|How'd it get to be Friday again?
||[Sep. 7th, 2012|11:54 am]
I keep thinking that if I just had a few minutes to breathe, to catch up, I’d be okay. And then I think to myself “oh, please, you couldn’t HANDLE being caught up and you’d just explode into a mushroom cloud of undirected stress”. Stick with what you know. |
What a week! I was mad at everyone. I should probably re-subscribe to the paper again, because I missed the full page ad that recommended that all metro DC drivers begin an immediate campaign to make me lose my nut. Yesterday alone, in three separate incidences, someone next to me tried to climb into my lane, right where I was. Four times, someone on the left of me suddenly realized that they needed to be in the lane to the far right of me. RIGHT NOW. Sans turn signals or another other warning. After the second one, I gave up picking my groceries off the floor of my car and just let them ride like that the rest of the way. Am I the last civil driver in the universe? If I can’t make my turn, I’ll actually drive on ahead and make a u-turn and then try again, rather than endanger several other people. Is that really such a crazy idea? And I’m not exactly a mellow, non-aggressive driver. I did several things for other people/colleagues this week and there was a distinct lack of thank you/appreciation (hint, if you’re reading this, you aren’t one of them. Especially you, Fetch. You paranoid little cabbage, you. That’s alliterative in French, and an endearment, which is funny even if it’s not alliterative) and I had a crisis of faith as to why I even bother sometimes. (Don’t worry, it was furious, but brief. I do it because, overall, it makes me happy. Also, because I was a very, very selfish person last time on the wheel, and I don’t want to come back as a cockroach. No, worse, silverfish. There’s an inherent coolness to a cockroach. Silverfish, on the other hand…::shudder::
And work, don’t even get me started. Apparently “it’s going to arrive on Friday, I need you to sign it on Friday, if you forget and don’t sign it until Monday, I still need you to sign it with Friday’s date” means, in the rest of North America, “oh, go ahead and sign it with Monday’s date”. And that was probably the least of my frustrations.
And twice, ZombieGeezerCat, while I was cleaning up her mess from the night before, ate her breakfast, toddled to the water bowl, drank too much water because she’s senile, and then promptly threw up said breakfast all over the kitchen, and while I was cleaning up said vomit, started screaming for more food.
(Please don’t tell me to euthanize the cat. That’s not helpful. I’ve euthanized dozens of animals, more if you count chickens, and I know when it’s time. Being a pain in my ass and extra work is NOT reason for euthanasia, in my book. If you disagree, best you keep that to yourself, because someday you may be marooned on a Peruvian mountaintop, or holed up in a basement hiding from zombies with me and I will totally remember your comfort zone with ending something’s life because it’s difficult. And you will sneeze or stub your toe and pretty much, in my book, you are now suffering enough to warrant making jerky out of you. Stay plump, my friend.)
But, hey, hey, hey, this week I also got a nice little dinner of okra and grapes from the garden, got in a couple of episodes of Buffy while folding laundry, furminatored the cats – which on the one hand, definitely reduces shedding and puts my cats into an orgasmic trance, on the other hand, on the evening I brush them with it, I turn the entire living room into a maelstrom of cat fur and need to vacuum the room, the upholstery and myself and when I wash the clothes I was wearing, I wind up with a dryer full of small felt balls made of cat hair – and even squeezed in some time for a civilized dinner and bottle of wine shared over erudite conversation. (With another human being, for the record.)
Of course, the only way to do all that was to move a bunch of tasks from the To-Do List to Expletive-It, Not This Week. But it kept me sane. Triage is my life. Which is why you picked me to be holed up in the basement with you during the zombie attack, although now you’re having second thoughts as you contemplate just how double-edged a double-edged sword is. Be useful, my friend, be useful.
Well, onward into the sixteenth century I go for another weekend of way too much fun. Armed with Aleve, leg bandages, Gold Bond Powder, and copious amounts of alcohol.