Occasionally my work sends me on little adventures. Sometimes these adventures are awesome, like the one I had on Wednesday that I’ve yet to write about, and sometimes these adventures SUCK.

Today, they sent me to Wal-Mart. Can you guess which category this trip belongs to?

I really, really hate Wal-Mart. Not only does the place just suck in general, but with the office located where it is, I ended up at the Wal-Mart in Renton. And Renton BLOWS. Their Wal-Mart is crawling with the scum of the earth all day long. I know this, because although it was early in the morning, the store was still completely filled with (a)screaming, filthy children, (b)people very obviously stocking up for their home meth lab, and (c)people who stand with their cart completely blocking aisles, staring in a slack-jawed yokel way at the things on the shelves (my personal favorite). Why is the store so busy during the day? Don’t these people have JOBS? Oh wait, nevermind.

WHY was I being sent to the Wal-Mart, do you ask? Why, in order to purchase cleaning supplies! Whatever do you need cleaning supplies for, Mellzah? Why, in order to clean bird shit off of every surface of our warehouse!

I was already in a foul mood when I was sent out to purchase these items. I knew in my heart that when I picked out rubber gloves, they’d best be a size small in order to fit the hands they were intended for. My hands. The sea of yokels did not part for just my scowling face, however. Oh, no. The sea of yokels did not part until I was holding a mop in one hand in what was apparently a menacing manner, and an industrial sized container of cleaner in the other, which could be swung as a weapon QUITE effectively, PLUS the scowling face.

Why was I the designated cleaner instead of the cleaning crew that comes in every weekend? They wouldn’t do it. They’re Lasians. Half the time they don’t even empty the trash, clean the bathrooms, or even reset the alarm when they leave. What is the company paying them for, again?

My mood did not improve as I was slopping cleaner all over the warehouse, and crouching in order to scrub with a handbrush all of the spots that couldn’t or wouldn’t come up with a mopping. Why does anyone spend money on glue when it’s quite obvious that bird shit is nature’s toughest adhesive? The tech who is particularly good at getting on my nerves always found something to do that was right next to where I was scrubbing, gloating surreptitiously about the fact that I was cleaning up shit, and he was not.

I found a way to ‘accidentally’ hit him with the sullied mop end.

Later, my boss made his way back to the warehouse. “Well hello there, Cinderella! When you finish this task, then you can go to the ball!”

I didn’t dare slop poop-water on him, so I just calmly informed him that I had a finger for him, and he was free to take a guess as to which one. He laughed at me. That’s why I make the big bucks–I make jokes about giving the finger, instead of actually giving the finger.

Time to go home and take a VERY LONG, lobster-boilingly-hot shower. And then I’m applying for a crow-hunting license.

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