Every Day is Like Sunday
I wish.
Well, not really. I don't like Sundays for the most part. Saturdays rock, because you know you have that Sunday "cushion" between party time and ohfuckit'sMonday. But Sundays--too full of that dread that Monday morning lurks.
And tomorrow morning is just going to be a real joy. I failed the 1-hour glucose tolerance test last week, so tomorrow morning I get to go sit in their stupid fucking waiting room with the stupid fucking uncomfortable chairs for three fucking hours and take the other test. Meaning they're going to have to deal with me for three hours--me who has gotten up earlier than usual, not had any caffeine or sugar or food or anything but Dasani. Me, who is not at all happy about being babysat for 3 hours for fear I might sneak off to the john and choke down a Pop Tart or something. Me, who is not at all happy about the matching nasty bruise I am about to acquire on my left arm when they stick me (you should see the one on my right that's now almost a week old). Lucky, lucky them.
Given the entire past week was filled with drama--first, the drama of Bossman running around like a headless chicken on cocaine trying to get everything done before he takes this week off; then the drama of finding out I'm possibly staring down the barrel of a gestational diabetes diet (read past posts to see how well I handle diets of any kind); then the drama of Bob flying off his rocker Friday afternoon at Adventure Club...well, to say I deserve a break today means so much more than McDonalds could ever convey. So I'd considered just taking Monday entirely off, since I will be leaving that office and immediately stopping at whichever of my favorite dining establishments tickles my fancy and not leaving until I am immensely satisfied.
At least, that was my plan until yesterday. I was getting my semi-monthly pedicure when Bosshole called whining about not being able to find a file. I let the call go to voicemail, and when the nice Vietnamese lady was finished making my feet un-skanky, I just stopped at my office to find said file (on the damn shelf with the rest of them, dumbass) and asked him if there was anything else while I was there.
"Oh, I'm not leaving til 6:00 Tuesday morning, so I'll be here tomorrow--I mean, Monday."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Well, I won't be here Monday morning--have to starve and sit around and bitch and then be stuck with another needle--(deep, heavy sigh as I see that nap fly out the window)...so I'll see you Monday afternoon. Goddammit.
Bob is at db's until Thursday at noon. I'm not exactly thrilled with this arrangement, but it is what it is, I can't do anything about it, so there's no point in stewing over it. And I've been fine about it, because we could all use a break from each other now and then--until this morning, he called me at 9:45am (I was still in bed, considering I no longer sleep at night when the rest of the mortals do), and left a voicemail..."I just wanted to say hi."
Oh, how I want to call him back. I do, I really do. But I'm afraid I'd get db instead and have to listen to some bullshit diatribe of his about how I can't just call Bob whenever I feel like it blah blah blah and I'm frankly not in the mood to fuck with him today. So I'll wait until later, and call Bob during my Designated Phone Time, and apologize profusely for not having answered when he called.
The thing is, he's probably moved on (like, hours ago) and will have entirely forgotten by the time I talk to him next. I'll stew over it all day. Which is the difference between parents and children.
Now I need to go busy myself with laundry and hair drying and general self-tidying so I can coerce my husband off the sofa away from his Wii with the promise of Indian buffet for lunch...
Well, not really. I don't like Sundays for the most part. Saturdays rock, because you know you have that Sunday "cushion" between party time and ohfuckit'sMonday. But Sundays--too full of that dread that Monday morning lurks.
And tomorrow morning is just going to be a real joy. I failed the 1-hour glucose tolerance test last week, so tomorrow morning I get to go sit in their stupid fucking waiting room with the stupid fucking uncomfortable chairs for three fucking hours and take the other test. Meaning they're going to have to deal with me for three hours--me who has gotten up earlier than usual, not had any caffeine or sugar or food or anything but Dasani. Me, who is not at all happy about being babysat for 3 hours for fear I might sneak off to the john and choke down a Pop Tart or something. Me, who is not at all happy about the matching nasty bruise I am about to acquire on my left arm when they stick me (you should see the one on my right that's now almost a week old). Lucky, lucky them.
Given the entire past week was filled with drama--first, the drama of Bossman running around like a headless chicken on cocaine trying to get everything done before he takes this week off; then the drama of finding out I'm possibly staring down the barrel of a gestational diabetes diet (read past posts to see how well I handle diets of any kind); then the drama of Bob flying off his rocker Friday afternoon at Adventure Club...well, to say I deserve a break today means so much more than McDonalds could ever convey. So I'd considered just taking Monday entirely off, since I will be leaving that office and immediately stopping at whichever of my favorite dining establishments tickles my fancy and not leaving until I am immensely satisfied.
At least, that was my plan until yesterday. I was getting my semi-monthly pedicure when Bosshole called whining about not being able to find a file. I let the call go to voicemail, and when the nice Vietnamese lady was finished making my feet un-skanky, I just stopped at my office to find said file (on the damn shelf with the rest of them, dumbass) and asked him if there was anything else while I was there.
"Oh, I'm not leaving til 6:00 Tuesday morning, so I'll be here tomorrow--I mean, Monday."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Well, I won't be here Monday morning--have to starve and sit around and bitch and then be stuck with another needle--(deep, heavy sigh as I see that nap fly out the window)...so I'll see you Monday afternoon. Goddammit.
Bob is at db's until Thursday at noon. I'm not exactly thrilled with this arrangement, but it is what it is, I can't do anything about it, so there's no point in stewing over it. And I've been fine about it, because we could all use a break from each other now and then--until this morning, he called me at 9:45am (I was still in bed, considering I no longer sleep at night when the rest of the mortals do), and left a voicemail..."I just wanted to say hi."
Oh, how I want to call him back. I do, I really do. But I'm afraid I'd get db instead and have to listen to some bullshit diatribe of his about how I can't just call Bob whenever I feel like it blah blah blah and I'm frankly not in the mood to fuck with him today. So I'll wait until later, and call Bob during my Designated Phone Time, and apologize profusely for not having answered when he called.
The thing is, he's probably moved on (like, hours ago) and will have entirely forgotten by the time I talk to him next. I'll stew over it all day. Which is the difference between parents and children.
Now I need to go busy myself with laundry and hair drying and general self-tidying so I can coerce my husband off the sofa away from his Wii with the promise of Indian buffet for lunch...
posted by Mitzi Green at 9:02 AM
2 Comments:
Major suckage that Bosshole won't be leaving until Tuesday. I had visions of you up to your neck in Dunkin' Donuts jelly-filled donuts. Mmm.
Good luck tomorrow! I'll be thinking about you. I get those nasty knots/bruises too. If you get a good lab tech, ask for a butterfly. That's the teensy needle they put in the top of your hand...takes longer but much easier than them playing search and destroy like they do on me (I have deep rolling veins so an average blood draw takes a minimum of 5 sticks and lots of painful probing). If they give you any shit, roll up your sleeve and show them your damn arm.
Yes, what Builder Mama said .. I always felt bad when I asked the phelbotomist for the needle I need until she told me she doesn't like causing pain in her patients any more than her patients like the poke ... so I learned to request the butterfly ... only one that ever seems to work to draw the blood.
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