One of “those” weeks
Ever have one of “those” weeks where you take your puppy to the vet to be neutered, you find out he needs a biopsy, you’re now $400 poorer, an abandoned dog follows you home who acts like she’s lived with you all her life, work is 3 days of non-stop insanity culminating in an employee who blocks the only vehicle left in the parking lot, (the car your hubby has been waiting inside for 30 minutes because she’s delivering her report to you LATE), and you yell out, “Park your (insert swear word her) car first!
Thanksgiving happened in the USA on Thursday, the one time during the year when I insist on home-cooked turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce. This year, I decided to use a roaster. It took twice as long and instead of browned, crispy skin it looked like this, but fully cooked:
Fortunately, I’m one of those “edible is good enough” cooks. You should see what I can do to a chocolate cake and still manage to eat it.
Since I made it solely for myself, I don’t eat the skin, and I cut it up anyway, looks shouldn’t matter. It’s just that one time a year I want at least one meal I want to create a meal that doesn’t resemble a 5 year old’s first attempt at learning to make tuna casserole.
This would be the result if I were insane enough to enter a cooking contest.
Enough about cooking disasters, let’s talk about work.
I’ll preface this by saying the following:
- No matter how badly the staff mangle a report,
- how many times it has to be sent back (+3),
- how many people were involved in getting the d@%&ed thing to my office on time,
- there is a deadline — and it’s my responsibility to have it on someone else’s desk by a certain date.
That date was, quite literally, TODAY!
Since the office was closed on Thursday and Friday, it meant the report HAD to arrive at its next destination without further incident.
Two words: MURPHY’S LAW.
That morning, we took the 7 month old puppy, a chocolate lab mutt that should have been named BOING-BOUNCE-BOING-BOUNCE, to the vet for neutering.
Then, I arrived at work and looked through a log book to find the Titanic of paperwork disasters.
I won’t go into the effort it took, just know that the person who had to sign it wouldn’t be back from a trip out of town until 3:30pm.
I was about to call hubby and say, “Can we change the pick-up time to 6:00pm.”
Did I mention Murphy’s law?
The vet called me at 3:00pm to say, “Puppy did well in surgery. He’s in recovery and ready to go home. I found a lump and suspect cancer, so I’m sending it to the lab. By the way, we’re closing at 5:00 today.”
I was the last one in the building when hubby arrived to take me home, so he backed into the closest parking space near my office door.
After running 10 feet to the car, I explained the problem and he said, “Take as long as you need.”
If you haven’t been in a car with him, you don’t know the infinite number of times he’s said, “Can’t that F%#$er park in the lines?” or “Why can’t that woman park in a space instead of leaving her car in front of mine? If I get the chance, I’m going to tell the %^*#@, Learn how to drive!”
Yes, there’s one employee who parks her car in front of the parking space next to my office — the same place every day –to clock out.
Yes, there are several employees who think that parking between the lines is all right and often create their own parking space. This is social services, not a Daytona speedway pile-up, but every day a 9:00am it’s hard to tell the difference.
I waited, and waited for the report, calling twice to find out what was taking so long. And then, at 4:15, a white car meandered into the parking lot, stopping in front of the only car there.
I yelled out, “Park your [insert swear word (that I didn’t say) here] car!
It took two scans, an uncooperative email server, breaking the report into two parts to create 2 files to send in 2 different emails…and
2000 20 minutes later I rushed out the door.
What does hubby say when I get inside the car? “You didn’t have to yell at that woman.”
I’m smoldering, hubby doesn’t understand why I’m not talking, and 30 minutes later we’re at the vet’s office. We waited for BOING-BOUNCE-BOING-BOUNCE to emerge wearing a cone-of-shame. $400 later, we turned onto the dirt road leading to our house.
I have only one thing to add to this fiasco.
On Thanksgiving, one must always find something to be thankful for. At least THIS didn’t happen:
Yes, there is always something to be thankful for; at least a crocodile didn’t eat my report.