I can't stand people's shit. I don't mean their problems or their hang-ups or their racist notions (Trent Lott, looking in your direction). No, I mean their physical shit. Can't stand it. And why should I? There are toilets. We have indoor plumbing. Normally, this is not something I am confronted with. Normally, I am shit-free. Normally. Thursday was not a normal day.
See, while I was at work last Thursday, (actually I was here late typing my last entry) my neighbors decided that they had too much shit in their apartment. They wanted to share the wealth of poo going around. "We have all this poo, while they have none!" I bet they were thinking. "We should really find a way to give them some of our poo."
I assure you, good neighbors, we have no need of your poo! No, really! We're full up on the poo right now! We've got two people and a cat living here! And the cat has been unceremoniously dubbed Senor Poopy-pants by not one, but two other residents. So we've really got quite enough poo for the time being. Thanks for asking though. We'll let you know!
It would be nice if the above exchange had actually taken place. What really happened was Booker came home to find about two and a half inches of human waste in the bathtub and a thin layer of it all over the laundry room floor. And every time he turned on the water to try and clean it up, more shit would seep up from the drains.
So obviously we had a sewer back-up. So obviously we phoned the landlord. He obviously should have fixed the problem immediately. I should obviously have my head examined for phoning him to see if the problem had been taken care of. Obviously.
So yeah. It's 11:00 p.m. and our cat is tippy-toeing through the poo, shaking his poor little head and sneezing every few seconds. Sitting down and letting out some god awful meaaaooowllls. Like, I feel for you, kitten.
I have a very sensitive nose. If you burned toast three days ago, I can still smell it in your kitchen. If you painted your nails this morning? I can smell that too. So you can imagine how bad the unholy stench of another person's crapulance affected my nostrils.
We've been doing a lot of mouth breathing at Fort Awesome lately.
So anyway, I'm phoning Greek Gus, the landlord. Booker was trying to keep Wicked quiet so Greek Gus wouldn't know we had him there. We don't really know if we're allowed.
So Gus is all "How dare you wake me from my comfortable slumber I was having in my home that doesn't smell like shit." And I'm frantic as hell with the "Hello, human waste here!" His response. "Well what can I do? It is so late, my dear!"
Goddamn, man! I'm sorry the torrents of SHIT couldn't wait until the morning so it would be convenient for you to make it so I can pee, shower and brush my teeth, but I have to work tomorrow, and Booker's in the middle of final exams! "I will make sure things are fixed tomorrow." Tomorrow, he says.
So I says to him, I says "When, tomorrow?" And he hems and haws and I don't know's. And I'm getting that tone in my voice. You know the one. Like your mom used, only more shrill. Imagine if your mom had found her bathtub full of poop. Yeah. I like that tone of voice even less than you and I'm closer to it.
This guy is like, the worst landlord ever. And I've had some winners let me tell you. There's "tried to scam us into paying for new carpet in one bedroom" landlord, "let me tell you about the itchy red welts on my bum" landlord, and most recently "if a mouse runs across your foot and I don't see it, does the mouse really exist?" landlord. It's not that I don't like adding to my list of crazy, freaky, insane landlords, but dayum! Aren't there any normal people renting houses out there? Is there like, a crazy landlord half-way house trying to re-introduce landlords into society by testing them all out on me first? Is there some big, two way mirror somewhere with scientists on the other side going "I've never seen a facial tick quite like that before."? I am convinced that this is the case.
Anyway, Greek Gus tells me that it's probably because the neighbors tried to replace their toilet by themselves. Without turning the water off. Or calling a plumber. And he neglected to call us and tell us the reason for the shit splattered all over our lives.
At any rate, Booker earned my undying devotion (or at the very least, a free meal) for mopping up the poo on the laundry room floor while I made arrangements for kitten to go to Newbie's place. I could hear him gagging as he did it. This almost makes up for the wookie and dead bird situation.
I called Greek Gus before I went home Friday night and got his wife. "Is fixed. Yah. He fix." She assured me. So I can flush the toilet? I asked. "Yah. Fix good." Okay.
So I went to Walmart and got a squeeze mop, a bucket, rubber gloves, two kinds of cleaners with anti-bacterial promises scrawled all over the bottles, and a germicidal spray. And two boxes of pine smelling plugins. I don't know what the deal is with pine, but let me tell you, those air freshner people knew what they were doing. Pine is the only scent that I think is strong enough to cover the reprehensible smell of excrement.
I got home to find a note taped to our door. It said "Please do not flush toilet. My apartment is flooding." Signed, your dick-ass, idiot-stick neighbor. Really? Is your apartment flooding? I HADN'T NOTICED! BECAUSE I PLAY IN MY OWN FECES EVERY DAY! SO HOW WOULD I NOTICE A DIFFERENCE? "My apartment is flooding." Jesus! Like, why do you think that is, genius?
That note made me so mad. I walked in and flushed the toilet. It felt good. There's no poo coming up from the drains. No big bad rising from beneath my feet. I feel okay with the fact that their apartment is flooding. I was told that my apartment is fixed. I have, in fact, been told that it is "fix good." I will flush as many times as I want to flush. And you can't do a goddamn thing to stop me! I'd like to see you try!
I donned my old, blech sweatpants, and an old work shirt of Dee's and got to work. So now, my laundry room is cleaner than it ever was. My bathtub sparkles. I am reasonably sure that I will not contract typhoid. I had a shower this morning that felt like the best shower in the history of cleanliness. Kitten is back, Booker is asleep, and I am frickin' tired. It's time to go home and make sure there's no poop on the floor of my life. If there is, I quit. Seriously. I'll move back home and find a different job. There's only so much shit a girl can take.
I am watching: The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys.
I am reading: The latest issue of popular science, Maclean's, Entertainment Weekly, and National Geographic. Yesterday was magazine day.
I am listening to: my FT mix of Beatles songs and brit pop from Teggle.
I am feeling: Like shit.
