You're not the only one suffering.

I mentioned in my Twitter yesterday that the reason I like my office bitch job is that I don't have to clean up puke very often. There was a reason the subject came up, of course--one of my co-workers, a receptionist I'll call Sparrowhawk. Now, Sparrowhawk is a very lovely girl, but she is extremely reckless when it comes to her continuing state of employment, or indeed, physical health. She works Tuesdays through Fridays, and every time I've worked on a Tuesday morning--every time--she's gone out and gotten hammered on Monday night. Every Tuesday, without fail, she comes in with a hangover.

This isn't so bad, for the most part. Tuesday is not a busy day for the company I'm working for. People who are in a hurry call in on Monday, and people whose business can wait call in Wednesday or Thursday, so Tuesday is really the eye of the storm in our working week. It's a day for catching up on Monday and gearing up for the rest of the week. I think this may be why Sparrowhawk feels it's acceptable to come in hungover, or today... high as a kite.

I was filling out tax forms when she breezed in, whispered into my ear that she'd taken a load of ecstasy, strewed her belongings all over the table, and sat down on the carpet, rubbing it with her fingertips.

My thoughts at the time were: ????????????????????????

Anyway, the day progressed... fairly well, for a little while. Sparrowhawk discovered in herself a strange passion for rubbing up against things with interesting textures, but mostly she answered phones and filed documents without much trouble. This is actually an improvement. Most mornings, she sits there moaning about the state of her head for a while, half-heartedly shuffles some papers for a while, then texts her boyfriend to bring her some more panadol. For now she's almost acting like she's sober, which is a huge relief.

I stop glowering sullenly at her across the table, and gradually I also manage to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. My thoughts stop saying things like Oh god, if she's going for the phone I'm going to scre--no? Oh. Well then... and settle down into their usual pattern: Boring. Boring. I will strangle that woman if she doesn't stop cracking her knuckles. Boring. Boring. Boring. That guy has such a cool surname. Boring. I wonder what the time is. Should I get Hanaichi's for lunch? Boring. Boring. Etc.

The only major problem occurred around, oh... eleven in the morning, or so. I was only about an hour and a half away from finishing my shift. I look up for a moment, and see Sparrowhawk frozen in mid-moment, file halfway inserted into a cabinet.

"You okay, Sparrowhawk?"

"I think I'm crashing," she said. She didn't sound alarmed or unwell or anything--it was just a matter of fact statement. It was still slightly disconcerting, though.

"Ah. Are you going to be all right?"

"Oh, yeah."

We went back to work. Ten minutes later, though--yep, you guessed it... quite suddenly, there's bits of half-digested food everywhere.

Lovely.

Now, I have experience dealing with puke. The church I used to clean also hosted Narcotics Anonymous, and we had the occasional withdrawal-induced vomiting to clean up. Drunks obviously managed to spew quite literally everywhere at the fast food joints. Even at the horse riding centres, first timers often got down, wobbly-legged, and staggered for the nearest bush--often not quite making it. I also own a dog, and as dogs are want to do, she occasionally upchucks somewhere inconvenient. But I hate dealing with vomit. Man do I hate it. More than any other bodily secretion, except for maybe, occasionally, shit. I think part of it is induced by the knowledge that vomit is only ever produced when you've ingested something you shouldn't, and I always wonder exactly what that might be. There are some truly disgusting options. You'd be surprised what people think they can get away with eating, especially when they're already pissed.

I think in Sparrowhawk's case, it was just a bad batch of E--but that didn't make the prospect of cleaning it up any more appealing. I got another coworker to help Sparrowhawk out, and marched to the storeroom with the gravitas of a funeral procession. Rubber gloves, plastic garbage bag, paper towels, disinfectant. This is a routine I know well and hate with a passion my countrymen normally reserve for New Zealand. Talk about hooker moments.

I clean it up, anyway, and cover the afflicted for and table with newspaper until the real cleaners can get to it with industrial-strength carpet cleaner. I finish my shift in a different office--the smell is almost enough to make me lose my breakfast, too. Sparrowhawk got to go home early, the lucky bitch. She owes me one hell of a favour; if she doesn't feel like paying up, I'm going to tell our boss she was high on the job and get her ass fired. Sounds harsh, but I'm sick of covering her ass when she shows up plastered or hungover, and I'm sick of essentially trying to pull two shifts at once because she's too fucking smashed to be useful. Let this be a lesson to you. It's your own fault if you show up drunk or high or hungover or otherwise useless, and you're gonna have to be prepared for the consequences.