A few weeks ago I got word that I’m going to be relocated at work. The office I’m in is needed for another department on our floor and since I work from up here remotely, it is only logical that I’m the one that should move. I understand the thinking and in theory I’m okay with this. They showed me the potential “new” office a week or so ago and although it was smaller it did have a window. The more I had time to think about it, the more I was actually (somewhat) looking forward to the move. It didn’t have a fire place burning with a big leather recliner that I could snuggle up in, but it was a nice little corner office and it felt kind of cozy.
Yesterday afternoon I got a call saying that office was more than likely going to fall through, but there was another one I could go look at. I got the directions and headed down just before the end of the day. If potential office # 1 was the equivalent of a cozy cottage on a lake, then potential office # 2 was a prison cell, complete with graffiti on the walls. I was so upset about the turn of events that when I got home yesterday I wanted to heave my body onto the floor and throw a giant tantrum. So when Kira called and asked if we wanted to go out to eat to celebrate Fat Tuesday I said yes, and can we throw in a side of self pity?
The food was delicious and in good wallowing fashion, I gorged myself on chips and ate a quesadilla the size of my head. To top it off I ordered fried ice cream and the waitress had to practically pry the bowl away from my hands as I licked it clean. I ate way too much, but it was justified - I had a crisis on my hands.
This morning I got a call which went like this “Disregard the message I left yesterday, potential office # 2 isn’t going to work out. We’re back to working on #1.”
Ummmm, so what you’re telling me is that the tantrum and gorging wasn’t really necessary after all?
If only I could just chill the fuck out once in awhile!
Given that it is Ash Wednesday I can’t believe I’m about to say this out loud. Surely I’m going to pay for it later….
Lenten blasphemy, 3x:
1) I have no problem with children being in church. I don’t even mind when they get fussy and are out of sorts, they’re kids, it’s to be expected. If they are really really loud I think it’s appropriate to take them out, but the normal fuss... phew, that’s fine. In order to keep children quiet a lot of parents bring books and other small toys along. I’m also okay with this, I mean, my brother and I? We used to be those kids. I fully expect that when we are parents we’ll likely use these same tactics. Somehow though, I think I’ll draw the line somewhere. Somewhere BEFORE I allow my child to bring a princess castle to church. Seriously? A castle?? And I’m not talking about a little pocket pal castle, this thing unfolded and sprawled across the whole damn seat. A seat, by the way, I could have been sitting in instead of standing through the service at the back of the church watching little Amy play house with Cinderella!!
2) As we were walking out of church tonight I overheard this spoken by a grown woman: “Hi, how are you? Nice forehead.” WTF? I can understand a kid saying this, but an adult? Weird.
3) In true Ash Wednesday fashion, I received the largest, darkest cross possible. When I first started going to these services a few years back I used to be embarrassed by this. Now I’m actually thankful, at least people know I’ve come from church instead of just walking around with ink smeared on my head, which coincidently, is what I did Monday.