Back When I Was Employed…

I generally like Wednesdays.  It’s Hump Day and while I haven’t had much of a sex life in recent years, I can tell you that when  working in the periphery of radio a few months ago, I adored Wednesdays because it marked a halfway point in the week.   It meant the week was almost done.

I remember one Wednesday in particular.

(Insert harp glissando here to initiate  obvious flash-back sequence)

Quitting time, in my head,  has always been represented by the animated Flintstones’ foreman as he grabbed the tail of that animated bird and never was that more true than at the FM broadcast equivalent of the Slate Rock and Gravel Quarry.  Mr.  Foreman  pulled ithe tail hard making  the cartoon loon squawk loudly and that was my cue to cease work mode and head to the nearest exit.

Down the dinosaur’s back I would slide.

On that particular Wednesday, I yabba-dabba drove straight home and walked through my front door and into all four loving arms of my cat.

Now, this is the part where you inquire as to why that day was so bad.  Then this would be followed by one of my patented LK hyperbole riddled explanations.

But trust me, It won’t be pretty.

I got to work at my prescribed time and did so in the midst of a nasty thunderstorm.  We’re talking a full spectrum onslaught from the angry cumulo-nimbus above.   Mother Nature as best I could tell, was in menopause and having the mother of all hot flashes for we, her earthly pawns, were being  drenched by her sweat.   And thunder, lightning…the works.   I broke a number of bones in an accident several years ago and days like this  wreak havoc on me physically.  Walking is tough; sitting ain’t no treat neither.  So, I had that against me and then there was the work load.  I had three commercials to write and a slew of other things that while easy, are extremely tedious.   And I was on a deadline.  My own really, but I made it my goal to get a certain amount done each day.

You have to understand that I am my own Simon Legree.  I crack my own whip and do this “Scarlet Letter” Reverend Dimsdale self-flagellation bit because well, I’m Catholic with a Jewish rising and guilt and shame are what I do best.   That results in stress and stress creates huge, painful knots in my neck and shoulders and that coupled, with the weather induced skeletal pain results in Laurie being….well, a bitch.

After lunch, I hobbled in to the bathroom to take care of 32 ounces of iced tea I had at some generic restaurant and of course, as it often happens in my dismal world,  the minute I walked in I was assaulted by the most egregious olfactory insult that had ever existed.   I’m not sure why Satan himself chose to afflict the intestinally distressed woman in Stall #4 with such a malady on my watch!!!   But he did, she was acting it out and I certainly wasn’t in the mood to endure the smell of Hades’ septic tank.

What had she eaten?  I didn’t have a clue.  It may have gone in as some wonderfully,  delightful gastronomic feat, but it came out as rank, rancid, fetid and vile and this nasty, culinary postmortem now bobbing in water and porcelain, was making me very, very queasy.  And this was just in the first two seconds of entering Hell itself.  The stench was so bad that it actually changed the atmosphere in the bathroom.  The air had…it had this….this “texture” to it.   Ribbed for no one’s pleasure.   Ordinarily, I would’ve gagged and run out but Tiny Tank that I am, had to void–even where prohibited.

With one hand over my nose, the other took care of business–which wasn’t easy for me as a woman considering the intricacies involved –and all the while I prayed for sweet death, knowing full well that the sad, sad  Shit Bag in Stall #4 had to have been at least a little embarrassed by what her sinister creation was creating.

Another woman walked in and was far less tactful than me.  She sniffed and said “Damn…yuk!!”

How appropriate.

I finished what I needed to do and ran out.  I didn’t wash my hands.  I was willing to risk Hep C, skin eating Staph, Pink Eye and freakin’ Kuru just to get out of there with the delicate lining of my nose and throat still intact.

I went out to the hall, took a deep, cleansing breath while removing the two impromptu toilet paper corks I’d hastily shoved in both nostrils.

I went back to my desk and continued to work…only weeping sporadically by that time.

I was so busy, the afternoon flew by.  I looked at my watch and it was mercifully, time to go home.  I was tired, I ached; I was in no mood for any falderal.  I just wanted to curl up with my kitty, drink a beer and watch “Ghost Hunters” on Sci-Fi.

I packed up my stuff and headed for the lobby where the elevators where elvators one had stopped just as I approached.  It was empty.  I’d be alone, hopefully.  Great.  I love solitary elevator rides.

BUT NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It stopped on the 5th floor and in walked this middle aged man and as God as my witness, not two seconds after he boarded, he cut a nasty, silent fart. Either that, or he did it right before he entered the elevator and OF COURSE, it followed him in and like this ectoplasmic whore of Babylon, it anthropomorphically grew hands and held my head back by the forehead and forced my nostrils open.

Oh make no mistake, I breathed deep the gathering gloom, my friends.

And might I remind you that I am a well bred woman.  Formally finished, if you will and I know how to conduct myself in public.   I am by and large,  poised and would never shame or humiliate one to one’s face, but after the day I had, after the earlier  shit storm I endured in the bathroom, I just couldn’t take any more.  I’d had enough and I said out loud, “For the love of God!!!”

.Embarrassed, he immediately turned to .face the corner of the car and stood .there, head down, hands clutched at his .waist and motionless…like that Mike guy who was getting ready to be killed by the Blair Witch.

The car rfart-smelleached the first floor and he ran .out before the doors fully opened.   I exited just as two more people were entering and of course, the stench was still quite strong and wafting about.

Even so, I think their reaction, the hands over the mouths thing, was a bit much!

.As I limped away, embarrasedm angry .and turning blue,  I heard one utter her disgust in the collar of her coat.

“My God!!, she wheezed.  “Do you smell that?   I can’t believe she just farted in the elevator!!”

Some days, you just can’t win..



  1. La Kendrick, I can see you were and gentilly raised as I (also Catholic, but with the Jew in Uranus (sorry–couldn’t resist.) When I walk into a public restroom, I usually can’t control my big fat mouth and will do the, “Goddamn! The fucking Mafia dumping bodies in here again?” Anyway, here is my Elevator Story. I, too was working and brought in my special salmon pate. My buddy and I totally snarffed the whole thing down, sat back, patting our stomachs and decided we needed a fag. No; those I had, I wanted to smoke. We got in the elevator (25th floor) and on 23, two guys got on. After the doors shut, it was obvious that the whole fucking elevator stunk like an old fish market out in the sun for a week, and it was permeating throughout. One of the guys’ ears got really red, and I started snickering. By the time we reach the lobby, the stench was visible, but luckily the guys could find the door. Whoa! I didn’t know suits could move that fast! Anyway, my friend and I were in complete pass-out, no breath, wet-your-pants stage of laughter, so I yelled after the guys, “Hey, man! Sorry! We all’ll go home raght now an wash them thangs right the hell out!” To this day, I can phone her and whisper “salmon pate” in the phone, and she looses it.
    Olfactory fun! Nuthin like it!

  2. There is some kind of liquid odor eater made specifically for the porcelain God. All you do is pour a drop in the old throne before you make your deposit and it’s suppose to stop any odors from escaping your stall.

    Can’t say it’s been Karol approved but I have read it works.

  3. Plus, let’s face it; you’re in the bathroom shooting up some black tar heroin, I mean…don’t shit when I’m takin a hit. Just plain wrong.

    psst! Karol! over here! i am worried about La K. Make sure she’s gettin her drunk on regular-like and is not too fucked-up about what’s going on. I mean, she has people like US–what more does one need? (keepin her in tha prayers anyway.)

  4. Laurie’s a tough cookie. She’s got her readers and she’s got her siblings. In fact, the Sisters Kendrick will be together next weekend-not for the stupid valentine’s day, but for some R&R. When we get together, it’s laughs and more laughs, with the familiar spirits that go with it. In fact, we’re staying at a “supposedly” haunted hotel to do just that.

  5. What the fuck is salmon pate’?? Salmon spooge mixed with duck liver??? Salmon liver??? Where the hell do you get that??? Why would one eat that??? I’m sure that the 2nd time through it rivaled the above.

    LK, obtusely this is my favorite repost.

    Buona sera

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