Oh, you guys. I am wiped. So, so wiped. I would love to tell you that I had time today to come up with this well-plotted and jolly post for you all, I really would. But work killed me. Utterly killed me. And now I’m sitting here with my cheery laptop cheerily waiting for me to cheerily type you a cheery blog post and I HAVE NOTHING. My brain is FRIED.
I’m not saying I’m not writing anything. I’m just saying it’s going to be a mess. More so than usual. And you can expect more of the same this week. Also, I’m cranky as hell. Just be forewarned about the crank. NO not the drug-type crank. I don’t even know what that is. Is it cocaine or something? I am not up on the terminology of the streets, yo.
Let me break this week down for you, because I know my life is totally the most interesting to all of you.
April 17 is the absolute last day we have to efile taxes. That’s a week from today. We have thousands of clients. There is one person in the office in charge of efiling all of those clients, and her name is The Person Who is Writing this Blog.
I have seven more work days until the 17th. Seven, because I’m working at least 8, if not 10, hours there on Saturday, just so when I come in Monday, I don’t drown.
So, this week coming up:
Tuesday: the suck. And I will go to the library and post office at lunch. So that’s nice. It’s like a little field trip. And likely will be the only lunch break I get until this is all over with.
Wednesday: the suck, a little more.
Thursday: the suck, a little more.
Friday: the suck, even more of a little more.
Saturday: the suck, now with added suck. But there’s a rumor we’re getting a catered lunch.
Sunday: I will sleep until about 7:30am, like a decadent lady, and write all day to have posts ready for the week ahead. Because that’s how I spend my Sundays. I’m supposed to do a theater thing, but I think I might beg off and go to bed early. I know, I’m a total party animal.
Monday: the suck, with added yelling, pressure, and possible bathroom-weeping.
Tuesday: the ultimate suck, with the most yelling, sometimes veiled threats, clients being loud, and not enough antacid to make the day acceptable.
After Tuesday, things are still pretty suck, because the office gets to be a mess, and it’s my job to clean it up, file everything, make it pretty, mail a million papers to the IRS, etc. But once the week is over, things will slow down. And then, at the end of the month, TRIP TO FLORIDA! Which, by the way, I just counted, is about two and a half weeks away.
I’m attempting to be very Little-Engine-that-Could about the whole thing. And not bathroom-weep. I didn’t on Monday. I came CLOSE, but didn’t bathroom-weep. I’m quite proud of myself.
Oh, OH, and, the only thing that’s kept me halfway sane throughout this whole hellish season? The one thing that I don’t know how I lived without before now, and I was JUST SAYING to myself the other day, “man, I’d be in a lot of trouble of this was gone, you know?”
What was gone when I got to work Monday?
It’s not BLOCKED, because why do something SANE, IT department. The screen looks like a computer from the 80s – like it can’t load all the way? And there are no graphics, and it’s that old-school text? And you can’t click on anything. And for some reason you can only see retweets.
I found a weird screen where I think I can still tweet. But I can’t see responses, not until my lunchbreak or after work.
I know. I KNOW. I’m not SUPPOSED to be tweeting at work. I’m supposed to be WORKING. But I like knowing it’s there. And I like that once and a while I can tweet someone. Or read some tweets. It helps keep me level, knowing my people are out there.
So, until this situation is either rectified, or maybe FOREVER, people I love, if you want me, you know how to reach me, during business hours. You have been given my contact info. Please use it. Please use it a lot. Because, for the time being? Gmail is STILL WORKING. Also Facebook. Yeah, I don’t understand the reasoning behind blocking Twitter sort-of and not blocking the biggest social networking site in the world, either. Stupid weird hard-to-figure-out-IT. If you have NOT been given my contact info, I’ll get back to you when I get home. Eventually. The time of that is kind of not set in stone right now.
OK. On to other things that are not pissing me off so much I dropped things from high heights today just to hear the satisfying smacking noise.
Remember last week when we talked about animal match.com? Well, apparently this captured the imagination of one of my readers. AW! YOU GUYS! How much fun is that? I like to be an imagination-capturer. I’ll give it back. I won’t keep it. That’d be a dick move.
THANK YOU EM! I had a really crappy day and this made me smile. A lot.
Oh, also, I talked to Dad tonight. He’s on his way to Florida tomorrow. Talking to Dad will be seriously diminished over the next couple of weeks. This is sad-face.
BUT, as usual, when talking to Dad, I had some interesting moments.
Me: So, you’re leaving tomorrow?
Dad: Yes. I should be there in a couple of days, unless I die or the car breaks down.
Me: Well. That’s cheery, right? Way to be cheery.
Dad: Yes. I’m very cheery. I haven’t slept in days.
Me: Probably that’ll be a fun trip, then.
Dad: Listen, when you get to Florida, we’re going to go see some manatees.
Dad: Yes. Your uncle went on a boat trip to see manatees. We’re going to do that.
Me: Is this to make up for those Black Panthers?
Dad: I don’t want to talk about those Black Panthers.
Me: Do you think they’re listening to us right now?
Dad: I SAID I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THAT. Also we’ll see crocodiles.
Me: This is AWESOME. I am VERY EXCITED about this. Think of the pictures I can take! This is almost as exciting as kookaburras!
Dad: I thought you might like it. You love weird things.
Me: Can I pet the manatees?
Dad: You always want to pet everything. No. I don’t think so.
Me: What about the crocodiles?
Dad: Only if you want them to eat your hand. Then you’ll end up like that guy in that stupid golf movie with Bob Barker.
Me: Aw, I like that movie. It makes me laugh.
Dad: You would. That stupid Saturday Night Live guy always makes you laugh.
Me: Not any more. We broke up. He did a movie where he played his own twin sister. It’s sad.
Dad: Oh, I’m going to get some chickens, you could tell the internet that if you want.
Me: Whoa, segue. What? Chickens?
Dad: Yep. I got a book. From the LIBRARY.
Me: This is truly a day of firsts. Why are you becoming a gentleman farmer all of a sudden?
Dad: I like chickens.
Me: Who doesn’t? Where will you keep them?
Dad: In the backyard.
Me: Um. OK. This is a very left-field kind of idea. You hate animals!
Dad: Don’t tell the internet I hate animals. The internet doesn’t need to know that. I don’t HATE animals. I just don’t like to be bothered by things or people or things.
Me: Yeah, and just in case anyone ever worries we’re not related, I’m going to point them to that sentence right there. Oh, listen, I told Ken you were very impressed he lived in Munich because of the beer and Oktoberfest.
Dad: Oh, that’s the best. When I was there, we had bock beer. And we drank a lot of it. Then everyone linked arms and went “Oom pa pa! Oom pa pa!” Don’t tell the internet I said “Oom pa pa.”
Me: I’m going to.
Dad: I know you are. Does your friend drink all the beer?
Me: I don’t know. If he does, he doesn’t broadcast it.
Dad: That seems suspicious. Not drinking all the beer when you live in Munich is something an assassin would do.
Me: Or maybe just a normal person with a LIFE who doesn’t get DRUNK all the time, sheesh, DAD. There’s beer here, but I don’t drink it constantly. Or ever. And I’m not an assassin.
Dad: But it’s not GERMAN beer. Also, you hate beer. Does this guy hate beer? Damn assassin.
Me: I don’t think he hates beer. I’ll ask him the next time we talk.
Dad: Just don’t tell him where I live. Because I don’t want that assassin knowing where I live.
Me: What if he brought you bock beer and sang “Oom pa pa” with you?
Dad: Hmm. That’s a tough call. I’d have to keep my eye on him the whole time. Because he’d want to kill me. But he did bring beer, so I’m kind of torn.
Me: Oh, listen, while you’re gone, who will give me Helper Mule updates?
Dad: No one. Also, I was thinking today, what if that woman-horse isn’t even pregnant? What if she’s just fat?
Me: That would be the best trick. A total Helper Mule soap opera twist.
Dad: You turned Helper Mule into a soap opera?
Me: Of course I did. Who wouldn’t? It’s all about how Helper Mule is going to be a baby-daddy.
Dad: Helper Mule can’t be a baby-daddy because he’s a mule.
Me: Not GENETICALLY. He’s going to adopt his lady-friend’s baby and raise it like his own. He’s very selfless, and helpful.
Dad: Oh, did I ever tell you that the guy with the Helper Mule also has dogs?
Me: No. What kind of dogs?
Dad: The kind that bite you when you’re walking around. I want to kick them all the time.
Me: I don’t think that’s a real breed.
Dad: Fine. Weiner dogs.
Me: I like dachshunds! They’re bitey?
Dad: THEY ARE THE WORST. He’s got a whole zoo over there.
Me: I am SO EXCITED to see that this summer. I’m taking a million pictures.
Dad: OK, I have to go to sleep now, because tomorrow I want to make it to Pennsylvania.
Me: ZOMG. Are you going to visit Jim?
Dad: I don’t know who that is.
Me: JIM IS MY FUN BLOGGING FRIEND. You should visit Jim, you would get along like gangbusters. Also, he is a very big fan of Amy’s Dad.
Dad: Do you think when I’m driving to Florida, I’ll stop and get gas and people will crowd around my car and say, “Amy’s Dad! We are HUGE FANS!” and then murder me?
Me: I’d say that was probably unlikely. You overestimate the reach of my blog. And I only put one photo of you on there. I’m sure they’ve forgotten that by now.
Dad: YOU DID WHAT!?!??!
Me: It was from almost forty years ago. You don’t look like that anymore. For example, in the picture, you had HAIR.
Dad: You know, you’re really just the meanest daughter I have. I’m not visiting your friend Jim and now I’m pretty sure I’m going to be murdered because the internet knows what I look like. They are TRACKING ME NOW.
Me: Yes. Probably they are. You’re right.
Dad: I SENSE YOUR SARCASM. I TAUGHT YOU THAT TONE OF VOICE.
Me: Sorry. I hope the internet doesn’t murder you as you drive to Florida.
Dad: Also, I have to make sure whatever hotel I stay in tomorrow has the channel with Justified on it so I can see the finale.
Me: You should ask them that when you check in. “Do you have the channel with Justified? Oh, also, do you have bedbugs?”
Dad: They’d never tell you if they had bedbugs. Even if they did, they’d lie.
Me: Oh, that’s why you need me with you. You need to TRICK them.
Dad: You can’t trick them. They know all the tricks.
Me: No, not this one. Ready? “Hello, I am a scientist. I am studying hotels with bedbugs but I can’t find any. I have much money to stay in a hotel, but only one with bedbugs! Please tell me you’re that hotel?”
Dad: NICE. Then they’d tell you the truth!
Me: Then you can say, “HA! You were TRICKED, you bedbug-ridden fleabag hotel!” Then you go stay at the Motel Six with the magic fingers bed or something.
Dad: When you were little, you always wanted to stay in a hotel with excellent vending machines because you always thought they’d have exotic snack foods and beds with magic fingers because whenever you saw them in a movie they made you laugh.
Me: And my tastes have not changed much. These are both things I still enjoy. I have yet to find a magic-fingers bed in my whole LIFE, though. It’s the saddest failing, I can’t even tell you.
Dad: When we’re in Florida I can wake you up by kicking your bed really really hard. That’s like magic fingers.
Me: If you sneak in my happy seaside bedroom and kick my bed I’m throwing you off the balcony, old man. Go to bed. I’ll let Jim know to expect you for dinner tomorrow.
Dad: I AM NOT VISITING INTERNET PEOPLE TOMORROW DAMMIT.
There. Yes, yes, I know. This post didn’t have a point, really. But it had a Dad-conversation. You like those, right? Sure, sure you do.
Off to sleep. Send vibes to my work computer. If I go in tomorrow and Twitter’s back up, I’m going to do bathroom-weeping. But HAPPY bathroom-weeping. That’s a thing, right? Sure. Sure it is.