Second verse, same as the first
I am so, so very sick of being exhaustingly busy at work. Okay, so I know they pay me to DO MY JOB, and that’s fine because in theory I LIKE my job. However. That being said, I used to have occasional downtime. Time where I could catch up on filing, or updating electronic forms, or other such minutiae. I even used to write a monthly newsletter for my department. These days, NO. NEVER EVER AGAIN.
Take today, for instance. I have been drowning all week, plus all of last week, and also the week before that. I had this huge proposal that kept getting pushed down the schedule, because the involved faculty couldn’t get their shit together. Trying to coordinate a bunch of federally-required bureaucratic information for nine university professors is an awful lot like herding cats. ANYWAY. Today I finally had that proposal under control, I got a whole bunch of other stuff out of the way this morning, and I was feeling pretty good. I walked away from my desk for a moment to turn in another proposal that’s been hanging over my head, and once that was done I felt SO relieved. FINALLY, a chance to come up for air. I went back to my desk, only to be greeted by a ringing phone. When I picked up the phone, it was yet another scatter-brained faculty member logging in a new last-minute proposal – due by the end of the week. And, I lost it. I slammed down the phone, fell into my chair and started to cry. Poor BB heard me from her cube and rushed over to try and calm me down, but it was not to be. And as luck would have it, right then my boss walked by. The good news is, she gave that proposal to someone else who is currently less busy (and stressed), the bad news is that I am once again The Girl Who Lost Her Shit At Work. FAIL.
IT’S A GODDAMN ORANGE, THAT’S WHAT.
Miss T has entered a phase. It’s a phase I remember from AE’s toddlerhood. It’s not a phase I missed. It’s a close cousin of “But why?”, a little something we call “What’s dat?” From the moment the child wakes up in the morning, she’s pointing at everything under the sun and demanding to know what it’s called. I realize she’s trying to develop her language skills, and I’m all in favor of this, but she even does it when she knows full well what “dat” is. And I’m here to tell you, it is all kinds of annoying.
Miss T: What’s dat?
Me: It’s your shirt.
Miss T: What’s dat?
Me: It’s Mommy’s shirt.
Miss T: What’s dat?
Me: Your shoes.
Miss T: What’s dat?
Me: My shoes.
You get the idea. Tonight she had some mandarin oranges with dinner.
Miss T: What’s dat?
Me: An orange.
Miss T: What’s dat?
Me: It’s an orange.
Miss T: What’s dat?
Me: Still an orange.
Miss T: Orange?
Me: Yes! Orange.
Miss T: What’s dat?
Bloodbath
I re-dyed my hair on Sunday night, using a slightly different shade than what I’d been using since August. The original shade was Chocolate Cherry. The new shade is Burgundy Blowout. As far as I can tell, the main difference was a little tube of “color boost” that I had to add to the mix this time. And it looked exactly like blood.
Once time was up I got in the shower to rinse and HOLYYYY CRAP. I now know what to expect if I ever murder someone and try to wash away the evidence.
Speaking of murder, I thought N was going to murder me when he realized I got some of the color boost on the front of our white cabinetry. Oops. Time for a trip to the hardware store to pick up some Kilz. That shit STAINS.
Interestingly, my hair color is not drastically different from the last shade. A little redder, yes, but a lot of people haven’t even noticed. I guess now they’re so used to red-headed me that a different shade of red isn’t all that noticeable. Either that or they hate it and are too nice to do the head-tilt “Oh! You dyed your hair again!” Hmm.
At least now we can afford white cabinet paint
We finally got the bill from George the plumber, and it was a mere $84 dollars. I mean, it’s not like I WANT to spend $84 on plumbing services, but considering my propensity for breaking the handles off of sinks, it’s good to know that it won’t break the bank the next time we require George’s services. And I’m sure that we will.
