Sit up straight, because it's easier to type -- while sitting in the hard barstool-height chair, with the laptop balanced atop the plastic bin that houses all my underwear, which is in turn sitting on a folding TV tray. What an image. This isn't any more comfortable than those weeks spent using my ironing board as a desk. Wireless!!! Where are you?
Not feeling so terribly graceful, or grace-filled, this past day or two. Now that I'm on my second prescription for antibiotics, and my third referral for the tooth -- next I see an specialistic in head and neck imaging for a "cone segmentation CT scan" that will cost me an un-reimbursable $100. Why? Because no one wants to answer a simple question: Does it make sense to spend $900 on root canal work for a tooth that is being slowly shoved downward by the impacted wisdom tooth above it? When said wisdom tooth is likely to be the reason the molar got infected and is now dead? Doesn't it make more sense just to pull the damned molar, since no one wants to go in after the wisdom tooth, and let the wisdom tooth descend on its own? OK, that's three questions. But you get the idea. It all costs money, so I'm trying to make a wise budgetary decision here. I've already spent hundreds capping this damned molar, fat lot of good it did me too.
Oh, oh oh. And no word yet about my husband's job.
Today was a classically maddening day at work: People showing up unannounced in groups of three and four to demand information from me that they think should be at my fingertips. And to ask, some nicely, some less so, for me to take on their worries over picayune administrative details -- the sorts of things it would do them more good to relax and learn to live with. I can't get the meetings I want with certain people; and when I go to a meeting, the phone rings 6 times, interruptions from people who really need to tell me how frustrated they are that I'm not somewhere else making their lives easier. And oh yeah, some kids came in during open-door hours this evening and looted the damned kitchen, since no one was really paying attention. So our resident weirdo custodian chases them off with a golf club and then calls the cops. People calling me at 9pm to tell me all this. Tomorrow I have to close the books on March, and I'm behind on bookkeeping. BLAH!
Nope, not very graceful. And I ate mac n cheese for lunch yesterday, and McDonald's today, which means I'm feeling undernourished in some deeper sense and I'm compensating by pretending I still get regular exercise -- and eating accordingly.
In the words of Beth Orton, "Won't you please... knock me off my feet... for a while." My son's fortune-cookie-fortune tonight read "some situation in your life will be improved today by your positive attitude." I should have known that one was for me. The thing is, I felt good this morning. I dressed up in a magenta-n-black suit that made me feel sexy, put on some makeup, and listened to Amy Winehouse at my desk while I slogged through some dull paperwork. It was OK. Now, I'm eating chocolate covered raisins, wishing I could get sloshed, wishing someone would magically appear to love the heck out of me and then conveniently disappear before I can feel badly about it.