There is not a made-up screamy-type word with enough vowels out there to adequately describe how stressed out I feel right now.
Nope. Not even close.
There is Much Work To Be Done and Little Motivation To Be Had. I spent most of Friday writing a Big Ass Document but then accidentally closed it without saving it because I thought Document 7 was a stupid-lame entry I'd started, but no. That was Document 12. Document 7 was Big Ass Document. Documents 8 through 11 were blank, and Document 6 was nothing but my spelling cheat-sheet full of words I'd typed to see if the spellchecker thought they were correct. Or if they were even actual words.
(Friday's words included concomitant, exacerbate and duncity.)
(Duncity, while not an actual word, is the state of being a dunce and/or behaving in a dunce-like manner. Feel free to use it in a sentence today.)
So I lost all my worky work on Friday. I had no time to redo it either, as it was one of my bestest coworker's last day with our company. She got a job as the Boss of Everything Important at a Very Important and Famous Place and we had a little party for her so I couldn't redo my work; I had a company obligation to go socialize and eat cheese puffs and copious amounts of ranch dip. And also to sulk, because I am going to miss her.
We took her out after work too. And that evening can be summed up in three words: Caramel. Apple. Tini.
The weekend was quiet and sleepy, except for Saturday night, which was an experiment in terror. First, we got the cab driver from hell who made me totally carsick. Then we got stuck in massive Tony Blair-related traffic. Then I sliced my finger open on the paper covering our table and bled all over the white tablecloth. Then I ordered the nastiest tasting wine ever that made me lose faith in Sauvignon Blanc. Then the restaurant's bathrooms flooded.
Then we left, and as Jason ran to hail a cab I fell off my shoes and down some steps. Yes.
The ankle strap on my sparkly stilettos slipped and I fell down the stairs onto the sidewalk outside the restaurant, where about 20 people were present to shriek, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY? THAT LOOKED REALLY BAD! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT ETC. ETC.?"
I mumbled to the assembled crowd that I was fine and then tried to act natural and loudly remark to Jason that I'd only had one glass of wine and it was my shoes! My shoes! It was not the fault of my own clumsy drunk ass! It was not duncity! It was the SHOES!
Anyway, I hurt my wrist and managed to bruise and scrape the hell out of the top of my left foot, which makes no sense as I fell off my right shoe and fell backwards, not forwards.
But looking back, it was good that I fell, because that eased my heartbreak when I discovered later that Ceiba had decided to seek vengeance on the offending shoe. She completely destroyed it which necessitated the purchase of new shoes, which I got yesterday and which are even taller than the Shoes of Injury. But they are a pump, not a sandal so therefore? Totally different and practical. I am wearing them right now and have only sort of tripped on the carpet once but it didn't count because no one saw. Anyway, they are beautiful Pointy Shoes of Death and if Ceiba chews on them I shall skin her and make two very small fur mittens.
(Also, extra special love to Hilldery, who got me a tape of last week's Lost episode, and also to Modest Mouse, who are the type of band that makes me a little sad that I did not decide to be a professional groupie muse person when I grew up.)