I want to apologize to all eleven of you who read my blog and the 1 or 2 who may have been waiting for Friday’s post. I was traumatized by the fridge this week, and then I got busy; and then the snow came; and I kinda stopped caring for a second. I mean, I had video games to play and a bathroom to paint. Let’s not forget I had to build a snowman! Excuses, excuses! Well, I decided during snow day #2, I should make it up to you.
So, this week it was decided that I must clean Marketing and Product Development’s mini fridge in the tiny break room. Somebody else was supposed to be responsible for it, but when things got lazy, they got nasty. And when things got bio-hazardous, I was called-in to clean it. Remember when your parents or other adults were like “Stay in school, or you’ll end-up cleaning-up after people for a living?” Ummmmm…lies.
Ironically, I did Hamlet’s Soliloquy for my poem this week, and I think the trials and tribulations of cleaning that disgusting mini fridge are in themselves a proper illustration of administrative anguish and maddness:
To clean, or not to clean: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the fridge to suffer
The stink and festering of outrageous leftovers
Or to take arms against shelves full of troubles,
And by opposing end them?—To not,—to cease,—
No more; and by cease to say I stop cleaning-out
The heartache, and the thousand unnatural shocks
That the receptionist is heir to,—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To stop,—to cease;—
To cease: perchance chore free:—ay, there’s the rub;
For in ceasing to clean what nightmares may come,
When I have shuffled off this administrative coil,
Must give me pause: there’s the dilemma
That makes calamity of cleaning the fridge;
For who would bear the chips and scones and limes,
The oppressor’s take-out, the proud man’s Lunchables,
The pangs of despis’d laziness, the receptionist’s delay,
The insolence of the office, and the spurns
That patient merit of uneaten snacks,
When I myself might my refusal make
With a simple “Nay?” who would these fardels bear,To grunt and sweat above a weary trash can,
But that the dread of something after saying “No.,”—
The unemployed country, from whose bourn
No employee returns,—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And office refrigerators of great pith and moment,
With this regard, my currents turn awry,
And I clean the fridge anyways.
As an added bonus this week, I am pleased to show you my first reading. I call it a Jammie Fridge Poem Reading, because I did it in my PJs next to my fridge. It really sucks, like really really bites, so I hope you appreciate it’s silliness and delightful production value, wardrobe and makeup. I’m sure there will be more of these to come.