So, yesterday, I went to my first friend in Memphis' house and tilled his soon to be fantastic garden. But this didn't happen until taking my husband to the airport early in the morning so that he'd be gone for 5 days. (I hate Northworst Airlines -- bonus, perhaps, the ugly troll who has been C.E.O. for the last several years is apparently being replaced. NOT bonus, he'll take the paycuts from every person who makes the airline fly -- including my husband's -- as his golden parachute as he leaves). Needless to say, jumping ahead, that's why Wednesday will suck more than Monday or Tuesday. It's my birthday and Cameron will be gone.
Anyway, Sunday was OK because our bowling team vindicated ourselves against the Lesbian team "The Slots" after they narrowly beat us out of first place during the first half of this year's league. We ended up winning first place for the year. Sunday would have been fantastic if Cameron had been at Winchester Lanes to share in our glory. He helped make it happen and couldn't be there. Suck, but not totally.
The Mamas and the Papas lamented Mondays many years ago. I've tried to ignore that lament over the years, but today, I'm right there with them. I don't blog about work because there are people there that read this crap. But, today, I am making an exception. Monday = Sucks. Why else would I have been at work well past 8 PM? Was it perhaps because a schizophrenic client didn't remember something that she has needed every year for the last several and now is behind the proverbial "eight ball" demanding a layout today (starting at 11:00 A.M.)? YES. Was it because someone I was working with didn't understand my instructions? Yes, because that thing ended up landing on my desk to figure out and put me two hours behind. Was it because I was asked by one of my favorite people to participate in a concepting session that apparently involved a brick wall (a coworker) that couldn't see beyond the obvious (what the brick wall refused to look around) was putting me two hours behind? Um, you betcha. Was it because I couldn't get copy revisions (two "F"ing words!) for a presentation I have to make at 10 o'clock in the morning? Most definitely.
I arrived home at 8:15 to two very anxious and exited young ladies, and a third less enthusiastic-but-nevertheless-glad-to-see-me Edith. Time to go potty. Time to get some dinner (for them). Change their water. Clean Edith's cat box. Get the mail. Fold the whites. Start the gigantic load of jeans. Water the plants that Greg gave me on Sunday that currently live in a recycling bin. Lament that the dishwasher is clean because I just wanted to throw the few dirty dishes in it. Inspect the fridge and realize that because I wanted to eat Cameron's best spaghetti ever I had to cook more pasta.
Now, while I've been catching up on e-mail, working on planning tomorrow, cooking pasta and giving Doris and Billie cookies each time I get off of this stool, I realize it's 10:15, I haven't eaten, I have a meeting in the morning, I have clothes to iron (because I haven't had time to pick up my dry cleaning during business hours) and it's time to throw the jeans in the dryer.
In the morning, I'll most likely end up writing the copy I should have received from the copywriter (um, nevermind), rush to get the boards printed and mounted and be a sweaty mess by the time I leave the office for my presentation. And, guess what? The day after is my 46th birthday and my husband will be in F-ing Raleigh-Durham. What an exciting night for us both!
Screw it. I'm having another martini. Doris will wake me up in the morning. I can count on it. She doesn't suck.