Battle of the Bathroom

What is it about a public restroom that allows so many people to just go buckwild and not clean up after themselves? I swear it's like some men just go in to piss all over the place... or maybe they're trying to sign their name on the wall or something. Or, men, quit taking newspapers and porno mags into the bathroom with you. We're a busy store and the idea of you being all Al Bundy in our one restroom is incredibly gross. Or in the case of one guy-- no taking pens and lotto sheets in there. This doesn't make me want to run your Lotto through in the slightest.

And ladies... you too. If your butt is too dainty to sit on the seat (and honestly, I don't blame you) please, for the love of the tiny baby Jesus-- wipe up. Or put down a barrier of TP to protect the royal ass.

Do they do that in their own bathroom? Would their mothers be horrified to know how they treat public bathrooms like a chance to play sprinkler?

At the very least, take a look around before you leave to clean up. Don't leave wads of paper towels, toilet paper and random puddles on the floor for us to clean up. I assure you, nothing darkens my already precarious mood like walking into the bathroom and finding what looks like a CSI episode gone horribly awry. We sanitize, we wipe, we scrub... but it's like sweeping a beach clean. No matter how hard we try, nasty people pee all over the place like small children and animals.

An Open Letter

Dear Customers,

I am sorry. What for? Let me list:

I am sorry that you are so angry at me about gas prices. But as you clearly know, I MYSELF am in charge of the gas pricing in this country. Congratulations, you have discovered my secret identity as a register jockey. Let me just call President Bush and OPEC on my next 4-minute break. Until I get get this pesky mess settled, I suggest riding a bike.

I am sorry that you feel that I ignored you while you were way over around a corner and in a blind spot, not saying anything. I assumed, once I'd seen you and ran over, that your intention was simply to watch the clock and yell at me for not having the precognition skills to know that you were going to be walking in the front door while I was digging around in the refrigerator. I'll be sure to work on that.

I am sorry that the prices of eggs and milk are so high. Please excuse me, I'll send a strongly-worded text message to the chickens and cows to tell them to produce cheaper eggs and milk. It may take a bit, as the barn doesn't get the best cell reception.

I am sorry that you had to wait for your ice cream. As you could see, if your head was facing forward, instead of residing elsewhere, I had a full line of people that were waiting before you. Perhaps next time I will throw it to you, but be careful--hot fudge doesn't come out of hair easily.

I am sorry we ran out of hot dog buns. Consider this a sign from the Atkins gods.

I am sorry that when you hit on me, I must not have been paying attention. Because clearly, drunken old men with questionable hygiene are exactly my type. I must have been tired, you know, from working non-stop like always, that I missed your telling me what you think of my ass. Actually though, I think I've just repressed the memory. If you had a job, outside of being a drunken old man with questionable hygiene, and I had better insurance, you'd be recieving my therapist's bill.

I am sorry that I don't smile constantly, and pretend that I'm on all sorts of fun drugs to keep me in line. Would you prefer me quiet and on-task, or spaced-out and flaky?

I am sorry that you believe that I am stupid. Let me explain this to you in small, easy words that you will have little problem understanding-- I work a crappy job because I enjoy paying my bills and having a place to live. I do not work there for fun. I have a degree that I want to use, but cannot at this time. Stupidity would be your talking down to me because I wear a nametag.

I am sorry you don't understand why you should not park your giant SUVs right in front of the window. I'm sure you have no concept of anything beyond how you don't want to walk any more than 4 feet to get your purchases, but it blocks my view of the gas pumps.

I am sorry that you let your children bother me while I'm working. I like kids, I like interacting with them-- but not when I'm doing something serious. Your little bundles of joy careen around the store and it makes me worry that they'll get hurt (and you'd probably sue.) Or that they'll break something that I'll need to fix. I am not a babysitter, please do not treat me like one.

Lastly I am sorry that you feel the need to bang on the counters, yell or even whistle like you're calling a dog to get our attention. I have to think that somewhere Miss Manners is having a fit over it. We are not dogs, slaves or zombies.

In conclusion, I am so very, very sorry. I humbly suggest that my punishment should be a week away. Far away, because I obviously bother you. I could go someplace quiet, to think about what I've done. Perhaps a beach. And rest assured, every grain of sand that gets in my shoes and bathing suit will serve solely to remind me of you and how sorry I am.