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dragonlady7Thank, as I believe I said already, fucking Christ. I am safely ensconced beneath my down comforter (there's another possibility for a frivolous purchase: a thicker, winter-weight down comforter, as this one is lightweight and convenient for summer but is rather too thin to act as a duvet (i.e. sole blanket) when the temperature in the house is sixty) and, upon ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gyen_gaoltosing's excellent suggestion, have a mug of hot chocolate (with whipped cream on top-- there is a can stashed in the fridge for just such occasions).
Now, my conscience is prickling me to say that this reprieve has been granted so that I might write that damn article once and for all.kkatowll would've had it finished ten or twelve times over by now. (What plagues me is the question: how do you get people to talk to you right away? I could easily write two thousand words in an afternoon, if only I had quotes to go from, but it took me two days of hunting to get anybody to talk to me, so by the time I had material I was stuck in the midst of my unrelated work-week.)
I have a hideous scar on the back of my left hand-- the night before last I innocently reached into the toaster oven, set to 'warm', to put a pirodzi into it, and just grazed the top of the machine, and it was warm and hurt a bit so I kept my hand against my cold beer glass the rest of dinner, but by now it's just a painless but ugly mark on my hand. Grr, I don't want a dramatic scar from something that lame.
So I should be writing this story, and I will. (I just spilled hot chocolate on my trackpad. When I licked it off the cursor went wiggly all over the screen. Hee! Aw crap, it's on my pale yellow shirt. Guess I'll have to wash it.
Meh, it wasn't very good hot chocolate. Where was I? Oh yes, trying to write a coherent livejournal entry on the topic of being unmotivated and rather tired, and yet much less creaky than I had feared. The only real lingering physical aftereffect of the, well, five brutal shifts in a row that I just worked (even Saturday! Geez! Saturday's supposed to be my lazy Wednesday!) is that the muscles of my hind end and thighs are rather tired. Not sore, so much as just tired. If Canadian Thanksgiving were every week, I'd have an ass like rock, is the lesson to be learned here. It's almost tempting me to try to get some exercise today.
Not really, though.
I was going to say some coherent and pithy things, here. I had something deep to say about my post last night of wishing to acquire new things. I had some plans to expound upon, how I have these errands I've been meaning to run all month, and something somewhere about the vague thought of beginning to plan something for NaNoWriMo. Perhaps I was going to post some observations about something or other as well, but they've slipped my mind.
I do concretely remember that as I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep, I semi-daydreamed that I had taken the Canadian penny from the receipt booklet and had gone down to the gate where the woman was waiting for her plane and had said, "Ma'am! Ma'am! You forgot something at your table!" and given her the penny and then dashed back to continue my work. And it amused me to imagine it, but I don't know why I was wasting the energy to imagine it-- I really don't care anymore, and wasn't just putting on a brave face in my love letter to her last night. But these are the things that wake us at night, I guess-- the 2:00 server and I were standing at the end of the bar waiting for our food to arrive so we could give it to our customers, and I looked over at a now-vacant table, and said "Aw shit! That guy wanted ranch dressing with his fries!" And the other girl laughed-- he was long gone, and hadn't complained at the time, when I'd delivered the fries and then gone on to deliver food to six other tables at the same time, because the Grille was being sucky and only sending our orders in one big chunk, never individually. And I said to her, "Does that ever happen to you? Do you ever start up out of sleep and say 'Shit! That lady wanted her water refilled and I said I would and never did!'" She laughed, and said, "Yes, sometimes I remember in the middle of the night."
I do wonder what it would be like to work somewhere that didn't get most of its business in large indigestible chunks from flight delays. But then I think, most of my curiosity about the restaurant business has been more than fulfilled, and if I look for another job it would be better if it were in another industry.
So. Today I must:
I am psyching myself up to this by talking myself into getting dressed. "Look-- you can wear any color pants you like! They don't have to be black! They can be anything. They could even be jeans!" and the sourpuss half of me is responding, sulkily, "But you don't even own any jeans that fit."
The temptation is very strong to simply remove the clothing I have on so far and just go in for a nap (under Z's duvet, which he isn't using at the moment and which is much warmer than mine).
gyen_gaoltosing's excellent suggestion, have a mug of hot chocolate (with whipped cream on top-- there is a can stashed in the fridge for just such occasions). Now, my conscience is prickling me to say that this reprieve has been granted so that I might write that damn article once and for all.
kkatowll would've had it finished ten or twelve times over by now. (What plagues me is the question: how do you get people to talk to you right away? I could easily write two thousand words in an afternoon, if only I had quotes to go from, but it took me two days of hunting to get anybody to talk to me, so by the time I had material I was stuck in the midst of my unrelated work-week.)I have a hideous scar on the back of my left hand-- the night before last I innocently reached into the toaster oven, set to 'warm', to put a pirodzi into it, and just grazed the top of the machine, and it was warm and hurt a bit so I kept my hand against my cold beer glass the rest of dinner, but by now it's just a painless but ugly mark on my hand. Grr, I don't want a dramatic scar from something that lame.
So I should be writing this story, and I will. (I just spilled hot chocolate on my trackpad. When I licked it off the cursor went wiggly all over the screen. Hee! Aw crap, it's on my pale yellow shirt. Guess I'll have to wash it.
Meh, it wasn't very good hot chocolate. Where was I? Oh yes, trying to write a coherent livejournal entry on the topic of being unmotivated and rather tired, and yet much less creaky than I had feared. The only real lingering physical aftereffect of the, well, five brutal shifts in a row that I just worked (even Saturday! Geez! Saturday's supposed to be my lazy Wednesday!) is that the muscles of my hind end and thighs are rather tired. Not sore, so much as just tired. If Canadian Thanksgiving were every week, I'd have an ass like rock, is the lesson to be learned here. It's almost tempting me to try to get some exercise today.
Not really, though.
I was going to say some coherent and pithy things, here. I had something deep to say about my post last night of wishing to acquire new things. I had some plans to expound upon, how I have these errands I've been meaning to run all month, and something somewhere about the vague thought of beginning to plan something for NaNoWriMo. Perhaps I was going to post some observations about something or other as well, but they've slipped my mind.
I do concretely remember that as I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep, I semi-daydreamed that I had taken the Canadian penny from the receipt booklet and had gone down to the gate where the woman was waiting for her plane and had said, "Ma'am! Ma'am! You forgot something at your table!" and given her the penny and then dashed back to continue my work. And it amused me to imagine it, but I don't know why I was wasting the energy to imagine it-- I really don't care anymore, and wasn't just putting on a brave face in my love letter to her last night. But these are the things that wake us at night, I guess-- the 2:00 server and I were standing at the end of the bar waiting for our food to arrive so we could give it to our customers, and I looked over at a now-vacant table, and said "Aw shit! That guy wanted ranch dressing with his fries!" And the other girl laughed-- he was long gone, and hadn't complained at the time, when I'd delivered the fries and then gone on to deliver food to six other tables at the same time, because the Grille was being sucky and only sending our orders in one big chunk, never individually. And I said to her, "Does that ever happen to you? Do you ever start up out of sleep and say 'Shit! That lady wanted her water refilled and I said I would and never did!'" She laughed, and said, "Yes, sometimes I remember in the middle of the night."
I do wonder what it would be like to work somewhere that didn't get most of its business in large indigestible chunks from flight delays. But then I think, most of my curiosity about the restaurant business has been more than fulfilled, and if I look for another job it would be better if it were in another industry.
So. Today I must:
- Chase down the last few sources to write the article.
- Write the article.
- Do laundry. (Again. Why is there always more laundry? Sigh.)
- Clean the living room in preparation for moving the couch in off the sunporch. Because face it, the season's over. (Noooooooo!)
- Put together that package for Katy. (While I'm at it, how about those postcards I started making up over a month ago?)
- Deposit all tip monies in the bank.
- Hunt down student loan notifications and pay past-due balances. (There shouldn't be any. Why are there any? I swear they don't send me bills every month.)
- Hunt down remaining monthly bills and pay them too.
- Find a store that sells Doc Martens and try on frivolous boots.
- Remember the other five things that were on this list when I composed it in my head while putting the kettle on.
I am psyching myself up to this by talking myself into getting dressed. "Look-- you can wear any color pants you like! They don't have to be black! They can be anything. They could even be jeans!" and the sourpuss half of me is responding, sulkily, "But you don't even own any jeans that fit."
The temptation is very strong to simply remove the clothing I have on so far and just go in for a nap (under Z's duvet, which he isn't using at the moment and which is much warmer than mine).
