You ever have one of those days where, as soon as you wake up, you know you’re not gonna accomplish a damned thing all day?
(Yeah, yeah, I know — I spend the better part of my life not accomplishing anything, so why should today be any different?
But still… I like to go until at least lunchtime with the delusion that I might be productive — that just maybe, today is the day I turn it all around and make the world a better place somehow.
Well, you know what? Today is not that day. World, take a number. Again. Bitches.)
So how do I know, as sure as the nose on my face or the penis in my pantaloons, that I’m going to get nothing accomplished today?
Because I have five — count ’em, five; one, two, three, four, five — meetings at work today. Five!
Count ’em backwards, if you want — five, four, three, two, one. En espanol — uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco. Backwards, in Roman — V, IV, III, II, I.
It doesn’t matter how you slice ’em — there are still damned five. That’s a whole handful of fingers! Or an entire basketball team! Hell, it’s just one smarmy douchebag short of the Brady kids! And that’s at least five Bradys too many. Or maybe just four, after Jan got her boobs — but that’s not important right now. For once in my life, boobs I’ve seen on TV aren’t my highest priority.
(So wait — what was the other thing, again? I got myself all twitterpated with the breasticle talk, there.
Oh, right. I remember.)
Five, dammit, five!
(You know, you don’t seem nearly as upset over this as I am. Either I’m overreacting, or you just don’t give a swooping shit. And I think I know which.
So, anyway — five meetings. Apparently, I’ve moved into the ‘acceptance phase’, because I can’t even muster a good lather over it any more. But even at a half-hour each, that’s two and a half hours of my life I’ll never have back.
(And believe me, folks — most of these meetings have zero chance of ending after thirty minutes. Horny Bulgarian hookers could walk into the room, and they’d be tabled until after the report on last week’s ‘action items’.
(And see — see how this is affecting me? I don’t even have the strength to make the obvious joke about hookers being ‘action items’ themselves.
Or how it’s not the good kind of ‘tabled’.
Or to wonder why the hell I made them Bulgarian. I’m a little delirious at the moment, apparently. Hold me.)
Ah, well — guess there’s nothing to do now but get in there and take my lumps. On the other hand, though… there’s really nothing that says I have to be at these meetings. Only that somebody has to be there, and then I have to know what went on.
Anybody out there want to do me a favor? You can take my TiVo to my office and tape everything that happens, and then I can fast-forward through the boring bits. That way, there’ll only be two and a half minutes of my life I’ll never have back. And that’s way better. Hell, I spend that much time every day in the shower, wondering whether I’ve already washed my hair. That, I can handle.
So, how about it? Anyone want to trade lives for the day?
(Wife not included, but you can stay in the house, if you like. And I’ll make you a sandwich. And we can watch real TiVo when I’ve gone through the meetings.
It’ll be fun. Like summer camp, without all those crappy arts and crafts, or the awkward shame of putting on your swimsuit in front of a bunch of strangers.
Although, if that would help return the favor, we can do that, too. Just don’t laugh — I’m telling you, dammit, there’s been shrinkage.)
Okay, that’s it. I can’t put it off any longer, so I’m going to work. And in only eight to ten hours, it’ll be over, and I can go back to pretending I’ll get something done ‘tomorrow’. It’s not much to hold onto, but it’s something, right?
You kids have a beautiful Thursday. I’m off to visit my own little slice of hell. Toodles.Permalink | 1 Comment