Hello, worker bees.
Every weeknight the cleaning fairies stop by your workplace to scrub and vacuum and dust and mop. I’m one of them; I’m a cleaning fairy. My magic wand is a goddamn toilet brush.
This is not a fun job. Or a career choice. This is a last resort. I don’t enjoy cleaning up after you.
When you go home, after a hard day of computer solitaire and trolling the Internet, our work begins. We schlep along darkened, empty hallways pushing a cleaning cart laden with solvents and brooms and dust cloths and, most crucially, rubber gloves. Crucial because you’re slobs with wildly bad aim. I mean it.
You can’t hit your mouths, or the wastebasket, or the toilet. Frankly, I don’t think you even try. Food and trash are everywhere. Coffee stains every surface from the floor up. Crusty dishes and leaky ketchup packets and soggy tea bags abound. We won’t even discuss the bathrooms, I just can’t (quick gag reflex). But I’m curious about one thing: what do you do with the toilet paper in the women’s room? Stuff your bras with it? Smuggle it? You may need a doctor.
Here’s something for you trivia buffs: men use soap more often than women. Plus, their bathroom is a surgical suite compared to the women’s, which has acrylic nails and eyebrow hair stuck to the sinks. Among other things. Ladies’ room is a terrible misnomer; there’s nothing ladylike about it.
However, we, the cleaning fairies, ignore the unpleasantness. We suck it up and go about the business of making everything all spic and span, so you get off to a fresh, clean start each morning. In return, we receive a hastily written note declaring the bathroom mirror ‘filmy.’ Hmm. The mirror? No kidding?
Dear Eagle Eyed Office Shrew:
Go shit in your hat and pull it down for curls. ¹
copyright © 2014 little ittys
¹ We don’t do hair.