We have a fabulous janitorial staff at our school. However, every once in a while, they miss obvious stuff. It's not their fault because most of the time they have to operate on auto-pilot due to staffing shortages.
I tend to run into the girls' bathroom in my wing because it is directly across the hall from my room, and by "directly," I mean that we can hear people fart in the bathroom as if we are right in there with them. Let's not even get into the next stages of personal potty functions. Let's just say this: The acoustics rival The Met.
The custodians do a great job of cleaning up after middle schoolers and making sure that the toilet paper dispensers are full. We haven't had paper towels in there since TikTok decided that stuffing wads of paper into the pipes to clog our entire septic system was a trend that all students should cling to and try. Yes, because some of them graduated to wedging paper towels into the bowls, now, nobody gets to dry their hands the old-fashioned, super-efficient way. We either stand under the useless cold dryers, or we wipe our hands on our own clothing.
That being said, the paper towels are the least of our worries. There hasn't been soap in there for over a week. It's not necessarily the fault of the staff. The soap is clear in its dispenser bag, so it's hard to tell if the thing is full, half-way, or bone-dry. I decide to leave a nice note, pretending that the soap just barely ran out that day, and I add a happy face.
It works! The following morning -- voila -- we have soap! It doesn't work so well with the floors in the room.
It's like the official Classroom Prepositional Phrase Hairball.
Thursday night I try to go to bed at a reasonable hour because I am exhausted. Instead, monkey mind keeps my up until almost 1:00 a.m. Even though my alarm is set for 6:00, I am up and down all night and finally awaken for good around 5:15. Might as well get up. I play games on my phone, check email, look at the forecast, read the news, peruse social media . . . anything to deny work's existence.
Even though I stop to mail bills at the post office, I am still first into my end of the building at 7:10. I walk in, plop my backpack on my desk, and come around to sit in my chair. I have a vague sense that the Jaws theme song is playing softly somewhere in the background track of my life. Just as I am about to sit down . . .
I scream.
Is that a huge spider? Is it a dead mouse? Is it Rapunzel's hair extension?
Nope. It's the damn hairball. It is sitting right at my desk, staring up at me, challenging me from the overly-waxed tiles.
Defeated, I drop my shoulders, jerk my head back, jut my chin into the air, and lament, "Why me? Dear gawd almighty, whyyyyyyyy meeeeeeeeee?!" Then I grab a paper towel from my closet (because, hey, I know how to hoard supplies, especially if I pay for them), lean down, scoop up the hairy mass, and toss it into the trash bucket far away from my desk, dry heaving as I do because loose hair clumps unnerve me.
I swear, if that thing is back on my floor on Monday, I'm calling in an exorcist.
