spaghetti plates

Yes, it snows and snows.

I'm drinking a .... hold on, phone's ringing again.

OK, another church call, this one from a pastor looking for the communion supplies that perished, along with one of the refrigerators, earlier this week. I didn't see labels on the stuff I had to throw out, I'm sorry. I remembered to tell the fellowship coordinators, but not the people who set up Communion.

Anyway, I'm drinking a nice glass of Dolcetto. Since arriving home from church at 12:30 I have cleaned floors, done laundry, and thoroughly cleaned the bathroom. I helped my son with his piano lesson, and have largely tolerated the fact that my husband's ass has been nailed to the couch all weekend as he watches playoff football (with the rest of himself.)

My week was really, really trying. Thank God tomorrow is a holiday, which means I'll only have to work for a couple hours in the morning, at the food shelf. Plate-juggling -- that's my job. My vocation.



In a figurative sense, anyway. And I make about as much money now as this guy, running a 52,000 square foot facility. I deserve this glass of wine. Burglary, no-show volunteers, unloading two full pallets of food shelf goods by myself, last-minute projects of an urgently-needed nature, a pay cut across the board in 2011 and a handful of brand-new proximity alarms in the stairwells that debuted this weekend and confounded numbers of people who all figured it would be okay if they ignored the "do not enter" barriers. Spin! Spin! Spin!

I can handle it.