine of beer and beef broth and glaze and boiled some cabbage and carrots in it. 

I also made a Strawberry Quinoa Salad (pronounced Keen-Wah according to my beloved Sir Riddle) and a Cashew Thai Quinoa Salad with Peanut Dressing for lunches this week. Both, from my small taste tests (ahem) were delicious. 

I invited Mother and Father Mused over for dinner this week for pulled pork sandwiches, at which Father Mused nearly cried in excitement. 

Mother Mused and I went to a used record store today a few towns over to look for Gordon Lightfoot CDs. I bought a Beatle's and Billy Joel's greatest hits album for a cool $20.00. There is this song on Gordon Lightfoot's CD called "Beautiful" that is such a wonderful song. He sang it at the concert that he sang a few weeks ago, and the lyrics are, for lack of a better word, beautiful. 

We also went to Panera for lunch, and I indulged with the Shrimp and Soba Noodle Salad, which is TO DIE FOR, in case you haven't had it. I always get a little jumpy about seafood at chain and/or new restaurants, but the shrimp is delicious in this salad. I also noticed that an old peer of mine from middle and high school is the manager at the Panera there; he used to be the manager at the one near me. It's strange, I'm not sure if it's here or something...

People act like they don't know each other around these parts. Even if you went to seven years of school together, even if you had a project with them that made them call your house at 6:00 AM for almost two weeks straight, even if you had a huge crush on them but they decided that (Check All that Apply):

A) You were not pretty enough

B) You were too fat

C) You were not in the same hierarchical popularity class as he

D) You were a nerd, which is apparently a bad thing, or 

E) ALL OF THE ABOVE. 

They'll still act like they don't know who you are, even to the point of leaving you mid-smile of recognition, looking stupid nodding and smiling. I mean, what is that anyways, the nodding and smiling thing? Happy yes? Yes happy? 

Anyways, I've gotten used to it. Believe it or not (I'm sure it will come to you as no big surprise), Miss Mused was no popular girl in high school. Far from it. She dated the wrong guy her freshman year of high school who had a very unfortunate (yet accurate) nickname which she neither can nor will disclose here, and that branded her future life in the confines of the high school. However, I cannot complain. Being a wallflower has its perks. People don't know who you are, so they consistently leave you out of high school activities post-high school. It's just an oddity of social norms around the Goblin Kingdom.