"No Poo in the Office!" and Other Rules

Starting a new job has reminded me of all the critical lessons I have learned in former offices. For the sake of conserving time (working longer hours for someone else has cut into my creative time at home), let's just review the big three:

1. No poo in the office.
I never knew this was such a transgression, but apparently, in small offices where the restroom is located off the lobby, easing your bowels there may more noticeably perfume public areas. The first and only time I heard this rule was from one of my favorite managers so far, Ahmad, who in his slight Persian accent, would sing out, "No poo! There is no poo in the office!" One co-worker was so self-conscious about this that she would break into one of those deathly anus-clenching sweats trying to contain the urge as she ran out of the office to a gas station down the street. I grew so tired of watching what would one day be a catastrophic episode that I bought us each a bottle of some poo-be-gone product. You pump a few drops into the bowl before you go-- et voila! No trace of poo-scent. I still hear Ahmad in my head sometimes. He had other rules, such as no food at our desks, which I can understand, and no cold food at catered events, which I couldn't understand, but "No poo!" was my all-time favorite just because I loved hearing him say it.

2. Give the boss his space.
I worked for a man who was so tired of being bothered by staff during his lunch hour, that he would sit in the teacher lounge for his lunch and lock the teachers out--nevermind that the only grown-up potties were located in the teacher lounge and many of us were realllly reluctant to use the ones the middle schoolers were using. This guy did things like this to drive the point home, denying us privileges (or rights) when he felt we had overstepped various boundaries. His locking the lounge was done in conjunction with a lecture that he never bothered us on our lunch hour. I remember thinking about that during our first week of lock-down when he would locate me for work reasons during MY lunch time, but I was good and kept quiet about it. Needless to say, teachers quickly learned to give him private time at lunch, and ultimately we were allowed back into the breakroom.

3. Be punctual--but be reasonable about it.
A good friend of mine would get busted for this at a nanny job in the same way I once did years ago: Due to be back from lunch at 12:30 one day, I was yelled at for returning to my desk at... 12:32. No kidding. This man was such a control-freak that when he banned us from working over-time, I began to check into work fifteen minutes early and leave fifteen after the hour at the end of the day to accrue overtime discreetly. Very passive aggressive--but two and a half hours of overtime made a big difference in my little paycheck. He was a loathsome character who ran us into the ground. In the end, I got my revenge. I quit, turned him into his supervisor for his crazy behavior, and he was fired shortly thereafter. Years have passed, but I am still conscious to the minute about time at the office. Most of all though, I am conscious of crazy bosses.

Having a desk in an office building has reminded me of all the joys and pitfalls of working with others, but so far, my new office is a pleasant environment where I am, shockingly enough, valued. Adjusting to the fact that the rules aren't hard and fast in this new office is a bit of a shock, but I am acclimating. And as I gain more confidence in the new environment, and crawl out of my cubicle more, there will be stories to tell here. So far, what I do have to say about it is all good.

And we can poo. We can poo in the office.

When to Say Enough Already

A conversation with my eldest child the other day. Not as good as hearing it, but still amusing. I have spent the last couple of years really trying to coach her development of logic and problem solving. I suppose this would require her to really listen, however.


Daughter: Can I ride to the bus stop?

Me: No, honey. That would require crossing the street and we need to work on bike safety first. No street! Today, you may ride your bike on the sidewalk around the block.

Daughter: But (insert friend’s name) is riding to the bus stop and back. Can I ride to the bus stop?

Me: No, you may not cross the street. You may not ride to the bus stop. You can, however ride around the block.

Daughter: Can I just ride here? (Child points to street.)

Me: No, honey. What did I just say?

Daughter: You said I could ride around the block.

Me: On the sidewalk. (I gesture, making a square shape to show that a block has four sides.)

Daughter: Yeah, on the sidewalk. Around the block. Ok, Mom! (Child scampers off with bike and returns fifteen minutes later.)

…

Daughter: Mom, can I ride to the laundromat?

Me: Well, what are the rules?

Daughter: The laundromat. I want to ride to the laundromat.

Me: I hear that, but what did I say earlier?

Daughter: Don’t cross the street.

Me: Good. I’m just trying to help you develop logic here, Chicken Little. So where is the laundromat?

Daughter: Around the corner.

Me: Good. Is it across the street?

Daughter: No.

Me: Good. Is it on this block?

Daughter: Yeah, but it’s around the corner. Is it okay to ride there?

Me: Child, what did I say? Did I say you can ride around the block, which would mean that you would be passing the laundromat? (Note, she would have ridden past the laundromat already on previous runs around the block.)

Daughter: Yeah, yes. Yes, you did. Can I go?

Me: Yes, you can ride AROUND the block. You may ride TO the laundromat. You may NOT go in there to play. It is not a play house.

Daughter: Ok! Can I ride across the street?

Conversations like these are exhausting. This is why most of the time, when asked for permission and why something is so, I lay down the rule followed with a blanket, “Because I said so.” It does not teach if-then logic, but it does save time. Maybe one day, my daughter will catch on a little faster. In the meantime, patience. Lots and lots of patience.

Mama Says No!

Mothers are my heroes. This story comes courtesy of one of my mom-friends whose ex-husband gave her twelve year old son a few air guns. It’s not a gift choice the mother would have made, but seeing as how the son lives with his father, she felt she could do little about it.


Not so long ago, the mom, the boy, and his sister went for a walk in the park by the river. The boy, shortly before leaving for the park, had asked his mother permission to bring an air gun from his dad’s house, and she had said no. He sulked for a while, and then, backpack in hand, smugly joined the group. Moments later at the park, the daughter complained of being shot with pellets. Mom found the boy, escorted him to the bank of the river, demanded to be given the gun, and promptly heaved the weapon into the water.

I love good mothers. I would have paid money to stand on the bank and watch the gun fly in a graceful arc from mother’s arm to the waiting waters. I’d pay more though, to hear that child as a grown man able to laugh at his own foolishness and celebrate his mom’s ability to stand her ground with him.

The gun story brings another one to mind. Some years ago, a boy and his sister were playing on my front lawn with my daughter. The girl was never exactly the sweetest child and had a reputation for being really manipulative. Her brother had a pellet gun and was about to shoot her with it when I leaned out the front windows of my home and called out his name.

“Son,” I continued, “I completely empathize with your desire to shoot your sister, but not on my front lawn. Get on now and take that gun home.”

Thinking later about how funny that had sounded, I was glad I had been the mom who had been home at the time to intervene in a potential eye-loss situation, but I would have loved to have been the actual mother of the boy to swoop in, grab the weapon, and heave it somewhere in the woods where we lived.

Don’t hold your breath too long. My son isn’t even four yet… his time is coming.