It’s one of those days where you’re in the bathroom at work because you need a private place to scroll through Indeed because dear God there has to be another job out there, I’ll clear tables, mop floors, sell angel dust door-to-door HELP ME.
There’s a knock and the voice on the other side asks if we are going to unclog that toilet in the next bathroom, and by “we” they mean “Come out of there and get the plunger because there’s no way in hell I’M going to do it.”
All of this is at 8:09 AM. Well before you’ve discovered the chipmunk that’s dying in the custodial closet.
You put Indeed away. It’s all line cooks and RNs anyway, neither of which you can do with out A.) giving someone food poisoning or B.) involuntary manslaughter. After searching for the “good” plunger — depressing because you have a favorite plunger — you initiate the ritual:
slosh, slosh, slosh, slosh, cross fingers, flush, swear audibly, slosh slosh, slosh.
Flush again. It works. A sense of victory soaks your whole being.
Then your phone beeps and after washing your hands so thoroughly it’s like you’re in Silkwood, your high school freshman daughter sends you this via Snapchat:
Bad day averted, that kid is amazing, for some reason she loves me, so give me that plunger and I’ll go to town every freaking day because she. is. awesome.