ugh

Man. Day Four of my six consecutive day work-week dawns chilly and bright, and I am huddled under the comforter wishing the world would go away. I have not touched my novel since Friday-- I know this because it is still on the laptop which I have not so much as removed from the bag it was in-- and I am weary, footsore, leg-sore, and back-sore. I did about half the volume of business I usually do on a Sunday yesterday-- actually, literally half, going by the amount of money I deposited at the end of the night combined by the credit card slips I turned in. And I spent almost two hours at the end of the very long day standing behind the bar waiting for the porter to be done mopping the floor because he had no badge and could not be left alone on the unit. Did a manager ask me to do this? No. No, I overheard the manager telling the porter that I would be doing this.
I considered leaving anyway, as he had not asked me to stay, but my righteous anger was outweighed by the simple knowledge that the poor innocent temp porter would be stuck there if I did go, and the manager would be delighted to write me up for not being psychic. So I phoned home and talked to my mom for forty-five minutes instead. It's not like I was missing Easter dinner, which had taken place in my absence eight hours previous.
Also my manager is a God-damned fucking coward and didn't have the guts to face me, and I suppose I should be pleased that I am so formidable a character. Except that we all already knew that he has no fucking guts, so, that's not really a compliment to me.

I am going to tell the scheduling manager that I cannot work on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday next week, and I am sorry if that puts her in a bind but I am on a bid schedule for Sat, Sun, and Mon, and am really not available all these extra hours, and my other commitments are suffering. (That sounds a lot less whiny than saying the house needs cleaning, the laundry needs doing, my feet need un-hurting, and my GOD DAMNED NOVEL NEEDS FINISHING.)
I wouldn't, except that I know that my working all these extra shifts without her asking is not garnering me any favor from her. I'm doing her a massive favor, but she doesn't feel she owes me even the least respect in return. So? I'm stopping doing her favors. Yes I'm earning extra money, but I'm also not finishing my novel, which is really not about money, strangely enough. So fuck that.


I am going to eat swiss chocolate pie for breakfast. They had it for dessert yesterday, after 1) brunch, and then 2) a walk around lovely scenic Delaware Park in the beautiful sunshine, and then after dessert they had 3) naps.
Meanwhile at work the two girls I was working with and I made a butter lamb out of a granola bar, and then drank nonalcoholic sparkling wine and ate bread because we were sad we couldn't go to church.

So I think I get pie for breakfast. Fuckit.

one good thing

I innocently asked Z about the restaurant reviews. His magazine's been really busy trying to put out two major publications simultaneously-- their Menus guide and the Best of Buffalo issue, which are two big once-annual things. So the editor, doing a job that was supposed to be done by two people, is a little snowed under.
I asked, you know, like, if they needed me, or not, and immediately the editor set up the review for the tea shop. So I'll be doing that this week. :)

So I am a restaurant reviewer after all. Ha ha! Fear me, Buffalo!

so. sleepy.

I just filed my taxes online. Z was going to do them for me-- I had already collected all our paperwork from around the house, and had done both our returns in pencil, but left them for him to check over because I am actually retarded and could wager actual money that I had utterly forgotten something essential.
But then there was a crisis at Z's work, and so he has just spent about six hours sitting on his bed doing work work. He did his own taxes, and yes, I had failed to notice something like a thousand dollars he's entitled to. So that was good.
He sent me to taxfreedom.com and I did my taxes there, and managed to find about $200 more than I'd thought I'd get, so that was nice.

I'm going to take my tax refund and turn it right around to pay off my smaller student loan. It's about the same amount.

I've saved up some money over the several months we've had two incomes now, and I was thinking, oh, I should get a CD, or start a savings account, or buy a car, or get an IRA, and then I realized that any smart financial professional would probably tell me that I'd make more money, in the end, if I just took my savings and plopped them into the gaping maw of my larger student loan. Because, well, duh, debt is expensive, and while I am so smug about how little I spend on myself, there is still a giant steaming pile of debt that is roughly equivalent to my annual salary, just sitting there. So, duh. Not much point in financial planning or, you know, saving for retirement, or what-have-you. I am not exaggerating, either. It's a big student loan.

But that really feels like flushing money down the toilet. Z thinks I should buy myself a present, since I haven't bought myself so much as a pair of shoes in the last six months despite working really hard (I did buy myself a pair of boots as a reward for Canadian Thanksgiving, but that was kind of a while ago now). Last year, while we were still struggling out from under being broke, Z bought himself a scooter with his tax refund. So I think maybe I do deserve a present. But I really don't know what. And now I've started worrying about the scary sucking sound emanating from that giant student loan.