Know What I Hate?

I hate when being out in the garden center means I miss all the interesting stuff at work.

Like the woman who, built like a brick shithouse (Sweetie's term, not mine) goes and has improvement surgery. I can't imagine how she stays upright if they're bigger than they were.

I have it on fairly accurate authority that they are, indeed, bigger. Was a steel rod implanted along her spine to keep her upright?

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see them flopping out-and-about (as we are all afraid will happen with someone else). But like rubbernecking at a trainwreck--or in the wake of Cry Me A River's latest drama--I can't help but want to have a good look at 'em.

Not Optional

Apparently, when I am at work, seeing ass crack is not optional.

If it's not my coworkers (and supervisors) it's the customers.

One in particular was in last night. This man has been a smelly PITA for years--we see him ad naseum (usually it's the smell) for months at a time, then he'll disappear for a year, then he'll be back. When he shows back up, it's usually with some long winded, breathy (oh, God, the SMELL!) explaination of how he was in jail and they refused to give his shoelaces back.

He's always drunk--polluted, and he smells it.

Once, he came in without his shoes. Walked right through all the water that was running through the garden center, and never noticed.

Last night, he was back. Leaning in close so I was sure to catch a whiff.

He tried to tell me how to do my job. Then, thankfully, he left.

But he came back. He was picking up the block he paid for earlier. His name was misspelled, so of course, it couldn't be that easy. The guys loaded it, and, in an effort to get him away from me faster, we tried to print the loading ticket.

I was hoping he wouldn't notice that his name was misspelled--but he did. God, I had to explain it over and over and over again to him--his name was misspelled, but it was, too, his order. It took fully 5 minutes to get that through his head.

Ah, but my original point. I almost forgot.

At one point, he was leaning on the counter. And there, in all it's *ahem* glory was his rosy red inebriated ass cleavage.

I'd prefer to NEVER see butt crack again EVER, but, since it appears that being on the clock and seeing someone else's ass isn't optional for me, can I please have the pasty white asses of my supervisors instead?

Please?

Where Are My Pennies?

First, being around people greatly increases my chances of seeing asses. I'm not talking about people behaving like asses--I'm talking about actually getting an eyeful of someone's naked ass.

The usual jokes aside, it's getting old.

I don't want to see the Original ButtCrack's crack. I don't want to see the Princess's crack. I don't want to see ANY.ONE's. ASS. Period. Not even the asses of people I like (and those, we all agree, ain't many.)

There. Is. Simply. No. Ass. I. Want. Or. Need. To. See.

And I'm running out of jokes to make about them. Full Moon, Say No To Crack...they're old. I need new material.

My husband suggests I keep a pocket full of pennies while at work. That, my friends, would probably be considered offensive.

My favorite part of this? The most recent time I got to see the Princess's ass, and I mentioned it to Frodo, he commented, "What? She bent over again?" (emphasis mine).

My point is this: Why the hell is my supervisor's supervisor using the word AGAIN when I mention having a view of her nekkid ass? There's something seriously wrong in the Land where I work--they demand that I tuck my shirts in and mind my manners, yet, this woman's pasty white ass can hang out and she needs told AGAIN to wear a pair of pants that covers it?

My attitude is a problem but a full view of her moon isn't? How TF does that work?

Am I the last rational person on the planet? Or is this one of those *man* things--you know, where as long as you're young and relatively cute, you can wear and do as you please...and those of us who aren't getting a woody looking at this view need to just pretend not to notice?

Is that what I need to do? Show off my ass or my tits, and make sure they're stuck in these men's faces?

They're crapping in their pants worrying about sexual harassment/discrimination, yet I have to look at woman-ass crack daily? Somehow, I think they missed part of the seminar--an important part.

And then they wonder why I'm so pissed off all the time. I'm counting the days until I get told I have "Penis Envy" again--but I'll tell you this much: even if I had a penis, I'd still not find the pasty white ass hanging out at work attractive.

I am seriously considering the pocketful of pennies thing--even if I don't toss them at the coin slots I see, perhaps I could just hand them out with a suggestion of where to put them.