Blech

Yeah, so. I woke up early this morning to try to get a few things done. In my exhausted state I was entirely ineffectual, and my efforts were for naught. So then I tried to upload my pictures on thisy here blog thingy, and that didn’t work either. Shit! In this fashion, I managed to waste my entire morning, and I had to rush out the door without taking a shower. I had to rush because I had a meeting at 10:00, and I wasn’t quite ready for it.

Rush, rush, rush.

So I got here on time, gathered everything together, and then, guess what? I had the time wrong, and the meeting wasn't until 11:00. My entire department was in the room already, and so I looked like a complete, dirty ass (everyone to their credit was very nice about it). Then the meeting lasted two and a half hours, and I hadn’t had anything to eat and not nearly enough coffee. So then I grab my lunch, and people kept coming over to talk to me about work. Fuck off! I wanted to scream.

Then I had to go to the Post Office to mail a package. I got there, and there were only two people ahead of me in line and two tellers. Perfect! Then one of the tellers went on break, someone else got to cut in line because they were being helped someplace else, and the customer in front of me had several packages and some specific demands. Finally it was my turn, and the postal worker was trying to figure out the new system, so it took nearly ten minutes to buy a stamp and mail a package.

It’s 3:15 on a Friday, and I should be psyched because I only have one hour and forty-five minutes left in my day. Then it’s the weekend, right? No! I have to go to work tomorrow at 10:00 to work at a sale. This is my company’s way of making sure that everyone stays humble. I get to stand in a cavernous space, with weird yellow lighting and sicky-sweet air, handing out receipts to people for seven hours. We’re supposed to work two sales a year. I worked the sale in November, and then I was traveling FOR WORK for the last sale. Does this count? No! Must work sale. This is my birthday weekend. Did I mention that my birthday is September 11th? My birthday is on a Monday, it’s supposed to rain, and it is the fifth anniversary of a national tragedy. Happy Birthday to me . . . Oh, and I’m going to be thirty-three, just one step closer to being officially in my mid-thirties. And, and, and . . .

Bloody hell.

The only nice thought I have is that my wonderful boyfriend is going to wine and dine me tomorrow night. Please think good thoughts so that I won’t bite his head off for being loving and kind.

4:15 UPDATE
The day’s gotten better. I just got an e-mail from an irate author whose book we were just discussing at the meeting this morning (specifically the infeasibility of producing this very strange little book). He said, and I quote, “I’m a bit perturbed. No, I’m steamed.” Well guess what I am?! I decided that in the interest of keeping my job that I would reply on Monday.

Not five minutes after receiving the e-mail, I got a phone call forwarded to me. Some strange little man was looking for one of our author’s agents. We haven't worked with this guy in ages. I was trying to explain that I couldn’t give this information out, and he says, “But he has something with his legs.”

“I’m sorry?” I said, trying to keep my inner thoughts out of my voice. “He has something with his legs," he repeats. And I''m supposed to be of help in this matter?

But then something good for real happened. One of my work friends gave me a really groovy mix, featuring a song about pigeons flying out of a canvas. Oh, and a chocolate. Music and chocolate improve things a lot.