Today wasn't bad, exactly, but it was filled with lots of little things. For example, while I got to lie in my bed with a bit of the sun on me and talk on the phone, at least one of the conversations was like watching someone else's root canal. The phone call was with one of the mothers, and true to form, roughly a half hour in, the grandchildren issue was raised in the best passive-aggressive way possible (I was informed that she'd had to resort to buying things for other people's children because none of her kids were doing their jobs). Because Mother's Day is coming, I refrained from telling any of the cruel "stop harping on this" sorts of tales that I might otherwise have.
And yet this evening, when I went to the post office to make sure my Mother's Day cards got in the mail, it wound up in an epic adventure because evidently working stamp machines are a thing of the past around here (and, incidentally, the ability to buy a single stamp must have been deemed outmoded). As if dealing with Mother's Day for two mothers who not only talk but compare notes wasn't bad enough, I need postal hassles as well.
At the grocery store, a whole list of items on my regular shopping list have vanished from the shelves: the cool, environmentally friendly laundry detergent, Peanut Lover's Chex Mix, and chorizo among them. But thank goodness I can purchase seven different kinds of Italian sausage. I'm so annoyed, I'd steal a line from Wednesday Addams about what those sausage are made from except for how it would make me sound.
This afternoon, I received an e-mail from one of the honor's students I'm working with - thankfully not the one I'm in charge of - telling me he'd have a draft of his thesis to me in the morning, and, oh, by the way, his defense is at 10 am. One of the great tragedies of e-mail is that typing out "Hahahahahaha! You're kidding, right? No? Get out." doesn't have the same effect as saying it in person.
Finally, tonight, joy of joys, the Ex Who Crushed Paris felt the need to again get in touch with me. This is a ongoing problem for me, and not just with this particular ex. I have enough ex-gf tales to fill a significant part of the book I'll one day seriously consider writing only to opt for a nap instead. And it isn't as though I'm particularly good at dating either. The only thing that's worked well in the past has been to fight fire with fire. My preferred message is one collect call at 3:30 or so in the morning for each unwanted communication (for best effect, let the operator choose the collect call carrier - ask them to pick one they've never had anyone request before).
Still, I've made it to the end of the day. The stars are out, the dog is sleeping, and the only thing left to be done is to send the e-mail promising to savage anyone who tries to get me into that defense. It'll be bloodier than a cannibal Thanksgiving. (Isn't that the most disturbing .gif ever?)
Thank goodness summer will be here soon.
