Teaching Old Coworkers New Tricks

I’m actually quite good at handling the serious problems that life throws my way. It’s not long ago that I was an unemployed, narcotics-dabbling nomad with a serious attitude problem. And look how well I’ve turned out? No, it’s the daily trivial irritations that drive me absolutely nuts. For example, I almost advised a woman on the train last night to close her mouth while chewing her gum to avoid making that smack smack smack noise. I’ve gone completely ape shit crazy on commuters for not signaling properly in traffic. I’ve worked myself up in a foamy lather over someone sitting in my favorite lunch spot.

Another of my pet peeves includes the inability of certain individuals to place a dirty dish in the dishwasher instead of the sink. I’m often ruffled by what I can’t understand, and this is outside my realm of logic. Why it is so difficult to extend the arm two feet in the other direction, open the machine, and place the item inside? Is it laziness? Unconscientiousness? Out and out defiance? Whatever causes the behavior, it bothers me because in the end, I must transfer them myself, usually after scraping at crust-covered surfaces and transferring food sludge to my carefully selected ensemble.

Several months ago, while enacting this cherished ritual, an unidentifiable piece of food shrapnel landed on my shoe. MY SHOE. My very favorite pair of yellow Steve Madden peep toe heels. Is nothing sacred?! So, I snapped. In a PMS-induced temper tantrum, I manifested my rage in a series of highly passive-aggressive notes that I taped around the kitchen.

Exhibit A (located above the sink)

Exhibit B (located on the counter to the right of the sink)

Exhibit C (located on the front of the elusive dishwasher itself)

Say what you will about the use of passive-aggressive notes, but I find them to be a valuable means of communicating what would otherwise go completely unresolved because it simply can not be transmitted in any other way. The trick to successful use is to keep your notes lighthearted enough so as to give others a chuckle. This will divert them from seeing directly into your black, withered soul which is secretly wishing horrible things about them. Case in point: my signs worked. On occasion, a stray butter knife covered in jam is abandoned in the sink, but for the most part, I’ve cured the office of their dishwasherophobia. Next, I will begin to train Beau.