Not My Nature
Not only is there a Xeroxed plea taped inside the bathroom stalls (well, technically, one stall) at my office for women with eating disorders to call a hotline, but there is also a disgusting plastic bottle of liquid soap that magically appears maybe every other day and is completely consumed by day’s end. Sometimes it’s chamomile, sometimes it’s lavender, but the icky product is called Liquid Nature, which doesn’t seem to be a legit consumer brand, as it turns up nothing on Google. There’s something cheap and gross about it, I’ll use the neon pink crud from the built in metal pumps before I touch the most unnatural stuff.
But what bothers me about it, other than it looking skuzzy (even lower brow than St. Ive’s—I know Suave is rock bottom, but there’s something about St. Ive’s that seems more off) is how quickly is gets used up. It’s like I’m surrounded by OCD hand washers—there are mountains of suds left behind in the sink—and apparently, pukers. Maybe they’re scrubbing all the regurgitation evidence from their fingers? Either way, there’s something seriously afoul in this office, and the bathroom behavior might be the least of it.
I know people think it’s silly to waste so much time and resources on a stuck cat, but I like cats, so too bad for the naysayers. But it has gotten out of control—bringing in an animal therapist, playing “soothing” whale sounds (do cats like mammoth water mammals? Whales, and all other sea creatures, scare the crap out of me) and my favorite: using a box of crying kittens as bait, hoping to trigger her maternal instincts. Fuck that. I know cats are animals, hence prone to natural impulses, but who says a female cat can’t resist the mewling of feline infants? Maybe the furry crybabies got on her nerves. I’d stay in the wall too. Ok, those kittens are pretty damn cute—Molly’s just heartless.