Bunkhouse woes and morning wood.

There's no getting around it. Bunkhouse life can be hard on our offshore workers. Picture anywhere from 40 to 60 men or women living in one house. We have a men's bunkhouse and a women's.

The kitchen must be shared, and with that many people all wanting something different, there's never enough room for everybody. I've heard of some men or women having to wait until midnight for a turn at one of the stoves.

Jamaican's and Mexicans do not normally eat out of a box. There's no such thing as throwing a frozen pizza in the oven and calling it good enough.

Sleeping arrangements are rows of bunkbeds. As one woman described it you roll one way and see a naked lady, roll the other way and see another one. It's one of the reasons most offshore workers will work while ill. There's no peace to be found at the bunkhouse.

Showers are banks of stalls with a curtain to offer some modesty. With only 14 of them for 60 women, I would imagine most showers are kept brief no matter how plentiful the hot water is. 

I was talking to a couple of the ladies towards the end of the day. As someone who requires a significant amount of alone time, I can't imagine living cheek to jowl with another 59 women. I mentioned my sympathy for the situation. One of the women recalled a time where she had mentioned the bunkhouse issue to a higher up.

Worker: Sometimes women need some privacy. Like when they have their monthly troubles and feel uncomfortable dealing with that with so many people around.

Higher up: Well just imagine the men when they are having their morning troubles.

This is how I wound up with a mental image of 60 men staggering around half awake tenting their boxers. No faces or anything. More like a herd of those male underwear mannequins.

Kind of like the scene from Toy Story with the claw and the little space guys milling around. Only instead of space guys it's legless and headless torsos with morning wood.

I almost pissed myself laughing.

You would think a Gynecologist would have bigger worries than feet.

Believe it or not - I was home from work before 6 tonight. Which is really cool since I did not go in until 1. Sure it's only 5 hours, but I think I got enough last week to make up for it.

So the reason I didn't go in until after lunch is because today was finally the day for the hoo-ha check up. The one I have to have before I get to see a gynecologist who will I hope evict Aunt Flo for good. Apparently annual check ups are beneath the baby catchers these days.

Also, doctors don't do your physical anymore. Instead you get a nurse practitioner. Which is kind of cool, because she was way more thorough than any doctor I've ever had. Plus it was mostly less awkward than my last physical.

To distract myself a bit, I told her of my last gynecologist. The one who "installed" my Mirena.

I went to him because after 5 years of living the celibate life I had finally met The Polish guy and was getting somethin something. In one of those cruel tricks life likes to play pre-menopause was setting in and I was having my period for 45 days straight. So my doctor referred me to "Superman"

I'm calling him that because his entire office was filled with Superman collectibles.

Superman: Well your goose is cooked.

I was not nearly as amused as Superman thought I should be at that statement.

Me: What are you trying to say.

Superman: blah blah blah menopause blah blah blah.

Me: So, can you do something about it?

Superman: You really aren't a candidate for a hysterectomy (at which point my inner 2 year old wanted to roll on the floor and scream I want one, and I want it now!) We could try an ablation.

Me: What's the recovery time?

Superman: No time at all, you'll be back to work in two days.

Me: Who cares about work. How long before sex can resume?

Dead silence.

Seriously, just because you look at vaginas all day don't assume the rest of the world has lost interest in sex.

So after much discussion - bullshit - he talked I listened, the Mirena was decided on.

Superman: I would like to examine you first though. Make sure you leave your socks on. I've got a thing about feet.

A large part of Superman's patients belong to a religious community that does not believe in shaving their legs. Or bathing daily. Superman spends his days looking at their vaginas.

Superman, I think you've got bigger things to worry about than feet.

Monday kicked my ass again, and I should wear my glasses when texting.

That bitch Monday won again. We were done packing at 6:30 - so everyone should have been out of the door at 7. Except the garbage hopper fell off of the lift truck into the dumpster. By the time my shipper/receiver (by the way - he is so lucky he's my favorite) got a chain and hauled it out it was 7:30.

Meh, it was still kind of an early night.

So tonight all of my recent rage built up and I sent The Polish Guy a text. "I think you're a giant asshole for the way you ended things. It was cold, mean and unnecessarily cruel."

Stunningly I heard the ding of a response. When I got up the nerve to check, it was only "You got the wrong number"

My reply "Sorry, story of my life." Sue me, I'm feeling sorry for myself here.

Then I texted my girlfriend.

Me: Did he seriously change his number even? What a fucking asshole.

GF: Not that I know of, haven't talked to him today.

Me: Well then he's just being a fucking cunt.

GF: Why what's wrong.

Me: I just felt it was time to tell him I think he's a giant asshole.

GF: Vanessa

Me: Sometimes it's got to be said. And if he changed his number just lately I haven't texted him in over a fucking month.

Me: Actually, I need to put my glasses on. I did have the wrong number.

I must be completely deranged, because now I'm just finding this entire situation hilarious. It is kind of disappointing that I no longer feel the need to send that text though. Now is right about when he would have to painfully struggle out of bed (with his broken ribs) to see that it was only me telling him he's an asshole.

He is a giant asshole. A ginormous asshole.

Sunday - it needs to be two days.

I wasn't home much this week. I'm not sure if the kids missed me, they might have missed me washing laundry. I know the dog missed me though since he's been plastered to my side all morning.

Of course then I start to notice things. Like the mats behind his ears that I forgot to trim out last weekend. Like the distinct doggy aroma wafting to my nose.

That's about when Louie learned that mommy's love isn't all cuddles and treats. By some miracle I was able to find all the necessary tools for an extended grooming session.

Scissors to clean up the Sasquatch feet.

Thinning shears to trim up the ass fur so it's short enough it no longer provides a landing pad for whatever is coming out of his ass. Also handy for kerchunking through the mats so they can be combed out and not leave a bald spot.

The nail trimmers so we can put a stop to the annoying clickety click. I've got three out of four paws done so it's currently clickety pad pad pad, but I'll get that last paw.

The brush to get rid of those endless gobs of shedding out undercoat. If you've never had the pleasure, a Golden Retriever's undercoat is not hair. It's more like gobs of poplar fuzz or dandelion fluff.

Miss Kitty did her sibling duty of taunting him while he endured the torture. 

Then I took off his collars and threw them into the dishwasher, and ordered the dog into the tub. My back is grateful that Asshat #1 taught him that command. My back would appreciate it though if Louie could lather himself up and rinse.

Now I'm just waiting for him to dry so I can love him up some more with the brush. It could take a while as it seems I either don't own more than one towel or Asshat #1 has one hell of a pile of them in his bedroom.

That, groceries and making a pot of soup are the sum total of my plans for the day.

The soup is in hope of having something to eat other than granola bars this week so I can prevent future gas explosions. 

Assholes bring out my inner Evil Bitch. AKA Fuck You Polish Guy.

I like to try to keep the evil bitch part of my personality on a tight leash. Or at least I like to try. Tonight though, she's trying really hard to slip the leash.

Two weeks ago, The Polish Guy probably saw his life flash before his eyes. I hope the motherfucker wept at the loneliness of it.

He was up North at the cottage he shares with his brother. The one I no longer am welcomed at as a guest, but I bet the money hungry asshole would let me rent it!

His brother had bought some sort of ATV on Kijiji and not bothered with silly things like brakes. Or a good strong towing cable. You are both idiots - one for calling half-assed good enough, and the other one for not just assuming your brother fucked shit up like he normally does. Polish Guy - you know better by now.

Some sort of accident happened because of this and The Polish Guy wound up under one of the ATV's. Then he got to spend 3 days in Englehart's hospital. Looks good on you and I hope it fucking hurt. 

So now he's home with four broken ribs (Oh, I bet that hurts don't it? I hope it does!) and a scraped up face.

Tonight, I'm so fucking mad at him for breaking up with me over who the fuck knows what since he won't say. I bet it's because I didn't clean up after my dog - even though my friend who cut my grass this week is wondering where all the dog shit I haven't had time to clean up since last fall is. Or maybe because I didn't vacuum his house free of dog hair before leaving - buy a decent fucking vacuum and if you want a wife, marry one! Or maybe because I wouldn't do his grocery shopping for him anymore - again if you want the milk, buy the fucking cow.

But anyhow....

I'm so mad at him that I want to sprinkle pepper under his nose until he sneezes while poking him in his broken ribs.

Plus I want a demented clown to tickle his feet for a half hour straight and make him laugh the entire 30 minutes.

Hurts, you fucker, don't it?

Oh and by the way? The dog is really wondering what the fuck is going on. So not only are you mean to women, now you're mean to dogs as well. 

Asshole.

Granola Bars, Crazy Hours and Fart Walls.

Yesterday, I had one of my workers text in that he couldn't come to work because he hadn't been able to go #2 in 4 days. When my co-supervisor showed me the text my response was "Are you kidding me? With the hours we've been working I bet half the people here haven't been able to shit in four days yet they're all here!" I might have been more sympathetic, except he had already been absent for one day earlier in the week. Plus - I'm just not. Sympathetic I mean.

Let's face it, there are certain "digestive issues" that accompany working ridiculous hours. For starters, most of the time you really just don't have enough time in the morning to sit and relax and give your morning coffee time to work it's magic.

Plus when you work crazy hours, healthy eating kind of flies out the window. I tend to grab granola bars throughout the day and follow it with a meal of highly processed carbs smothered in cheese. I know granola bars are usually pretty high in fiber, but it's been my experience that it's not really the pooping kind of fiber. It's more the farting kind of fiber.

I have mentioned before that aging has brought the nasty surprise of "fart incontinence" right? So it shouldn't have really been a shock that when I arrived at work and bent over to put my bag under the desk one tiny little fart escaped.

I mean we are talking an entire work week of crappy food and no time to let nature do it's work here.

What was shocking about that tiny little fart bubble, was the smell that assaulted my nose when I stood up. So I immediately slammed the office window open, but before I could make it over to the exhaust fan my co-supervisor came hurtling into the office. Right into my fart wall.

That slowed him down a bit.

Thankfully the only thing he said was "I know I didn't do that!" I'm even more grateful that I didn't start snickering like an eight year old.

Like I've said before, I can be an asshole sometimes.

***

If you're looking for a great place to hang out this weekend, you can't go wrong at Yeah Write's Weekend Moonshine Grid. It's like the worlds greatest house party, one where you can loaf around in your PJ's and forget to brush your teeth.  So click the button below and check it out. 

Miss Kitty shreds her enemies.

In case you missed me moaning about it, I've been working a lot of hours. The days all start at 6 and at the beginning of the week rarely end before 9:30.

You can imagine that the very last thing I want to do on my way home from work is stop at the grocery store. However yesterday we only had a partial roll of toilet paper on the go, and one full one remaining in the package. With me and the asshats using said toilet paper, it's dangerous to cut things that close.

Since I do consider toilet paper to be an essential no matter how tired I am, I stopped at the grocery store. At that time of night, there is only one register open. Of course the two ladies with their fully loaded carts had to race to get in front of me with my five items. There is no doubt in my mind they did it intentionally since both of them glared at me as they ran for the checkout.

Lucky for them, I was too tired to commit bodily harm or even a gusty sigh and sarcastic eye roll. In fact, I don't even think I had the energy to put my "I will cut you" evil bitch face on.

So this morning, when I saw that there was still a roll of paper in the package I was a little bit put out that I had stopped needlessly. Until I pulled the roll out.

It seems Miss Kitty had crawled into the bag and had a serious altercation with that last roll of TP.

Turned out it was a good thing I did stop at the store last night, since I was too tired to assemble those shreds into something I could wipe my ass with.

Friends are like panties, and I've got one that covers my butt when I need her to.

Sometimes friends really are like panties - the ones that cover your butt when you need them to. Like when your friend knows you're working ridiculous hours and cuts your lawn for you. And weeds your flower beds. And weedwacks.

Especially the weeding and weedwacking. The weedwacker is the work of the devil as far as I'm concerned. Unless you happen to be the type of person who enjoys having grass, stones, and plant juice flung at you at high velocity.

It's an even better friend who does all of the above when you can't remember the last time you did dog shit duty around the yard.

This is also the friend that's been there for me throughout The Polish Guy's defection. The one who has come over expecting to have a nice cup of tea and instead sat and listened to me - and let me tell you - I have not been Miss Suzy Sunshine. More like Sad Sue with a dash of Vengeful Vicky.

This grieving shit is hard. It's good to know I've got a friend who has my back and won't start bawling while I'm trying to hold it together.

I guess I'll forgive her for sitting in my chair that one time, even if it's not MY chair anymore.

Well played Monday, well played.

The washrooms at work are all single stall bathrooms. My first trip of the day to the bathroom had me finishing my business and reaching for the first roll on the commercial double roll dispenser. My questing hand was greeted by empty cardboard tube. I reached for the second roll and came up empty again. With no such thing as a handy tissue in my pocket, I looked around at the paper towel dispenser. It was empty as well. At least it was a pee visit.

Well played Monday, well played. 


When the end of the day finally arrived - at 9:30 pm - I went out to my car. When I opened the door I discovered that I really do need to empty my ashtray more often.

The entire car was filled with a swirling cloud of burning cigarette and cigarette filter.

The ashtray is mostly empty now, if a little bit soggy from me pouring half a can of pop on it to douse the smoldering butts.

I think that bitch Monday kicked some ass today. Too bad it was mostly my ass.

Gnarly toenails are one of my phobias.

I've got these "issues" when it comes to nails. Not the nails you pound into wood - those I've got under control.

Nope, I've got issues with fingernails and toenails.

Long fingernails kind of make me want to puke. Seriously, I try to keep my own fingernails with only 1 mm of white showing. Anything else bothers me, especially when I reach into my purse and get those mysterious purse crumbs under my nails somehow.

What the fuck are those purse crumbs from?

Toenails are something I'm fortunate enough to be able to forget about for 10 months of the year when everyone drags out their socks and winter shoes.

Inevitably though, summer weather rolls around and I will be exposed to the visual nightmare of gnarly toenails. I kind of get that guys aren't into the whole pedicure thing, but when I see a woman walking around in sandals with toenails that look like they belong on a troll, I want to vomit.

Being the type of person who can't trash talk a woman unless I'm not guilty of the same thing - this weekend was the time to do that first of the sandal season pedicure. Except when The Polish guy packed up my meager possessions and moved them out of his house - he forgot all of the pedicure shit.  Including the very important "toe separators"

You can see why they are an essential right?

So I go to the grocery store, only in their cosmetic section they are lacking the all important "toe separators" so I went to Shoppers Drug Mart.

I have been avoiding that place, because The Polish Guy's niece works there. It has been over a month though, time to grow up and start acting normal. Right?

Like all retail, I'm sure Shopper's doesn't have certain people on staff for every hour I might want to go there. I could get lucky. Right?

Wrong.

She's on duty, and standing in the nail polish aisle. Which is where my fucking toe separators are likely to be.

We have the "blah blah blah" conversation.

Hanging by a thread, I'm keeping it together, until she tells me The Polish Guy got hurt when he was opening up the cottage for the season. Hurt badly enough to spend three days in the hospital up there. I've been told he's got four broken ribs and he's all scraped up.

All because his asshole brother K, took another one of his "buy it on Kijiji, half assed fix it and then sell it" didn't think brakes were important.

That's how I ended up crying in Shopper's Drug Mart.

His niece wondered why I wasn't chasing him down and forcing him to see reason.

I'm not, because I've been around long enough to know one of the hardest facts of life.

No matter how much YOU love them, you can't MAKE anyone love YOU back.

Sadly, no matter how much you feel as if you've been disemboweled through your nose, the sun will continue to rise and set. Bills will continue to appear in your mailbox, and life will go on.