Then I noticed I haven't written since March! It's mid April.
As you all know, I love to place blame squarely where it belongs (rarely on me) and it belongs on (no, not you, Hubs) work. Oh yeah, there's a reason it's called work, not pleasure. Actually, I like the work itself, a lot. It challenges me, constantly, which I mostly like. I mean having a quadruple boarded boss? I take it in stride.We work at the same place after all. But yesterday, the super genius guy who manages the ventilated patients also worked in Africa and rode on the Serengeti and has done five Ironmans? Really? A jock and a genius? Bro further annoyed me by saying he found it inspiring and yeah, I'm supposed to know about ventilator settings. Never mind he's tripled boarded and does kung fu and in four months of exercising lost lots of fat and became skinny, while I have stayed the EXACT same weight and gotten Achilles tendonitis for my trouble.
Yeah, Momma ain't happy.
And I haven't even told you why I don't like work. I actually don't mind the commute since rediscovering audiobooks, even if I missed my exit yesterday. I like getting dressed up. I like interacting with people. I love running meetings.
I just hate chaos and disorganization. I also hate not having the cleaning lady every week. I hate not having a vacuum cleaner and I'm finding stressful buying a new one: upright or canister? One for upstairs, one for downstairs or just one to haul back and forth? Bagged or bagless? I mean I hate cleaning out the bagless ones, I hate keeping track of the bag reordering. Special pet hair one? Do I trust Mr. Dyson because he has a British accent? Or Mr. Oreck, cause he's American?
Mamma's taking a break today- she's hiring a nutritionist and scheduling a massage and maybe getting a pedicure. Yeah, that might make Mamma happy.
Coming up next: Adventures As American Girl
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