I wound up going straight to bed last night, confident that I would wake up in a better mood.
I'm trying to eat breakfast every morning. I'm not a breakfast person, I go months at a time with out eating in the morning. Unless leftover Chinese food counts.
I'm trying to lose weight, and apparently eating breakfast helps.
When you're single you tend to eat the same thing several days in a row.
For the last two weeks I've been having half of a sliced banana and a big dollop yogurt mixed into granola.
Today I used the end of the cereal, the last of the yogurt and the rest of the banana.
I was so excited, nothing ever evens out like that.
It was going to be a good day.
I took my breakfast to the living room and flipped open the computer to work on my column. I've been working on it off and on for a few days, both at work and at home.
I have gotten lazy and instead of transferring the work on one of those handy-dandy mobile drives I've just e-mailed the document to myself.
Last night in my panic to get to the gallery I sent myself the wrong copy. Not the one with 1000 words already written, but the one with just an outline.
So at 7:00 this morning I got sort-of dressed and headed to work.
My intention was to be out of the building by 9:00 when the Saturday volunteer shift arrives. I work two or three Saturdays a month (on top of the usual Monday-Friday) and this was my only Saturday off in March.
It snowed last night and it took me twice as long to get there.
When I got to work Brian was waiting in the parking lot, almost two hours early for his volunteer shift. He had taken the 6:15 bus. Brian is one of our volunteers with a disability. He cannot read, but he can do math with a vengeance.
He is very opinionated and not shy about telling you what he thinks. I have taken him under my wing and typically enjoy being around him (except when he is spouting off about how women and minorities make terrible bosses--and I cleaned that statement up big time). He needs a lot of attention. I just about get him settled with a project when a community service person showed up.
There is really no work to be done until the kitchen manager gets there.
I was creating a project for him when he started talking about how "this crap sucked." I told him that he could not complete his community service hours with us and to leave. He started getting even louder and more aggressive. It was dawning on me that I should not have 'fired' him when it was just Brain and me in the building. Especially since I did not know what he was doing community service for. I finally got him out the door and the regular volunteers and the kitchen staff arrived.
Brian ran around telling everyone about the excitement of the morning.
I did not want Brian to tell the story, especially since it got more dramatic with each telling.
I want the volunteers to think it is a safe place to be and that crap does not need to be re-lived anyway.
By now it is 10:00 and I have not even turned on my computer.
I decided I'd work on the column at my desk. I knew that if I went home I'd be distracted by books and laundry and naps and such.
I started out by reading blogs, checking my e-mail, and generally jacking around on the computer.
Doing anything but write.
We have a staff member that is quick to point out the problems, but never the solutions. She spent a lot of time in my office this morning, sucking the life out of the room. I just got back to writing when she and one of her coworkers started yelling at each other.
I shot out of my office and sent them both home.
Which meant that I had to do their job. Wearing jeans, pink Chuck Taylor tennis shoes and a tee shirt that says "SOBER" across the chest.
By 2:00 I was finished with the kitchen stuff and back at my desk. It took me until 4:00 to finish the piece.
Just enough time for me to go home, change clothes (I kept the SOBER tee on, nice ironic shirt for the bar) and head to my waitressing shift.
I can't remember every being crabbier at work.
I also can't remember the last time I made this much money.
I think Crabby Dad is on to something.