Motherfucking Monday.
These damn allergies are kicking my ass, and I finally turned the air back on when we had temps hitting 90 degrees the last couple of days. You would think that would clear the snot out of my eyeballs, but I had to peel those eyelids back when that alarm so rudely interrupted my sleep this morning. Already feeling blurry eyed, I nearly fell down the stairs when I convinced myself in the no-espresso haze that there was cat yak on the top step. After getting the espresso maker going, I stumbled up the stairs with a plastic bag in hand, prepared to start my day with cat goo.
Nada. Nothing was there. And instead of looking at that as a sign of a lucky day, I muttered profanities. Because imagining cat yak that makes you nearly tumble onto your already pounding noggin is just not the way I want to start my day.
Fortunately, pounding noggin did not interfere with my ability to select my clothing for the day. Until I realized I cannot find my belt anywhere. I only own one belt, and it is a glorious leather belt that has lasted me over five years. Suddenly, without that belt in hand, I realized I only own one pair of jeans and one cropped jean that don't need the belt. And that one pair of jeans is on its last leg...they are so well loved and adored that one of these days, they're just going to disintegrate right off my ass from loving and adoring them for three years. I ended up in a "sort of" ok pair of capris, but by the end of the day, I was a muttering, cursing fool yanking up my pants every time I moved more than three inches.
Since it's a glorious leather belt (there is a huge difference between just leather, and glorious leather, and if you don't understand what I'm talking about, I'm not going to waste time trying to explain), I thought there might be the chance that one of the men folk mistakenly picked it up thinking it was one of their leather belts. I searched high and low. I even remember when I last wore it. Friday night, I whipped that baby off in a fit of "get these work clothes off of me" and haven't seen it since. It is glorious enough that it has it's own special spot...oh who the hell am I kidding. Everything of mine has a "spot" because I'm OCD as fuck when it comes to my clothing, shoes, and accessories. That's why this is driving me absolutely bonkers. It's not in it's SPOT. It's not even close to it's spot. In fact, it's NOWHERE to be found. And no one should be mistaking it for their own glorious leather belt because it has a very girly belt buckle on it. There's no mistaking it for a man-belt, no matter how glorious that leather is. Unless, a man belt broke at the last minute and a person of the male persuasion just TOOK my belt thinking I'd never miss it. Well let me tell you, with all this spandex and poly blend in jeans these days, I FUCKING NOTICE. They may still be making nearly all men's jeans in 100% cotton, but women's jeans? Hell no...we've got that glorious stretch cotton going on which means the need for a glorious leather belt.
I've looked everywhere. And it doesn't take long to look everywhere considering I am the only person living in this house who puts anything away in its SPOT. And EVERYTHING has its SPOT.
So, let's add this up. Nearly falling down the stairs, near migraine strength headache, and no belt. All by 7:30 am.
Great fucking start to the day.
I get to work, and the reality hits that the bookwork I ignored (HAD to ignore) through our sale, restocking, and reopening is now at critical mass. Did I mention that I forgot to make more espresso to take with me to work? I think I'm going to survive the day drinking water, and at that point, I'm not caring because I've got that pounding noggin and just need something, anything, to gulp down a handful of Tylenol with. The morning is slow going, because I'm buried in numbers and feel like I'm drowning, and by lunch time, I realize why I don't drink nearly as much water as I do espresso. I am peeing. And peeing. And peeing. I suppose I could have looked at the bright side of things and been thankful for no belt, because I was able to avoid that extra step of unbuckling every time I am racing to the bathroom from water overflow. Though, it's becoming apparent that this Monday really Wednesday doesn't have too many bright sides because pounding noggin has now subsided to headache hangover.
With these allergies, I get headaches. Not too much of a big deal, because they are usually minor or just sinus pressure. However, when I occasionally get these migraines, or the next step down of really bad fucking headache but I'll survive, I end up with what I call a headache hangover when the pain subsides to a dull roar. It literally is that sick, run over by a train feeling that I would normally associate with a night of drinking that ended crouched in front of a toilet. So yes, the pounding subsided down to a dull thud (there's that happy go lucky bright fucking side) but in turn, I felt like hurling. Constantly. While dealing with the public. With a smile on my face that felt just a wee bit forced. But I faked that shit like a pro. Until I was in the privacy of the bathroom, yet again peeing from too much water. I spent alot of time mouthing profanities with my pants around my ankles.
Lunch was a special treat. I tried a new yogurt, and I'm not a huge fan of yogurt but it's an easy thing to eat when it's common to be interrupted 8 times during lunch. Maybe it was the headache hangover, maybe it was dull thudding noggin, maybe it was anxiety over where that fucking belt is, but I had a hard time liking this yogurt that so many people say they love. It didn't make me feel Australian, though it's supposed to be a big giant Aussie secret recipe, and the cows in Colorado supplying the milk don't seem to be better than Iowa cows. And then I'm just getting grouchy that I spent more money than usual on yogurt because it was such special yogurt. Maybe, just maybe, I'm in a fucking mood (gee, really?) because I didn't think my grapes were doing it for me, and those cherry pistachio granola bars made me want to gag. Damn, I think the world makes me want to gag. I'm making myself want to gag with this petulant, whiny bullshit over a simple little lunch.
The brightest spot of my day was a coffee run. It's not even Coffee Thursday, but by this point, I'm willing to donate a kidney if it means I can get some goddamn espresso. And it was glorious espresso. It even made me momentarily forget about my missing glorious belt.
By the way, every time I had to reach under our work counter, I got a nice big whiff of my glorious brown leather purse. Yup, I am still totally gaga over that purse.
So, dull throbbing, headache hangover, and then I see the dirt on my arm. What the hell. I pull the old mom trick and lick my finger and try to rub it off. OUCH. That's not dirt, its a bruise. And there's a goddamn lump under it. Do I remember ramming my forearm into something? Of course not. But there's a big old knot there, and what looks like a really colorful bruise appearing.
Sigh. What next?
Well, let me tell you what next. The afternoon got quite busy, with the usual usage of our dressing rooms, and even with the dull throbbing headache hangover, I am pleasant, smiling, and cheerfully informing people to bring their items to the counter and we will put them back on the racks. Maybe next time, I will just go berserk bitch hag on them and scream it in their faces, because I got to spend too much of my time this afternoon cleaning up items in the wrong areas of the store, picking up hangers, picking up clothing left on the floor, replacing broken hangers, and rearranging all the jeans that got tried on and shoved back on the racks with zippers hanging wide open and barley hanging on to the clips. Hell, some were just thrown over the rack, and under the rack.
Filthy swine.
There's enough shit left piled from the end of the day, I just need to get out of here and go hide from people, rush out that door, that I will probably feel the need to go in a tad early tomorrow just to get some work done behind locked doors. Because as we were closing up, I viewed all the purses with stuffing hanging out, shoes that looked like they had been thrown, and bizarre messes that made no sense and I realized that there are days when a person can feel like they are just feeding the hogs at the trough. Not everyday, not even most days, but when it happens, of course it's on a day when you're not feeling 100% perky...hell, not even 50%.
Not that I'm grouchy or anything.
I get home, and see some kind of hillbilly gathering going on at the neighbor's. He's a harmless old fool, and really is a nice guy even if he will talk your ear off for hours on end if you allow it. And though we've only seen the inside of his house once (and one room at that), I know he is a hoarder. I looked for the film crews, because it really looks like an episode of Hoarders going on. There's a dumpster, tarps on the ground covered in stuff, and people going in and out of the house wearing safety masks. But the best part, is the shirtless mullet man.
I don't know if he's actually helping, or just hanging out shirtless, but I feel like throwing on some REO Speedwagon and sewing shoulder pads into some shirts. Except my head is still at a dull roar and they are making too much noise with their dumpster diving and shop vacs.
I made another round through the house, looking for the glorious belt, and it appears I will have to take a chance and wear the threadbare jeans tomorrow. But, I succeeded in picking up some bobby pins, and didn't fulfill the cat yak prophecy, so I guess I could say this day is ending on a high note.
Tomorrow will be a better day. Laws yes, even if it kills me.
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