Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Adventures in living with grandpa...

Fair warning.

If you are easily grossed out, stop reading now. REALLY.

(Because I am not easily grossed out, and when these events transpired, even I was seriously wanting to vomit... Holly, you'll like this one.)

I had a little break in my workday today. I had meetings from 8AM to noon. From noon until three, I had a break. I like having this break. It gives me a chance to do whatever I need to do during the day, because I know that after three, I'm pretty solidly booked... And by solidly booked, I don't mean for just the rest of the day, I mean this is really my only genuine break all week. This break aside, I get the occasional fifteen minutes here and there, but even those breaks are hard to come by. (Most days I don't get lunch.)

This is ok by me. I accept it as a part of my job. And I like my job. Really I do. But when you think about it, I go to my office, I do social work all day, and when I come home at night... Oh, yeah, I get to have social work time too, only this time it's with my own family. So it's basically social work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for the Lizzle. I've grown accustomed to it with remarkable speed, if I do say so myself.

But I digress.

In my little break today, I decided to go to lunch with a few co-workers, (including the less-hot, albeit single male). After lunch, I came home to "clean my room" because the old man in his passive-aggressive way decided to tell my mom that my room was not quite up to snuff. He never said a word to me, but from what I heard from a reliable source, he was very unhappy.

Now let's keep in mind that I am a night person. I don't function well in the mornings. This makes me VERY unlikely to ever make my bed. EVER. This alone is enough to drive the old man up a wall. (He's a military man. He's kooky about stuff like that.) Add in a pile of clean, but non-folded laundry, it's a recipe for a meltdown.

He is a stickler for these stupid things that don't really matter. I mean as long as I don't mind crawling into an unmade bed at night, who is it going to hurt? And as long as I can find something that is clean, wrinkle-free, and presentable to wear in the morning, I could give a rat's pink ass if the rest of my clean laundry has been folded, stacked, and sorted by color.

What gets me, is that while he is a stickler for these stupid things that have NO impact on him, or anyone else for that matter, he apparently lets a noticeably bigger issue slide.

(I'm serious about the easily-grossed-out people stopping now... I'm not responsible if you keep reading from here on out.)

So today, after my lunch, I came home, made my bed, and I folded my laundry to appease the old codger. And before heading back to work, I thought I'd go into the bathroom and pee so that I wasn't forced to hold it for the next five hours while I was with a client.

I went in. I closed the door. I looked down, and much to my horror, what did I see?


Some of you are thinking "So what?"

Well, I'll tell you so what.

These were not your typical "I dog-piled it, and then flushed" bottom of the bowl skid marks. No. These were something a hundred thousand times more vile.

These were skid marks ON. THE. SEAT.


As in there was POOP ON THE PART WHERE I SIT DOWN... And I knew it wasn't mine.

I don't even know HOW one could or would manage to leave skid marks where he left them. I don't understand the physics involved, and considering we're talking about my 86 year old grandfather's dookie, I DON'T (REPEAT: DON'T) WANT TO KNOW. I don't want to think about it. I am not equipped to handle old man poop. Especially when I don't work in a nursing home, and it's not enclosed in a Depends undergarment.

Sure. You can theorize about how it got there. But I don't want to know what you come up with. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW.

All I can say is that I can't possibly understand why my unmade bed is such a HUGE issue, when someone can't be bothered enough to make sure that he cleaned himself off enough to not only ensure his own comfort, but to ensure that the shared restroom facilities are friendly to the rest of us who use them.

And just so you know, I held it in, (meaning, I held in the pee, and controlled my gag reflex enough to hold back the vomit,) drove out to my office, and went there instead. Yes, I share the facilities there with 68 other people, but the fact is that I have never encountered seat-skid out there.

The clean-up has since been handled, the toilet seat disinfected with a Clorox product, and all is technically right with the world... But I don't know how long it's going to take me before I can ever sit on that toilet seat again.

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