Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Y2 Day 70: Trying to Shake Off Pissy Mood – Shake! Shake!

Everything is basically fine, but too many small irritants are getting me down:
  • I had a surprise editing job today — a client asked me to do a "final" read of a report I've already edited twice, because she's added some new stuff. But the new stuff she added is awful, and it's going to take a lot longer than I'd anticipated . . . and I truly hate editing things that I've already edited, it feels like going backward.
  • My math kids are getting more squirrelly; I don't have good control of one group in particular, and I'm afraid the teacher will complain to my boss. I keep up a running monotone: "OK, if we have seven cubes and I show you three — Toni, bottom in your chair, please — then how many — Andrew, please stop grabbing the cubes, thank you — how many are hiding in the cave? Bonny, put the cave back, please. Elizabeth, please let go of my necklace. Everyone — chill. How many cubes are hiding? Anyone? Anyone?" (Math fever — catch it!)
  • I had a job booked for Thursday and Friday, then the client contacted me and said she'd be late and could I please do it over the three-day weekend? If it were someone else I would likely have said yes, but this client is notorious for treating editor minions like crap, so I sweetly declined. I promptly got offered another job for next week, "Though," said my "broker" (the woman in my former job who gives me 90 percent of my work), "it's a big job and they'd love to get it back Wednesday, it might entail weekend work." I said, "We need to get clients out of the habit of expecting weekend work; I can guarantee to have it done by Friday" (which is their outside date). My broker said, "Actually, I think it's OK for them to expect a freelancer to work on the weekend." This floored me. Ask, sure — you can always ask for what you want. Expect? Wow. That was not how I ran things, back in the day. But, whatev. It's not my table. (That's waitress talk.)
  • We had some aging cornbread and a half-can of pumpkin in the fridge, and from this I plotted a magnificent dinner — however, it required a ham steak, which our Trader Joe's (I just found out) no longer carries. I bought thin-sliced sandwich ham, which I fully expect to curl up and look ridiculous when I pan-fry it, but what can I do.
  • Husband just broke one of my favorite dishes, which was a wedding present. Two days ago Mimosa broke one of our good cereal bowls. I don't want to do all the chores myself, but I would like people to stop breaking my stuff. (I don't blame Husband. Stuff happens. It just . . . gets old.)
  • I have a UTI that I can't seem to shake off, leading me to believe that I have urinary tract cancer — or toxic urine.
None of this is insurmountable, and in fact our dinner was awesome; I piled the slices on top of each other, approximating ham steak thickness, and they cooked up beautifully. We also had blackened Brussels sprouts, pumpkin-sweet potato pone, corn bread, and apple salad, a warm comfort meal on a snowy night.

Yes, it's snowing, and November's not even in double digits yet. But it's pretty, I'll say that.

And so is my hair, which I finally had professionally cut, after looking like a goon for the past few months.

And so are my fingernails, which are painted "autumn."

I will work on the ugly job for 20 more minutes, then I'll have a glass of wine and watch some fine TV with the fam and call it a night.

Tomorrow — is — another — day!

—Lady C


  1. Snowing?? For realz??

    The two laugh lines from today's blog:

    1. "Whatev. It's not my table." I MUST remember to look for opportunities to use that one!

    2. "... one of our good cereal bowl." I'm laughing again, just trying to imagine what your "good" cereal bowls must be like.

    1. At least six inches -- believe it. (Do you miss snow? Like, at all?)

      I got "It's not my table" at a workshop from our old Planned Parenthood days. I agree -- it's a great phrase that covers a multitude of whatevers.

      And -- you mock my cereal bowls??? Ha! I spit in your direction! (Not really, mostly because I can't spit; I just dribble. But still. Do not disrespect the bowls!) Mimosa broke the nice chartreuse one from Ikea. Our best bowls were white with masses of blue flowers, and everyone broke those. Why doesn't anyone break the crappy bowls I don't care about??

    2. And the laugh lines keep on coming . . . "At least six inches -- believe it." Surely you knew what your gay readers would do with that one! And if you didn't, well then you've been living in the suburbs far too long. ;) Be sure to tell Mimosa about this little gem -- she'll be a hit at her next GSA cocktail party.

      P.S. Is it just me, or do any of your other fans have trouble decifering the security hieroglyphics we must retype in order to post our comments here? I swear, I have have to request a new code at least three times before I get one I can sorta make out. Getting older sucks!

  2. Tomorrow (or today, I guess) is another day, indeed! The venting is therapeutic!