I had a really bad week last week. (I actually wrote that sentence before it even reached the bottom.)
I had the kind of week where you have to take a Klonnie every night because you can’t cope with your life. I knew this would happen, because two weeks ago I actually heard myself say, out loud, “I love my life right now.” (After I said it out loud, I heard my mother screaming “TOUVLO!” from Connecticut, which means, “idiot” in Greek because I knew I jinxed myself.)
So it’s why I didn’t write. I can’t write when I’m really miserable. I know, I’m the opposite of most of you and Hemingway. You are more creative when miserable.
Monday was a disaster followed by a Tuesday, a disaster of more epic proportions, mostly because my Monday at 5:00 went something like this: “Drop everything, this needs to be done right away.” This is not the first time this has happened at the Vortex. I always hope it will be the last, but now, it’s happened enough that I need to have a conversation about it. Damn it. I hate having to point out the obvious: When you routinely wait until the last minute to dump something on me of this level of complication, be prepared for mistakes. And because of the kind of work, these mistakes could end up following us for a couple years.
Then, as has also happened several times, the work dumped on me was not dumped with its details in their entirety. Nope. They were uncovered during the day like a treasure hunt, changing everything and making me start from scratch. The only break I took was a phone call from the vet to thankfully tell me that Thora’s tumor wasn’t cancer. Christ, finally something goes okay. So my deadline came and the only thing I accomplished was wasting an entire fucking day and getting nowhere. I put my name in the upper right hand corner and turned that puppy in. Fuck.
Even though the deadline was at 5, I ended up working until 10 because I’m the only one who knew something and had to run a meeting. Did I mention that during my 14 hour day I also had to hold my emotional shit together because Mr. X and I were engrossed in a drama of “All My Children” proportions and I just needed a good cry.
And wait, when I came in a few hours late the next day to make up for that ridiculous 14 hour day I pulled, I had emails asking for stuff “first thing.” It’s time to count my gray hairs. If unemployment wasn’t at 10% I’d go get another less stressful, more organized job. (Liars keep saying 5.8% unemployment but don’t forget that some people burn through those 26 weeks and still have no job. And by “some people,” I mean me and those like me who know working is for the birds.)
So when a tornado hit my office and the power went out across the area, leaving several co-workers stuck in the elevator, I was so burned out I had no problem going home to my de facto new roommate, E. I love that E cooks for me and walks the dogs. I don’t love that E spilled balsamic vinegar all over my freshly shampooed car mats. There was always some reason to not get my car detailed. Summer brings beach and sand and dogs. Fall brings leaves. Winter brings sand from snowplows, it was always something. Sucking it up and getting the car de-dog-haired took four years of warming up and was such a big deal and all it takes is one E and one shoddy tupperware container away from destruction.
After I kicked her out of my car, I drove to work and promptly took my car mat to the sink at work and washed it. Someone walked in and said, “What the hell is that?” And I said, with that tone like everyone should be doing it and I’m starting the trend, “I’m just cleaning my car mat.” When someone later asked why the office smelled, I said, “Oh, because I put my car mat on the a/c vent.” In my disoriented and stressed state, it never occurred to me that any of what I was saying was, well, ridiculous.
I tried to keep my head up for the rest of the week but barely made it. When I got home on Friday I had big plans for running and working out and all I did was medicate and lay in bed. From Friday at 4:00 until now, Sunday night at 11:30 p.m. It was too hot to do anything. You would think that not leaving the house would mean nothing else bad happened.
You would be wrong.
I lost my emotional shit again over a misunderstood text message and a phone being turned off and just when that resolved itself and I thought I could finally send this week packing into the past, my mom called. My uncle died Saturday night.
Fuck. Me. To. Tears.
Well. You wanted me to write. I told you it wasn’t good.