My husband was convinced that I was mad at him today, because my last blog did not include anything about him and, on top of that, I did not send him an e-mail. I told him he was greedy and he straight up said, 'I told you that when we got married; you're stuck with me now."
"That I am," I replied, "and I'll get right on that e-mail for you, Staff Sergeant Indiana."
He likes to know how my day went, even when it's the same, boring stuff over and over again; so here's how my day went.
My day started at 12:05 am, which was the last time I looked at the clock but not by any means the time at which I went to sleep. I have decided it's official; I've morphed into a Creature of the Night, I might as well go with it. I just need to pick up a few Goth pieces to spice up my wardrobe and I'm there.
The next thing of note that happened was my hearing and ignoring a phone call at 8:30 am because I didn't recognize the number. I rolled over and nearly into the very large black lab that likes to sleep hunched up around my pillow, which made Abby think that mom was getting up, which is a very exciting event in the household.
Mom was not getting up, she stuffed her pillow over her head to avoid lavish demonstrations of doggy love and to send the message to abort all calls for waking. With a humph of disappointment, Abby thumped her large self back down on the bed to wait it out. She could be patient; she knew the time would come.
Two minutes later the phone rang again and I had to respect the unknown person's persistence, I picked it up with a feeling of misgiving.
Indeed; I was suppose to be at work at that very hour. My coworker is a very nice girl and told me not to bother coming in until 10:30. Consequently, at ten of ten, I rolled my groggy self out of bed and the girls leaped for joy. There was much wiggling of doggy butt and alertness of tail.
I made the bed. I always make the bed and I do so because spending...oh, let's not say, shall we?...on bedding is rather motivating when it comes to making it. Damn it, I'm not letting that money go to waste; I will have the throw pillows arranged just so and the sheets will be straight.
I went downstairs. This may seem simple, but not when two waist high dogs are hurtling themselves down on either side of you, heedless of their bodily safely, or mine, for that matter. I released the wild things into the back yard.
I considered coffee, but I had left myself no room for inessentials. I went up stairs to perfect my daily toilet; which really means I brushed my teeth, I put on cold cream, I considered the mouth wash, but dismissed it, mouth wash being one of those products where I think the pain and discomfort far outweigh the benefits. Like curling irons.
I dressed in the exact same outfit I had worn the day before, on my day off. No one at work would know and everything was perfectly clean and already color coordinated. I had decided to wear this at 9:36 am, when I told myself I really should get up now, and I replied no, not when there is a handy outfit nearby and my hair still slightly damp from my shower the night before. (My hair is so long now and so thick that it can stay wet for a full 12 hours or longer, depending on weather conditions.)
Then I stood at the foot of the stairs and lectured the girls. "Do not chew on anything." They tilted their heads at me, there was some half hearted tail wagging. "I mean it," I reiterated.
Lynn lifted her ears inquisitively, Abby looked out the window, wondering where that damn squirrel had got to and what she would do when she got her teeth on that little piece of infuriating fur and if it went into the sacred space of the Back Yard one more time, why, she's show that...
"Abigail, I mean you," I said, meaning business. "No chewing."
"Right," thought Abigail. "And I really must chew more on that intriguing display of edibles placed so conveniently at the foot my Sleeping Place."
"Especially not the flower arrangement my dad made."
"Oh look! A shadow moved outside! It moved!"
I stepped into my Mary Jane flats and went out the door, coat-less, with fifteen minutes to get to work. I instantly regretted not having a coat, the temperature had dropped twenty degrees overnight and the sky loomed only a few yards above the roof line, ragged and grey; already a few flakes of snow drifted down past my chilly nose.
I attempted to open the garage door, but it choose to ignore my first few attempts, as usual, before allowing me in. This is, I think, the garage's way of saying accusingly, "We know you are not Keith. We know." (Why the garage is a plural entity, I don't know. It just is. Perhaps because in the Indiana household, the garage holds as much weight as Royalty.)
I drove the speed limit all the way to work, because Darling, I always drive the speed limit. Or even under, sometimes. And why do I do this? I do this because my loving husband put my car on his insurance, thereby saving us money, but increasing his premium by an unthinkable amount.
That accident, by the way, wasn't my fault, the roads were icy and that other thing, that was just a fender bender. And all my speeding tickets were years ago, when I was young and heedless. Now I am wiser. And slower. So slow I get passed by Grannie Marguerite on her way to the quilting social, her grey and coiffed head barely above the wheel. In fact, she honks at me and rolls her eyes as she goes by.
I arrive at work and am nervous because I have messed up my schedule already. However, I brave my boss's office for the good coffee. All the department heads are grouped together there, for the daily morning meeting. This is the one time in their day when they pretend to be friendly; the rest of the day is spent in their respect offices, arranging skirmishes, choosing battlefields and trying out new weapons.
"Good Morning, Team," I say cheerfully, waving my white flag wildly (I am a neutral country; I am the office Switzerland; don't shoot!) and escape unscathed with my caffeine.
I start the day out right by transferring a call straight to the Big Cheese without warning her who it is and what it's about, and right in the middle of the meeting. I feel the waves of annoyance washing out into my humble work space. I hide behind my computer and pretend to work and resolve to be more firm on the phone. (I will not transfer you, I will ask your name and business, I will ignore your officious tone of voice, is my mantra.)
I proceed to sort through the daily heaps of on line applicants. At first, I did exactly as my coworker instructed me to do; to type their name, cut and past a pre written note and send it off. However, the message is as gushy as Auntie Gertrude without giving any essential details, which leads to my then receiving extremely excited, hopeful and yet slightly confused replies back like this:
"I am so glad you would love to meet me in person! I would love to come in and meet with...whoever sent me that e-mail, if only I knew the address... But I'm so happy you liked my resume and I look forward to learning more about your community...like your phone number would be great."
I felt bad sending such a mixed message, especially as our group interviews are booked into next month. So, being the free thinker that I am, I deviated from policy and started sending my own message depending upon their resume and cover letter. I even *gasp* deleted some without answering, because why even get their hopes up? It just seems cruel.
I then went on to do other exciting things like input data. This is a project I was put on after the Big Cheese pulled me off another project, one that the department head had called me at home about in the morning, so she could claim me first. (Are there too many italics in this blog, do you think? Be honest.)
Yes, the Department Heads are like children in the back seat, claiming the things that go by just as they see them. (Did you ever do this as I child? My younger brothers and I did, it was awesome family bonding time. Dad even pitched in; he added things like, "Don't make me pull this car over!")
In the middle of this mess my cell rang its sweet, sweet tune. I tossed the cordless office phone to my coworker, whose fate it is to work in the bowels of the office space, rearranging endless personnel files under the relentless glare of the fluorescent lights. I got to escape to the cool and quiet lobby space and talk to Staff Sergeant Indiana.
Soon he had to go, because he's a very busy guy over there, but not before it was reestablished that I'm his sexy kitten and he loves me very much. (I love you, Sweetie!!! You're my Darling Staff Sergeant!!!)
Ok, enough embarrassingly public sweet talk. (I love you!!! I told the sky to stop snowing, but I'm not sure it listened...) Ok, really enough. And I had better speed up the pace of my day, because this really is becoming a long, long blog.
I was forced to do a tour of the community for a potential move-in. I have never done one before. It was horrible. End of story. The evening receptionist came in a half hour early, I knelt and kissed her feet; OK, I didn't, but I was really, really glad she came early and I escaped out into the snowy afternoon.
I drove home with my shoulders up around my ears, a chronic condition due to stress at the office. Opening the door, I was greeted by two effusive girls who thought that maybe mommy would never, never come home again!
After they had transferred a sufficient amount of doggy hairs over my clothes, I sent them out into the snow covered back yard, knowing this meant dirt all over the wood floors and the delicate aroma of eau de soggy dog for the rest of the evening. There was nothing for it. They think the toilets are large, elegantly crafted drinking bowls; it would never occur to them to use them for anything else.
I popped in a bowl of left over skillet dinner I had made last night. (Sante Fe Chicken; not bad and priced Walmart-style.) Then I watched "Mansfield Park" because there's nothing like the uptight English in restrictive undergarments to pick up a girl's spirits at the end of a stressful day.
I finished off my skillet dinner with chips and dip, brewed a pot of tea (it was green tea with orange, and jasmine essences-it smells vaguely like cake batter; yes, little bro, that very same tea we drank when you suffered, friendless, in my apartment last spring. Memories...)
I finished off the entire pot and then I sat down to write this. (Note to self: reconsider diet. Poss. less tea.) I did manage to drink a glass of OJ, which is, after all, one of the Foods-for-Life.
And there it is; a day in the life of me. I'll do the same thing tomorrow, but I'll put that in an e-mail for Keith, I won't make the rest of you suffer through twice.
Cheerio, my faithful, nameless lurkers and regular readers!
(Btw, Sweetie, check your in-box.)
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