Laugh if you will, but I don't have bad Mondays. I have bad Tuesdays. If anything bad, stupid or otherwise aggravating is going to happen, it's gonna happen on a Tuesday. Even my Friday the 13th's are nothing.
Case in point:
I wake up this morning to my email beeping. Not unusual, I do a lot of stuff for Soldiers' Angels and various other entities strictly online. It's normal. I see a message from the matching service to let me know someone has communicated with me. Cool. More fodder for postings, but I already know what it is. Guys, if you think we don't have a 6th sense about this stuff, grab your shit and head out... we know.
I check the message. They have closed the match (with no reason given whatsoever). All I can think of is "damn, how do they DO that without actually having to give one of the 17 moronic reasons listed??? I wanna know how!" This is the same particular fella that after weeks of talking back and forth through private email, I FINALLY exchange numbers with and make the call. We all know how much I hate talking on the phone. It takes a while for me to find out if the ass clown on the other end of the digital gateway has enough interesting to say to warrant spending my home time talking on the phone. Night before last, we spent nearly 2 hours on the phone, mostly him talking, but it was a good conversation. It ended with statements of calling the next day around lunch time (uh huh) and good wishes for happy sleep. Well, that day came and went. I actually knew yesterday. He made sure I knew his exact schedule, when he would BE available to talk and asked if I would be. He also made some pointed references to sex during that initial call, to which I politely bantered but didn't delve. Look, I'm as much fun as the next girl, and having a little naughty phone fun is great, but not when I haven't even seen you in person. And sure as hell not as a first conversation with someone who supposedly is looking for "the love of their life". No... for that you need to spend the $3.99 a minute and quit wasting my time. It took a (very) little restraint, but I didn't call him. I have his home number. I have his full name and address. I have explicit directions to his house. I have a background check. The only thing he gave me was his home number. Keep that in mind next time you're giving out your digits, gals. My number is unlisted, unpublished and un-passed out for very good reason. If you have my cell phone, so what? That means you have not made it to my inner circle. You still fall within my seventh circle of hell whereby I can ignore you no matter where I am. You do not have the power to aggravate me in my own home.
And more... I get to work, my boss is going to a business convention in San Antonio. (*sigh* I loooovvve SA) Normally this wouldn't be a bad thing, except I have to cover his job as well as mine. Not that it's that difficult, it just requires a lot of da da daaaah... talking. on. the. phone. Guh-reat. My sparkling personality will last til about 3. Today.
Mid-morning, I get a message from one of my Heroes in the Sandbox. She's coming home. Today, in just hours, she'll be airborne. (I'm happy for her and her comrades. I'm thrilled they get to come home. I pray the flight goes well.) I'm sad because I'll be losing another Hero friend to the interwinding path of life.
And then, and THEN... I go up to the local Subway to grab a sandwich and 2 things just knock the wind out of my sails. In front of the place, standing on little ladders and painting inspirational messages to the school team going to tournaments, are half a dozen little catholic schoolgirls, complete with plaid skirts and knee socks. (And chunky 3 inch heel shoes--don't remember THOSE from my youth-fellas, you're gonna short your keyboard-quit slobbering.) So of course, Subway is bursting at the seams with customers today - great marketing strategy. *sigh* It's only lunchtime. To which the over-eyeshadowed cow behind the counter only adds aggravation. I ask for a Club Sub. On Wheat. 6 inch. (Girls, settle.) I'm standing there listening to the giggles of the tiny little schoolgirls, hating my thighs (although I DID spend part of my morning with my Gazelle) and feeling frumpy (but my hair looked great). The woman behind the counter asks, "Would you like to make that fat-friendly and skip the cheese?" I can't stop it, my eyebrow goes up. "No." Would you like me to pop you in the mouth for saying something that basically sounds like "You don't need the cheese, you're fat, and I'm going to point it out in front of all seventeen males sitting here ogling the skinny little schoolgirls." Thanks. Bitch. The guy at the register asks if I'd like to make it a meal. "No." Apparently the insensitive oaf at the other end of the room thinks I don't need it. *sigh* Back to work where the yard guys (some of whom went to Subway and just happened to catch the show) were talking alllll about it... " 'they even had on the little plaid skirts' ". Save it for the yard, fellas.
I still have to get through the afternoon. Today is my "File til your hands bleed" day. And let's not forget "Happy Hour" between 3:30 and 5 where I talk to every single driver to let them know what's up for tomorrow. And at home, I have a horny cat and the torture machine waiting. yay. The consolation is, in less than 11 hours it will be over.
I know what the REAL issue is... I'm missing my Hero. He always made my Tuesdays better.