It's SATURDAAAAAYYY!!!!

[dragonlady7]

My blog is worth $564.54. How much is your blog worth?

Just curious.


Anyhow. It is my Saturday morning. I am sitting around in my pyjamas (three layers on top, two on bottom, plus duvet: I WILL NOT turn up the heat) and eating Oreo-Os from a dirty bowl with a dirty spoon whilst drinking hazelnut coffee (sweetened with brown sugar, because the brown sugar is still out from when I made cookies a full week ago; this being the state of my housekeeping) from a dubiously clean mug (I RINSED IT, people). I am absurdly pleased with the prospect of a day off: why? Because I HURT ALL OVER. There is a bruise on the point of my left hip which is actually black (it started off cornflower blue), sustained on Sunday and so terribly sore and tender that I couldn't sleep on that side. Which made sleeping last night problematic, as I am by preference a side sleeper and my other hip is also bruised. My legs hurt so much that I gave up on ibuprofin yesterday and just toughed it out by thinking of the whiskey I was going to drink when I got home-- I don't know if I've already used my dad's line on this blog, but he once famously said of some expensive and dangerous painkiller that he had been prescribed that he really preferred a tumblerful of Scotch: "I don't trust the white man's medicine."
This is funny if you've ever seen my dad. But if you haven't I bet you can guess. Yet, I digress.

So if I hadn't had today off I would've called in. I actually told a coworker yesterday, "That's it! I'm calling in sick tomorrow!" She looked at me, paused a moment, and said, "You don't work on Tuesdays." "I know," I chuckled gleefully, "that's why I won't be here."
Words can't express how badly I wanted to go home. Anyway. I made it. I made no money yesterday, and was actually verbally abused by someone who wanted to get takeout and sit down with it. ("But... I could get it for you." "I've gotten it myself before!" "... But I could get it for you. So you wouldn't have to wait in line. That line is there so people can get the food to take with them." "But I want to get it myself and sit here and eat it!" [freaks out for several minutes, insulting me, enlisting the support of the others at his table]... "Wow, sir. I've never had anyone be that rude to me over anything that thoroughly trivial before." [I stalk off.]) Seriously, it would've meant probably a $1 tip, and he would've gotten the large size and refills for free, because that's the benefit of being waited on by someone rather than going to the apathetic cashier. (I did go over to the cashier while he was standing in line and whisper that the asshole in the green shirt was the rudest motherfucker ever. The cashier giggled and looked directly at him.)

I digress again. I had a plotbunny attach itself to my ear last night-- I read spacellama's astonishing post and wanted to write her a ficlet in honor of such a momentous event, as it reminded me of something I had intended to write a while back-- but seeing as I was already so weary and in so much pain, the pain of the plotbunny gnawing was sort of indistinguishable from the rest of it and I absentmindedly swatted it off and went to sleep. But perhaps someday I'll find what corner of the room it landed in. I am considering cleaning my room today, after all...

I also have to do some gardening. See, back in August, my mom ordered me some plants from White Flower Farm. Why didn't I thank her and post about how psyched I was? Because they never sent me the announcement. Well, what about when they sent me the rest of my plants and I was so excited and planted them? Well, they didn't send these THEN EITHER. No. So my mom e-mailed them and they said they were getting around to it, and now, in late October, now that it is raining for the forseeable future, now that it is THIRTY DEGREES outside, NOW I have my hemerocallis siloame collection.

Now that I've already planned and planted my garden and have no more room for daylilies.

So I have some gardening to do, and an irate letter to write as well. I'm going to wait until I've planted them and come back inside coated in freezing mud with numb hands hanging from my useless wrists, and THEN try to compose the letter. I figure it's only what these people deserve. (Their website cheerfully states that for zone 6 hemerocallis will be shipped in late September.)

But first I'd better do a bit of housework.

Comments

[spacellama.livejournal.com]

Yay day off. :) No need to write ficlet: it's the thought that counts. Really.

Hope your bruises fade quickly and you get posh job at high-end restaurant soon (because I bet the bar doesn't jump out and poke people there).

[dragonlady7.livejournal.com]

> thought

I keep thinking how odd it seems. I also keep cracking Z up by talking about being diagnosed with a bad case of babies. Or, well, I suppose a thorough case...
It wasn't a very warm and cuddly ficlet, and probably wouldn't have been short enough for me to actually finished, but it seemed like a really good idea in the nanosecond that it was clear in my mind. Eh well. :D

> jump out and poke people

You know, I get the feeling bars just tend to do that sometimes. But I'm definitely going to look around-- I know just from the sorts of people who apply for the job that there must be way better ones out there, and I'd sort of like to upgrade, I think. Thanks for the good wishes.

[mother2012.livejournal.com]

Any gardening bug I might have had died when it started raining.

[dragonlady7.livejournal.com]

I KNOW. Guh. I got my gardening gloves on and picked up the package of lilies and looked out the back door and... put the package down and took the gloves off and went back inside. I cannot deal with the rain! It's too cold to be out there digging things up. Brrrr.