I love my sheets. Gorgeous, snow-white Egyptian cotton with some huge thread-count number, they feel as soft as a cloud against the skin. The trouble is that this type of sheets has a tendency to tangle about the feet and legs. That’s what I discovered as I picked myself up off the floor and rubbed the goose egg on my skull. Stupid sheets.
That was at 6:00 this morning. The day didn’t get much better as it wore on. After listening to my daughter howl bloody murder in my ear while I changed the dressing on her mostly-healed burned thigh and tripping over the cat (the little bastard ripped a couple of nasty furrows in my shin in the process), I was ready to by-pass the obligatory cup of tea and go straight for the brandy.
No time. The kid dressed, the breakfast made, it was time for her to shove food down her neck before the bus arrived. Now where the hell did she go?
It’s a small house, but a seven-year-old can disappear any time she pleases. I found her in the closet of the spare room, playing with her stuffed animals. Breathe. Count to ten. Calmly herd the child to the table, get her to eat.
Too late. She managed to get one bite down before the bus rolled up. That’s when she remembered that she didn’t know where she left her backpack—with all her homework in it. After a mad dash through the house and stuffing her into her coat and gloves, she was unceremoniously thrust through the door as the bus was pulling away. A loud and stern warning from her mother had the child running to catch the bus before it was out of sight. Yes, I’m a mean mommy.
Sit. Breathe. Take a moment for yourself. Eyes closed, head back on the couch. It’s going to be all right. Open one eye. Peek at the clock. Oh, hell! I’m going to be late! Another mad dash through the house. A quick pass under the shower and presto, I’m ready for work.
The drive was a regular one. I take it every day. It’s a boring run up the blacktop to the freeway exit and a mindless weave through traffic to get there on time. Today was different. My exit was blocked by a traffic accident. With a roll of the eyes, I move on into town. I hate town traffic. Half the drivers appear to have missed the part where you’re supposed to engage your brain before putting car in gear, and the other half are pissed off at the first half and anything else that moves. Today, I fit in the latter group.
A minor road rage fit and a few obscene gestures later, I got to the next exit to the freeway. Lo and behold! It’s been closed. WTF? During morning rush hour? Are the cops *bleeping* nuts?
Aaaaaargh! On to the next. A motorist cut me off. His only saving grace was that my piece of crap Saturn SUV wasn’t fast enough to catch him. Asshole. I got his plate number. I’ll give it to a cop friend of mine who owes me a favor.
Fortunately the next exit was clear and open. Good thing, too. I’m so far behind there’s no way I’ll have time to stop for breakfast. I’ll be lucky to clock in before getting that “look” from my supervisor.
I hate my job. I remind myself there are many people who would love to hate my job, but still live in the unemployment line. It doesn’t help.
Hungry, tired, bruised, bleeding and ready for a nap, I sat at my desk. Staring at the computer for a minute, I wrestled with the idea of just walking away, but obediently put on my head set and prepared for the onslaught of inane phone calls that make up my work day.
I cringed when I heard her voice, that voice that grates on my last, jagged nerve every day at the cube farm. It’s a nasally voice, always whining about something that doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Where are my M&M’s? I’m going to need all the chocolate I can find to get through this day.
“Did you see your email? We have to take calls all day. No time off the phones at all.”
She said it several times, but I did my best to ignore her. That didn’t stop me from envisioning the ceiling falling on her, or her screams of terror at being swarmed by a million stinging bees… heh heh.
Another handful of M&M’s and a Dove chocolate bar. Get out the other headset, the one that covers both ears so I can block her out.
I checked my emails but didn’t see the offensive article that had her bellyaching incessantly. It was almost too delicious. I decided not to tell her that she’s the only one in our unit who got it. I had my time off the phones.
Big mistake. A few hours later when I was off the phones, she started in. I smacked my head against my desk in an effort to dislodge her voice from my brain. It didn’t work. My headache got worse.
She even went so far as the run to a supervisor to complain. When said supe came to me about it, I told her I had not received the email. The supe shrugged and wandered off. The whining got worse, like the buzz of a mosquito in my ear.
Swat! No, can’t hit the bitch. That would get me fired.
I snapped. I told the whiner to get her ugly face the hell out of my business and stop her constant griping. I told her that I was going to knock her into next week if she didn’t stay away from me, to do her work and shut fat mouth.
Oops.
That’s when I realized that this might just be one of several options. I might have a nasty case of S.A.D. I might be suffering from some other form of depression. Perhaps I’ve developed a mental illness that requires medical intervention.
Now I’ve done it, I thought as I watched the whiner make a bee-line to the supe’s desk. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I knew my ass was in tall grass now. After the whiner finished, she returned to her desk with a smug look on her face. I rolled my eyes. Whatever.
The supe called me to her desk. I was instructed to sit. She opened a dish of those little Dove Promises and offered them to me. I took one, unwrapped it, popped it into my mouth and waited. She offered me another. I devoured it. She smiled, asked if I’d like another. I told her no. She said that if I was finished enjoying my break, I could go back to my cube. Then she thanked me and told me to come back if I needed more chocolate.
I thought this over while I devoured a pound and a half of truffles. Then it dawned on me.
It’s all too clear now. The chocolate. The all-consuming desire to watch someone turn blue with my hands wrapped about his/her throat (okay, so that was the fun part). The vicious verbal attacks. The road rage (yeah, that was fun, too). The unbidden anger and irritability. The way people walk on eggshells around me (snerk, I enjoy that, too).
It sucks to be a woman sometimes. Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? I love getting away with this crap.
Thank heavens for chocolate and brandy. And Mozart liqueur. And chips. And margaritas. And more brandy. And ice cream. And supervisors with bowls of chocolate, who would love to snap at the whiners of the world, too.
That was at 6:00 this morning. The day didn’t get much better as it wore on. After listening to my daughter howl bloody murder in my ear while I changed the dressing on her mostly-healed burned thigh and tripping over the cat (the little bastard ripped a couple of nasty furrows in my shin in the process), I was ready to by-pass the obligatory cup of tea and go straight for the brandy.
No time. The kid dressed, the breakfast made, it was time for her to shove food down her neck before the bus arrived. Now where the hell did she go?
It’s a small house, but a seven-year-old can disappear any time she pleases. I found her in the closet of the spare room, playing with her stuffed animals. Breathe. Count to ten. Calmly herd the child to the table, get her to eat.
Too late. She managed to get one bite down before the bus rolled up. That’s when she remembered that she didn’t know where she left her backpack—with all her homework in it. After a mad dash through the house and stuffing her into her coat and gloves, she was unceremoniously thrust through the door as the bus was pulling away. A loud and stern warning from her mother had the child running to catch the bus before it was out of sight. Yes, I’m a mean mommy.
Sit. Breathe. Take a moment for yourself. Eyes closed, head back on the couch. It’s going to be all right. Open one eye. Peek at the clock. Oh, hell! I’m going to be late! Another mad dash through the house. A quick pass under the shower and presto, I’m ready for work.
The drive was a regular one. I take it every day. It’s a boring run up the blacktop to the freeway exit and a mindless weave through traffic to get there on time. Today was different. My exit was blocked by a traffic accident. With a roll of the eyes, I move on into town. I hate town traffic. Half the drivers appear to have missed the part where you’re supposed to engage your brain before putting car in gear, and the other half are pissed off at the first half and anything else that moves. Today, I fit in the latter group.
A minor road rage fit and a few obscene gestures later, I got to the next exit to the freeway. Lo and behold! It’s been closed. WTF? During morning rush hour? Are the cops *bleeping* nuts?
Aaaaaargh! On to the next. A motorist cut me off. His only saving grace was that my piece of crap Saturn SUV wasn’t fast enough to catch him. Asshole. I got his plate number. I’ll give it to a cop friend of mine who owes me a favor.
Fortunately the next exit was clear and open. Good thing, too. I’m so far behind there’s no way I’ll have time to stop for breakfast. I’ll be lucky to clock in before getting that “look” from my supervisor.
I hate my job. I remind myself there are many people who would love to hate my job, but still live in the unemployment line. It doesn’t help.
Hungry, tired, bruised, bleeding and ready for a nap, I sat at my desk. Staring at the computer for a minute, I wrestled with the idea of just walking away, but obediently put on my head set and prepared for the onslaught of inane phone calls that make up my work day.
I cringed when I heard her voice, that voice that grates on my last, jagged nerve every day at the cube farm. It’s a nasally voice, always whining about something that doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Where are my M&M’s? I’m going to need all the chocolate I can find to get through this day.
“Did you see your email? We have to take calls all day. No time off the phones at all.”
She said it several times, but I did my best to ignore her. That didn’t stop me from envisioning the ceiling falling on her, or her screams of terror at being swarmed by a million stinging bees… heh heh.
Another handful of M&M’s and a Dove chocolate bar. Get out the other headset, the one that covers both ears so I can block her out.
I checked my emails but didn’t see the offensive article that had her bellyaching incessantly. It was almost too delicious. I decided not to tell her that she’s the only one in our unit who got it. I had my time off the phones.
Big mistake. A few hours later when I was off the phones, she started in. I smacked my head against my desk in an effort to dislodge her voice from my brain. It didn’t work. My headache got worse.
She even went so far as the run to a supervisor to complain. When said supe came to me about it, I told her I had not received the email. The supe shrugged and wandered off. The whining got worse, like the buzz of a mosquito in my ear.
Swat! No, can’t hit the bitch. That would get me fired.
I snapped. I told the whiner to get her ugly face the hell out of my business and stop her constant griping. I told her that I was going to knock her into next week if she didn’t stay away from me, to do her work and shut fat mouth.
Oops.
That’s when I realized that this might just be one of several options. I might have a nasty case of S.A.D. I might be suffering from some other form of depression. Perhaps I’ve developed a mental illness that requires medical intervention.
Now I’ve done it, I thought as I watched the whiner make a bee-line to the supe’s desk. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I knew my ass was in tall grass now. After the whiner finished, she returned to her desk with a smug look on her face. I rolled my eyes. Whatever.
The supe called me to her desk. I was instructed to sit. She opened a dish of those little Dove Promises and offered them to me. I took one, unwrapped it, popped it into my mouth and waited. She offered me another. I devoured it. She smiled, asked if I’d like another. I told her no. She said that if I was finished enjoying my break, I could go back to my cube. Then she thanked me and told me to come back if I needed more chocolate.
I thought this over while I devoured a pound and a half of truffles. Then it dawned on me.
It’s all too clear now. The chocolate. The all-consuming desire to watch someone turn blue with my hands wrapped about his/her throat (okay, so that was the fun part). The vicious verbal attacks. The road rage (yeah, that was fun, too). The unbidden anger and irritability. The way people walk on eggshells around me (snerk, I enjoy that, too).
It sucks to be a woman sometimes. Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? I love getting away with this crap.
Thank heavens for chocolate and brandy. And Mozart liqueur. And chips. And margaritas. And more brandy. And ice cream. And supervisors with bowls of chocolate, who would love to snap at the whiners of the world, too.
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