Maquinna's Poop du Jour

Miss Smelly, Strike 2

It wasn't bad enough that she smelled - or worse, that I had to be the one to tell her so. We knew when we hired her that there was going to be a maturity issue, but we were willing to gamble on that. I think we just came up snake eyes.

Our college has embarked on a long-planned project to update an ancient boiler that keeps our building (sort of) warm. Unfortunately, the work on this project has coincided with the coldest spring on record. In short, we're freezing our nads off in here this week, and I might get more work done sitting in the car with the engine idling.

On Monday we really noticed the cold in the building, but since it was built in 1865, it has a long and almost affectionate history of being either nipple-erectingly icy or stultifyingly sweltering. I for one was rather concerned about the latter with the presence of Miss Smelly a few feet away. Some Einstein had the windows wide open in the ladies' room, which I called Plant Services about (we are unable to reach them ourselves to be closed). Later that afternoon our idiot janitor (a woman who proves that all lesbians are not intellectually evolved human beings) cranked it open again because she said it gets stinky in there. I yelled at her and told her we could worry about that when the mercury finally found its way to 70 degrees again, not when it's barely 45. Miss Smelly began wearing her coat in the office. OK, I admit, I don't feel the cold as acutely as others do, but her coat suggests that there is a large vagrant dog out there, naked and shivering without the shaggy mounds of rank black fur it normally sports.

Tuesday comes and it's still very cold in the office. I've taken to digging out a wool suit from the winter to stay warm, and I've had two cups of tea by noon. My typing is slower and less accurate, from bluishly stiff fingers. Miss Smelly says to me, 'Aren't you cold?', as I sit huddled in my woolens. I should have thought that was apparent, but since I wasn't wearing leftover furs from the set of Conan the Destroyer, I suppose I had a rather laissez-faire tropical look to myself.

Wednesday arrives, and the wind and rain are pelting down, the mercury still parked stubbornly below 50. I run into Miss Smelly on my way into the office - I am quite late getting in today owing to the lateness of last night's tragically horrific recruiting fair in Boston. She yells at me through the stinging rain - 'We have space heaters in the office! Woohoo!' I smile faintly and continue walking towards my building. When I finally get in there, I don't notice much overall difference - after all, how much warmth can a heater the size of a toaster put out? There is, however, a workman in the office talking to the head admin. When he leaves, we learn that Miss Smelly's answer to the cold in the building was this: call the president of the college. Direct. On the phone.

Jesus Christ. She has no idea how this makes us look. It's not that you don't talk with the president, but you have to know WHEN it's worth your while - and HIS - to talk with him. You don't blow your calls on stuff that should be directed to other offices which can actually DO something about it.

As I said, it's a maturity thing. She hasn't developed a fine enough sense of appropriate behaviour. She has no style, no elegance, no poise. No sense! I realize these things come with time, but the more I observe her, the more I realize how far behind she is. I definitely don't want to go through another hiring process for that position - and honestly, her actual work is fine - but we have got a long way to go to groom Miss Smelly, and this goes way beyond bare midriffs, shampoo, and deodorant.

posted by Maquinna @ 12:16 p.m.