Clockwork

It's time for me to release a burden by grumbling about another of my kooky coworkers. This go around, I'll introduce you to the one and only Clockwork!

Clockwork earned her name because she is a robot. I think. I suspect if I was to open her up, I'd find at least a circuit chip in her brain keeping her on a routine. That's her speciality -- routine. She's even been on the verge of tears when asked to change a simple thing, like, no longer keeping the soda in the fridge in this annoying wooden crate. I told her we could fit half as many cans in there if we just took this thing out. And I did. And it lasted for about two days. Then it magically appeared in the fridge. She tells me, the plastic shelf was cracking under the weight of the cans... Yes, she said that. Solution? Put the heavy-ass wooden 5 lb. crate back in there because "it disperses the weight!" Full-on genius, I say! I'm all for people supporting their own disorders, but at least fess up to your craziness.

Watching her is amazing. Remember in Naked Gun when the ballplayer has the chip inserted in his head and the bad guy presses the remote control button, and the player instantly turns into this robotic slave mumbling "I must kill... the Queen." That's Clockwork. Remember Vickie the Robot from that sitcom Small Wonder? She'd be all "11:30 a.m. Vacuum under the sofa." That's Clockwork. 3:00 p.m. Click. She automatically goes into the kitchen to cook popcorn. 4:00 p.m. on Friday. Click. She grabs the can to water the flowers. It's like you can see the fuse pop and off she goes. Lunch time. Click. Off to McDonald's to get her giganti-soda. Click. Get huffy with her annoying family on the phone for all to hear. At least three times per day.


And the worst offense of them all: her daily dump. Yes, you read correctly. She number 2's in the house almost every day. What's the big whoop, Army? The big whoop is that we work in the House of Olden Days and you can smell it everywhere. Oh, and you don't just smell it, no. It's mixed with an aromatic cocktail of Cheap-As-Free Nast-o-Spray. The kind of stink spray that smells WORSE than the offensive odor it never covers up. That's the one. I'm getting all ill just thinking about it.

Deep down she's a nice person. But her inability to change even the smallest thing and her incessant routines drive me (and my sane coworkers) batty. I'll just have to love her for who she is. Well, as long as she goes next door to do her business from now on.