There are a million reasons why I should not be allowed to interact with the public, but the most recent happened mere moments ago. I was on the phone with an older, thickly-accented woman who had many, many questions about many, many things, all of which I'm delighted to answer. In the middle of this conversation, leaning back in my swivel chair with my feet crossed atop my desk, I decided to be all healthy (mistake #1) and drink my Kombucha instead of snacking on the fucking smorgasbord in my office. Kombucha, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure, "is the Western name for sweetened tea or tisane that has been fermented using a macroscopic solid mass of microorganisms called a "kombucha colony." It's basically supposed to "support" digestion, metabolism, the immune system, appetite control, weight control, liver function, body alkalinity, anti-aging, cell integrity and healthy skin and hair.
I know, I know. I'm practically Jesus for drinking this shit.
Anyway, what with that colony collecting at the bottom of my bottle, I followed the big "Do Not Shake" warning by gently tilting my "Organic Raw Kombucha Botanic No. 7" so that all of the crap at the bottom of the bottle distributed. I guess that would be mistake #2. Finally, still answering the bevy of questions this woman must have written down before calling our offices, I twisted the cap of my Kombucha.
It started to explode right away, but seemed like something I could keep under control. A little Kombucha on my desk is no big deal amid the coffee stains and Post-Its from November. But with the cap half open, some kind of physics experiment occurred and this goddamn Kombucha started going everywhere. The computer, the keyboard, the phone, the walls, the personal photos tacked to the walls, the handbag 10 feet away on the conference table, the window beside me, the window that's far away...everywhere. It was certainly all over me. And I'm still on the phone.
"Oh God." I started to whisper. "Oh my God."
The Kombucha hissed, a screeching warning to my co-workers to come running and watch in horror.
"Oh no!" I gasped. "Oh, can you, just, one second..."
The woman on the other end of the phone began to scream, "What is happening?!?! What is going on!?!?!?!"
"I just spilled...I'm spilling... Jesus Christ..." I had to get the cap all the way off, it's being half on seeming to make the explosion worse. But to get the cap all the way off, I'd have to get much closer.
"Can you hold on? Can I please put you on...oh GOD!...hold?"
"What is going on!?!?!?!"
"Kombucha! It's exploding! I'm putting you on hold!"
"Fine!" She hollered, as if she herself were suffering this fermented shower.
My co-workers stood watching me in disgust, asking stupid questions like, "What happened?" and saying stupid things like, "That smells."
They did help me clean up, however. On their hands and knees, with bleach and towels, screams of "We'll have to move buildings!" echoed from below my desk. They're right, of course. The sweet vinegar continues to waft all around me as I type this. You can almost see it, like in cartoons. I'm surrounded by hazy, burgundy fog.
Finally, with my window opened and a stack of Clorox Wipes in my garbage can, my co-worker screamed across the office, "Who's on hold?"