postcards!!
Jun. 30th, 2005 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7(ed note: started this post at 1 pm. Am now finishing it at 11pm. I'd written the first three paragraphs, but after that it all goes downhill. Amazing how sober I seem. Hm.)
So. I have done much laundry and a great deal of tidying, have set up a number of things, have made lists, and, er, still have not cleaned my room. But, i started. I promise.
Dave's mom gave us an old printer one of her friends had gotten rid of, probably because she'd replaced it with something newer and cheap, as printers are ridiculously cheap nowadays. This one is now set up in the Lair, and Dave has it configured so that it actually works.
What does this mean? It means that I can now print things. Most importantly, I can now print postcards.
Which means that anybody who leaves a comment (comments will be screened) with a snail-mail address to which they would like a postcard sent, can have one. (And may well actually get one, perhaps even in a reasonably timely fashion, given that of late I have been getting off my ass and following through on things.) Please specify what sort of postcard you would like. The genres include:
1) pictures of flowers / the garden
2) pictures of the house / fish / dave / people doing silly things
3) pictures of the dog or cats from my parents' house
4) baby pictures of me and my siblings, or Dave asleep as a toddler (his grandma bequeathed me a sizable collection of those)
5) funny pictures I found on the Internet / funny cartoons etc
There's more but I'm too tired to list them. You could also just leave it up to my discretion. I promise I'll come up with something amusing, although I can't promise it will amuse you.
Work sucked, and I actually did hurt myself. Filled out a report and everything. I thought it was a sprain but I think I just got a wicked foot cramp from trying to deal with a floor entirely minus nonslip-mats. They were inexplicably missing. Also, the entire Eastern Seaboard as well as the Midwest were all socked in with killer thunderstorms and I about killed myself dealing with a glut of customers. Slammed my fingers in the garbage can, too. Fucking garbage can. Has one of those hangy flap things that says "Thank You" and has a hunger for human flesh. I hate it. Ubermanager stopped by and told me to go do the porter's job. I cried, mostly because my foot hurt, my fingers hurt, I was tired, and he fucking deserved to have a waitress break down on him, saying jackass things like that. I also had already started doing the porter's job, and was greatly vindicated by the incontrovertible truth: "Tell me, do you see a single glass on any of those tables?" "Er, well, no." "That's because I already picked them up and washed them." "... Oh." "So I'll get to cleaning the tables the rest of the way. I just need a goddamn minute, [Name]." "... Um, so, if your foot's really hurt you should fill out an accident report." "Fine, I will." "Your fingers can bend, though, so they're probably not broken. They'll be fine." "They probably will, [Name]. But they hurt."
That's as much of a spine as I ever grow, so I'm proud of myself. I did fill out a report. (The porter also, when he came back from cleaning another unit, thanked me sincerely for having helped him so much. Which I would've done anyway, because I like him. Fucking Ubermanager, always being a dick. Is almost certainly a nice guy in real life but professionally speaking needs a piano dropped on him with humorous and degrading sound effects.)
My foot's not bad now, after a long hot shower and a very tall whiskey sour (I added more whiskey because it was too sour, then added more sour mix because it was too whiskey, and then... You can see where this is going. But I can still type, so all is well). But I'm calling in tomorrow anyway, because the fact remains that i feel like I was hit by a train. I did make decent money, tho. But the foot, it hates me forever. Or probably at least until Sunday morning.
And oh. Sitting in the hallway waiting to cash out wishing my legs, which both hurt, weren't attached, I hear my phone ring. It's Mom, who's coming tomorrow with Dad, both of whom I've been so excited to see. "Well, we've agreed to pick Fiona up in Syracuse... And she's not getting out until a little late... So we won't be in Buffalo until at least 8 pm." Fan-fucking-tastic!! Make a short visit even shorter!! But, it means more time to clean, so I'm consoling myself with that. I'll sleep in tomorrow. Which I may need to, as I'm also consoling myself with the considerable amount of whiskey sour I have not yet drunk.
Mmm. The ice cubes, they sing little bubbling/cracking songs to me, squeakily, from the glass. I drink them.
Yes. More whiskey, then bed. Dinner is for wusses. Out of curiosity weighed self just before shower and am five pounds under my weight of two days ago. Probably dehydration and the fact that I missed dinner. Will certainly make up for it in the next two days. Am looking forward to it. Dave's party, did I mention, will be catered. Oh yes. His mom is taking his graduation seriously.
I didn't get him a present. Yet. Does that make me a bad person? Probably. The Canadian Club whiskey in me doesn't care. The rest of me might care but not for a while. I'll get him something. It'll be ok. You'll see.
So. I have done much laundry and a great deal of tidying, have set up a number of things, have made lists, and, er, still have not cleaned my room. But, i started. I promise.
Dave's mom gave us an old printer one of her friends had gotten rid of, probably because she'd replaced it with something newer and cheap, as printers are ridiculously cheap nowadays. This one is now set up in the Lair, and Dave has it configured so that it actually works.
What does this mean? It means that I can now print things. Most importantly, I can now print postcards.
Which means that anybody who leaves a comment (comments will be screened) with a snail-mail address to which they would like a postcard sent, can have one. (And may well actually get one, perhaps even in a reasonably timely fashion, given that of late I have been getting off my ass and following through on things.) Please specify what sort of postcard you would like. The genres include:
1) pictures of flowers / the garden
2) pictures of the house / fish / dave / people doing silly things
3) pictures of the dog or cats from my parents' house
4) baby pictures of me and my siblings, or Dave asleep as a toddler (his grandma bequeathed me a sizable collection of those)
5) funny pictures I found on the Internet / funny cartoons etc
There's more but I'm too tired to list them. You could also just leave it up to my discretion. I promise I'll come up with something amusing, although I can't promise it will amuse you.
Work sucked, and I actually did hurt myself. Filled out a report and everything. I thought it was a sprain but I think I just got a wicked foot cramp from trying to deal with a floor entirely minus nonslip-mats. They were inexplicably missing. Also, the entire Eastern Seaboard as well as the Midwest were all socked in with killer thunderstorms and I about killed myself dealing with a glut of customers. Slammed my fingers in the garbage can, too. Fucking garbage can. Has one of those hangy flap things that says "Thank You" and has a hunger for human flesh. I hate it. Ubermanager stopped by and told me to go do the porter's job. I cried, mostly because my foot hurt, my fingers hurt, I was tired, and he fucking deserved to have a waitress break down on him, saying jackass things like that. I also had already started doing the porter's job, and was greatly vindicated by the incontrovertible truth: "Tell me, do you see a single glass on any of those tables?" "Er, well, no." "That's because I already picked them up and washed them." "... Oh." "So I'll get to cleaning the tables the rest of the way. I just need a goddamn minute, [Name]." "... Um, so, if your foot's really hurt you should fill out an accident report." "Fine, I will." "Your fingers can bend, though, so they're probably not broken. They'll be fine." "They probably will, [Name]. But they hurt."
That's as much of a spine as I ever grow, so I'm proud of myself. I did fill out a report. (The porter also, when he came back from cleaning another unit, thanked me sincerely for having helped him so much. Which I would've done anyway, because I like him. Fucking Ubermanager, always being a dick. Is almost certainly a nice guy in real life but professionally speaking needs a piano dropped on him with humorous and degrading sound effects.)
My foot's not bad now, after a long hot shower and a very tall whiskey sour (I added more whiskey because it was too sour, then added more sour mix because it was too whiskey, and then... You can see where this is going. But I can still type, so all is well). But I'm calling in tomorrow anyway, because the fact remains that i feel like I was hit by a train. I did make decent money, tho. But the foot, it hates me forever. Or probably at least until Sunday morning.
And oh. Sitting in the hallway waiting to cash out wishing my legs, which both hurt, weren't attached, I hear my phone ring. It's Mom, who's coming tomorrow with Dad, both of whom I've been so excited to see. "Well, we've agreed to pick Fiona up in Syracuse... And she's not getting out until a little late... So we won't be in Buffalo until at least 8 pm." Fan-fucking-tastic!! Make a short visit even shorter!! But, it means more time to clean, so I'm consoling myself with that. I'll sleep in tomorrow. Which I may need to, as I'm also consoling myself with the considerable amount of whiskey sour I have not yet drunk.
Mmm. The ice cubes, they sing little bubbling/cracking songs to me, squeakily, from the glass. I drink them.
Yes. More whiskey, then bed. Dinner is for wusses. Out of curiosity weighed self just before shower and am five pounds under my weight of two days ago. Probably dehydration and the fact that I missed dinner. Will certainly make up for it in the next two days. Am looking forward to it. Dave's party, did I mention, will be catered. Oh yes. His mom is taking his graduation seriously.
I didn't get him a present. Yet. Does that make me a bad person? Probably. The Canadian Club whiskey in me doesn't care. The rest of me might care but not for a while. I'll get him something. It'll be ok. You'll see.
