We've got that gigantor sale going on at work, and I'm realizing that my alcohol intake needs to increase when I'm supremely busy. Apparently, my tolerance levels go up the more I need to chillax, because that very large amount of Mr. Jack I poured into my glass has only succeeded to relax my fingers on the keyboard and not my brain. However, because it was coffee day, which means ZING BOOM WHEEEEE, throwing even more Coke into the gullet is probably not a good idea for a person who limits the caffeine intake to ZERO once 7PM hits. I look at the clock, seeing it inch closer to 8PM and wonder if maybe I should just throw some Jack over the remaining ice cubes in the glass and call it good enough and then maybe the brain will begin to catch up to the fingers (which initially was typed as finers). The very small part of my brain (typed bain before spellcheck) that remains a responsible adult tells me I should just call it quits for the night on the drinky poo and reserve the fuckit option for Saturday night when I won't have to get up the next morning to haul, rearrange, smile pleasantly or even think.
Along those thought processes, I do sit here wondering if tonight is yet another sleepless night because I refuse to run air conditioning when the temps are below 80 degrees. I suffer through waking up with eyeballs full of snot because of allergies because I just like open windows that much (blame the polar vortex). But, in the rambled mess of thoughts racing through my brain, I think of the happy little birds that decide to sing their good morning song at 4:30 in the morning, then switch gears to putting my fan on high to hopefully drown out that homicide inducing squall well before the alarm is set to go off. Of course, if I run JUST the window air upstairs instead of the central air, I get the noise of not just the a/c, but also the fan, closed windows, and tweet tweet motherfucker, I can't hear you. Unless the a/c has shifted in that creaky old money pit window which in that case, I'll be listening to a shake, rattle, and roll the whole night long. Fuck it, instead of more Jack I can just pop some of that happy pill Benadryl sinus medication and drool on myself all night long in a peaceful slumber.
I do wonder if No Child Left Behind also means No Child Learns Two Syllable Words. I kind of always thought a "storewide" sale meant the whole store.
Storewide: adj: Involving, applying to, or occurring throughout a whole store
What's the number one question I have answered the last two days? Yup, you guessed it..."Is this on sale too?" I think that one has been asked at least two dozen times. I even thought ahead and instead of putting "storewide" on all the signs, exchanged it for "everything" on two of them. Nope, didn't help. Still answering that question. With a smile on my face, because copious amounts of espresso and a replenishing of the liquor cabinet does that for a person.
There's been some kaka shit floating around Facebook about children and the joy of and blabbity blah blah. Actually, there probably always is, but I've noticed it more this week. Maybe I'm actually doing more than the typical scanning and actually comprehending what I'm skipping over. Whatever the case, I've been seeing all the joys, adorations, and rainbows over having boys, having girls, birthing babies, having more than one child, etc etc. Nope. Not having it. Like I said before, pretty sure that mommy gene skipped a generation, but really, I gotta ask, is that ALL there is to talk about? Blech. Let's talk about the flavor of Jack once watered down with ice cubes. Or wearing pajamas in public. Or why preteen girls are dressing like a cheap two dollar hooker to go to the county fair. Or why all the construction workers wore shirts EXCEPT the one that looked like Gerard Butler had eaten a years worth of Hot Pockets while guzzling back a case of Schlitz every night?
On the other side of the spectrum, there have been some ADORABLE mini people in the store this week. The kind of mini's that make me want to hug and squish them endlessly and not just because I want them to be quiet. The kind that make me pause and think "awwwww" and feel the slightest twinge in the baby making machine until I realize that's really me needing to pee because I haven't had time to go to the bathroom since I arrived to work.
There are bobby pins everywhere. Still. One tried to fry my vacuum cleaner. One came in handy while I was wrapping plastic around the bleach experiment I was performing on my head last night. The rest sit in the dish in the bathroom. Waiting for rescue. Won't she run out eventually? Won't she have scattered so many around the house that someday before she goes back to college she'll wonder where all her bobby pin friends have gone? Won't I eventually look at that pretty dish, see it is empty, and feel the emptiness within my soul that is the absence of the adult female child? Ok, maybe not, but I'll feel the empty ache when I realize I can no longer text a "empty and reload the dishwasher" to anyone. Or have to clean up the FatCat puke myself. But the bright side is I won't go into the bathroom two days after laundry day and wonder where all my nice, fluffy clean towels went. I might even pee with the door open. Except for those moneypit windows directly across from the bathroom.
What was I saying?
The reward for the end of this madness otherwise known as the gigantor sale and restock is TJMaxx. Oh TJMaxx, how I love thee. It's my happy place. Must look at ALL the things. Touch them all. Sniff them all. Unless I'm looking at underwear or shoes. That would be gross. Though it could be interesting to just pretend to sniff them and see what kind of looks I get.
I wish I had a tutu. I would wear it to work tomorrow.
I'm only joking.
I don't believe a thing I said.
What are you smoking.
I'm just fucking with your head.
I love the Kongos. I wonder if we can get away with having that one on the CD player at work tomorrow. It would go well with a tutu.
No, I did not refill the Jack.
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