Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

work

The Bathroom Stall Was Just a Red Herring

by

Today at work I walked into the men’s restroom and began to open the door of a stall when, from within the other stall, came a voice.

“Uh, I wouldn’t go in there.”

I stopped in my tracks.

In my experience, communication from within a bathroom stall in the workplace is utterly forbidden due to social taboo associated with identifying yourself while on the crapper. I hadn’t recognized the voice of its inhabitant, and when I leaned slightly sideways to look at his shoes under the stall I swear he slid his feet backwards, out of my sight.

I addressed the closed door of the occupied stall, and the disembodied stall voice within.

“Is there something wrong with the toilet?”

“No,” the disembodied stall voice replied, “but, don’t try to use it.”

At this point the disembodied voice’s somewhat cryptic manner of communication was starting to bug me. Why not just say, “Watch out, that toilet is clogged,” or apologize from preventing me from using the bathroom with “Sorry, that one’s clogged,” which also tacitly apologizes in the case that the voice was actually the clogger?

Was there perhaps a little bit of guilt at play there? Maybe I was dealing with the clogger! Or, maybe he was so afraid of the taboo associated with stall-talk that he could barely string together a coherent sentence, let alone an informational one.

I decided to probe for more information, and to perhaps reveal the guilt- and/or fear- ridden, somewhat cryptic, disembodied voice’s identity.

“Did you call facilities?”

“No. uh. You should definitely call facilities. Good idea.”

Now completely frustrated with the lack of initiative of the guilt- and/or fear- ridden, somewhat cryptic, disembodied voice of the bathroom stall, I stalked out of the bathroom (still having to actually *use* a bathroom, mind you, rather badly at this point).

The had voice set up a wonderful catch-22 wherein I either took responsibility for calling facilities or be forced to feel guilty about the next person who tried to use the toilet. He was also playing upon the fact that only he and I would know the toilet was clogged in order to compel me to leave a “Do not use” note on the stall.

I was, in fact, embroiled in a twisted case of bathroom blackmail at the hands of the initiative-lacking, guilt- and/or fear- ridden, somewhat cryptic, disembodied voice of the bathroom stall. (Hands… of the disembodied… never mind)

Forced into complicity with the blackmailing, I phoned facilities.

“Hi. I work on 35, and I’d like to report a problem with the left hand stall in the men’s restroom.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Uh. I’m not sure. Someone told me to call facilities about it.”

“So, it won’t flush?”

Actually, I wasn’t even sure what was wrong with it.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what happened when you used the toilet?”

“I didn’t use it. I was going to use it, but…”

Here I paused, afraid to allude to the blackmailing, initiative-lacking, guilt- and/or fear- ridden, somewhat cryptic, disembodied voice of the bathroom stall for fear of some unspecified retribution.

“…something seemed wrong. So I didn’t use it.”

“Something seemed wrong with the toilet?”

“Yes.”

“So you didn’t use it?”

“That’s correct.”

“So, what sort of service does it require?”

Again, I was stymied. What sort of service did it require?

“Um. someone should just come up and take a look at it.”

“Okay. I’ll just enter a ticket that you experienced a problem.”

“No, no, I didn’t experience it. I’m just aware of it.”

“Okay. So, you’re aware of a problem – an unknown problem – with the left-hand stall in the 35th floor men’s bathroom.”

“Yes, perfect.”

The facilities operator hung up on me, presumably out of disgust.

I quickly scrawled a “do not use” note, attempting to disguise my distinctive handwriting (link) so that it would not seem as though i was responsible for the stall issue.

As I walked the note back to the bathroom, I began to wonder – maybe my blackmailer wasn’t really the actual blackmailer. Maybe I was called upon to resolve the stall issue not by an original blackmailer, but another victim of bathroom blackmail (much like Mr. Wadsworth leads everyone to believe in Clue). Perhaps the not-actually blackmailing, blackmailing, initiative-lacking, guilt- and/or fear- ridden, somewhat cryptic, disembodied voice of the bathroom stall was a sympathetic character who, after seating himself in the stall, heard a dreadful gurgling from the next stall and witnessed from under his door a pair of feet quickly fleeing the scene. Maybe his crypticism was only a function of his fear!

I checked back later in the day to see that, though my note was intact, someone had in fact tried to use the stall. And, without going into details, I can affirm that horror ensued. Or, did it? Maybe my blackmailer (or, more specifically, the original blackmailer, as I might have been on a second-tier blackmailer) had used the toilet specifically to enhance their blackmail of me, or even to pin the blame on me after I had left my incriminating “do not use” note – which I now dare not retreive lest my dress shoes be subjected to the horror that had ensued.

Moral: Don’t ever talk to anyone in the bathroom unless they’re at a sink.

Or, this could be the moral: Don’t take responsibility for something you didn’t do. Especially in a bathroom.

But, this is really the moral: The next time you ask me why I don’t post more often, be prepared to endure the insane ramblings produced by being stuck inside a high-rise for the entirety of the nicest day of the year so far. And by being blackmailed by a sympathetic, possibly not-actually blackmailing, blackmailing, initiative-lacking, guilt- and/or fear- ridden, somewhat cryptic, disembodied voice of a bathroom stall.

Speaker Quandary

by

My very friendly and generous South-Philly co-worker AnnaMaria bought herself a surround sound system for Christmas. It didn’t work out in her living, so she returned it, but she was unable to return the assembled stands she bought for her speakers.

Our system came with front stands that we co-opted for rear stands; our front speakers have always sat on our front window sills. However, due to the recent parlor-reorg, the speakers are now being a bit obscured.

I volunteered to take the stands off of AnnaMaria’s hands, thinking that we’d use them for our fronts (and maybe the rears too). However, once she brought them over i realized that their system of being screwed on isn’t compatible with the screw-holes on the back of my speakers (thumb included for sense of dimension).

Now, you might have never done a shop-call with me, so let me explain to you that i’m hardly shy about doing things with tools and powered drills and custom-cut bits of wood. However, i am mightily shy when it comes to doing such things to things i own and rent.

So the question i pose is – how would you mount my speakers onto AnnaMaria’s stands? If it isn’t possible i am going to put the stands on Craigslist on her behalf, but i’d prefer to keep them.

So far the only idea i have is that they can be held on by a single screw through the top hole on the speaker through the top hole on the flat side post, which would be the only way that would provide stability. Not ideal, but at least they’d be used.

If you figure something out, please email me at uprush dot org, to the address krisis (or, if reading on LJ, just comment on the CK-feed).

We Are The Goon Squad and We’re Coming to Town

by

I did it. I finally broke the seal. I got an Express credit card. I know, i know, it only means trouble. Trouble, debt, tight jeans, and hot reversible belts.

It really started out with the suit i bought at Express last month. At the time it was a desperation buy – i needed a new suit jacket, and i needed to locate it in a two hour span. I had no idea that Express suit jackets would fit me as if they were personally tailored… comparing it to the two other suits i have owned is like holding an undershirt up next to a knit poncho.

Although i’ve had it for over a month, i hadn’t worn the suit all in one piece – the jacket showed up with jeans, and the pants made an appearance at work, but i hadn’t combined the two in a real world environment until I finally wore it for an offsite meeting yesterday. Needless to say, i looked as sharp as a tack.

While admiring my sharp-as-hell self in a bathroom mirror, i began to ponder: Do i look this sharp all of the time? I pride myself on it when i go to bars, or attend parties, but not at work – where i spend the most time and where it matters the most. Most of my dress clothes wardrobe was cobbled together from co-op to co-op between 2001 and 2004, with just a few shirts added this year. The assortment features few spectacular outfits, but it isn’t especially interchangeable – too often all of my clean shirts hinge on being worn with a single pair of pants. The result is that at work i often look just as random and dumpy as an intern, my more evolved sense of style smothered underneath unfortunate color combinations and fabrics subjected to too many cycles in laundromat dryers.

I decided then and there (still admiring myself in the bathroom) that if i wanted to maintain my reputation as fashonista i had to aggressively defend my title. No more pants that are too old to hold a sharp crease. More shirts that match more pairs of pants. More incredibly sexy suit jackets. I spend over a third of my waking life working for a living and, by god, i can use that livelihood to make myself sharp while doing it.

Thus, tonight i traveled to Express. My stated purpose was buying just one more suit jacket so i didn’t proceed to wear the other into the ground. One suit jacket turned into one new suits and, after discovering that they were priced at 50%, one new suit turned to two plus complementary ties. After the better part of an hour i realized that the dreadful day i had always always known would come had arrived – my Express purchase was so large that the discount that opening an Express credit card would provide could not sanely be denied.

At this point my impending purchases had become voluminous enough that I had acquired a specific helper employee to help me shuttle it to and fro the register, and to tell me i looked hot. I queried, “Would it be really good for you if i opened a credit card?,” and her eyes lit up like high beams.

And, well, long story short is that I have a ridiculously high credit limit at Express (my helper let out a gasp when she saw it), i got a free-suit’s worth of discount, i made Jennifer’s eyes light up like high beams, and i now have an entirely new dress wardrobe including major support in the BIV division of my RGB spectrum. If i can’t manage to look sharp now i have nothing to blame other than bad fashion sense.

Blank States and Blank Slates

by

Days keep fading into one another the way they did in high school, with nothing to mark the progress. Do you know why i can’t remember high school? Because i only have songs as signposts – no conveniently cryptic blog to inform me of my feelings.

That’s how i feel about the last year and a half. Yes, the blog is here, and it does its job of marking some of the months that have passed. Others? I can’t even tell how i got to here from September. In September it was my birthday and i was in New York and seeing everyone i know and drinking way too much wine, and here i am two months to the day.

It might have to do with my cell phone. I “lost” it just after my birthday weekend, taking with it connections to friends old and newly acquired. For a few days it was liberating – no vibrating outreach to be beholden to. The newness wore off shortly, and suddenly i felt trapped, as if i couldn’t speak to anyone outside of my co-workers or Elise. I watched their emails pass by with me on carbon copy as if on the seeing-through side of a one-way mirror, ever observing and never responding.

Or maybe it doesn’t have to do with my cell phone. Maybe it has to do with my stupid resolution a year and a half ago to spend a year only caring about work and staying happy with Elise and monitoring my budget and playing City of Heroes, and now that i’ve quit the latter and achieved equillibrium on the middle two i find that all i know how to do is first thing first thing first thing. Even when i am at home. Sometimes when i am asleep.

It’s not such a bad thing to know how to do at the age of twenty-four. I draw a melange of amaze/amuse -ment from my co-workers and superiors in my zeal for things, my “cools!” and “sounds funs!”

If only they knew; the things in that building really are the cools and sounds funs right now. And, that is how you lose two months of time without really trying.