I was tired

by tess

Having been out of the office for a couple of weeks, I'm having a little trouble re-adjusting to my brutal three-day work weeks. I was falling asleep at my computer until I saw it. IT being the Muppets version of Bohemian Rhapsody on youtube. Thankfully Miss Piggy and a L'il Critters Gummy Vitamin revived my interest in the day. At least temporarily.

I made it all the way to 7:35 AM without being thoroughly annoyed. But the sticky note on my monitor tipped me over the edge and into the abyss. Why would you put a sticky note on my computer? Ever heard of voicemail or email? Recognizing the handwriting, I could hear Paul Harvey intoning And Now You Know the Rest of the Story. It was from Brianne, the woman who is physically incapable of sending an email without Replying All and attaching a Read-Receipt Request. I prefer to preview her emails then delete them so that she receives the "Unread Message Deleted" warning. Brahahahahahahahahahaha.

Is it National Can't Be Bothered to Use My Turn Signal Day? I think it is.

It pleased me to no end to snark "Wow, pretty necklace!" when the Queen of Knowledge showed up in a neck brace this morning. [Oh, don't be all judgmental. I happen to know for a fact that she's perfectly fine. She's just trying to make her husband feel guilty for making her clean the gutters. And if I thought it worked, I'd already own one!]

We (and by we, I mean I) officially begin the day at 8:30. This morning at 8:25, only a quarter of the staff had arrived. By 8:29, we were all the way up to a third. I've officially become the old lady in the library who purses her lips and makes the tsk-sigh sound when someone dares to make a noise.

Last autumn, I was (yet again) espousing my child-rearing theories to a colleague, Annie. Specifically, I was encouraging her to avoid the Well-we-don't-want-little-Belinda-to-be-an-only-child-so-we-better-squeeze-out-another-brat pregnancy. I also provided wise counsel that she avoid the Santa Claus trap. After all, I'm an only child, and my parents never thrust me toward a fat, furry stranger's lap. So clearly it's all good, I mean I turned out okay. Right? Not so much. Apparently the advice of a drunken psycho loser no longer carries the gravitas of Nick Nolte or Kirstie Alley, both much-admired among the Order of Drunken Psycho Losers, not to mention the Pajama and Muumuu Wearers Alliance. This morning after sharing the pictures of Belinda on Santa's lap, Annie announced her pregnancy. Tsk-sigh.

As my co-workers' fake-laughs become more girlish, my own becomes more manly. I'm either going through The Change or Steven Segal is hiding under my desk.

As you know, many of my dreams involve flying. In fact, I often encourage my dream-self to fly higher and farther because I like the feeling of weightlessness. And the scenery. The rest of my dreams involve being partially- to mostly-naked but searching frantically for clothing. [And, yes, I know what it means, so don't bother to ever-so-helpfully google it for me, thanks.] Yesterday I had a horrible nightmare that I was working alone as a waitress and too many people came in at once. I awoke in a sweaty panic but once I confirmed that I wasn't about to expire from terror, I had to admit that there were two funny parts:
1. My panic attack bloomed into full-fledged hysteria after just two customers placed drink orders;
2. The restaurant inspector was so freaked out by my insanity that he started taking orders, then commanded me (and the many, many voices inside my head) away from the customers.

My cats are alone for the first time in more than two weeks. I wonder if there will be a Tigergate-like crime scene by 6:15 when I get home.

You're officially old when you begin to refer to all women under the age of 30 as Little Girls.

If life were more cartoon-like then I could install a trapdoor just outside my cube area. Then every time I heard that annoying faux baby-voice whining, "Tess? I know you're going to hate me but I need you to ..." I could flip the switch, the ground beneath her perfectly manicured toes would disappear, and down, down she'd go. Where she'll stop, nobody knows.

A few minutes ago, I thought to myself:
Wonder if I should actually try to accomplish something today.
Then, because I couldn't be bothered to listen to myself thinking, I responded:
Hmm? What? Oh. Nah.
I'm not sure that a licensed therapist would consider this discussion to be a sign of positive engagement.