Ok, when I told people I would go back writing about when things annoy me, I apparently gave a big smoke signal to the universe to unleash the Annoying Hounds. I have been chased by their incessant whining, rug soiling and leg humping ever since.
So far, in the last two days, I have screwed up my face in unimaginable ways to keep from crying in public. Upon reflection as to how this looked, I probably would have been better off weeping. Instead, there have been reports of sightings of Unga the Mongoloid Girl riding the train and loping through downtown.
The weather is certainly a factor, here. Enormous piles of snow in your path act like a giant magnifying glass to your emotions, particularly when you're forced to trudge through it. Last night, after spending another train ride with a rubber face and squinty eyes, I walked through the slush. Cursing, catching short breaths, feeling generally soul-crushed. This morning, in better spirits, I laughed my ass off as I walked 3/4 of a mile in knee deep snow to get to the train.
Then I got on the train.
I live pretty far north, so a seat is usually a guarantee. Not today, kids. People slept on the train just to keep a seat - the commuter's version of the lawn chair parking space claim. Save that the commuter example is a fictional exaggeration, and the lawn chair is unwritten Chicago law.
So I was bumped and pushed a lot - fine. I can handle that. I'm used to it. I can handle that and drink my coffee, check my email and fix my makeup while you whack me in the hip with your Timbuktu bag, sure. But the woman with the mucous problem in the seat next to my standing spot was rather hard to take. Every five seconds, she'd let out a goober-gathering snort that lasted three seconds. With the remaining two seconds, she'd clear her throat in a way that sounded like she was trying to imitate a dying goose. Delicious.
I arrive at my office knowing it will be a short day, as there is an anniversary party for the firm, and I will be drinking by 4pm. Heavens, that will be helpful. Bring me a martini and we'll call it even.
It was, of course, cancelled. In its place, I was given a consolation prize of utter humiliation at the hands of a client. Seems like a fair trade.
Thanks to my system crashing a few days ago, the client received an erroneous attachment in an email that was sent, not once, but three times. I got wind of this via email first thing this morning. The client responded to every email to my boss, the last response reading, "That's three. I'd be embarrassed if I were you."
No problem. I'm waaay ahead of you, sir.
Before I could control it, my body gave me two choices when my boss came out of his office to address this issue: cry or get mean. Meanwhile, my boss was smiling, telling me it was fine and the client's a nice guy and I've worked with him long enough to know that. Others gathered 'round and offered their two cents on the matter, my blood rising to my face.
Naturally, I kept my composure. I stood with grace and dignity. I acted like a professional, having been in this business for ten years.
"He can suck a giant cock and he can swallow and I'm not working with him anymore."
That's what I said. To my boss. About this client.
I took a breath. He laughed it off. I decided it would be best if I just sat quietly for a bit. In order to help this along, every co-worker I have stopped by my desk for various reasons, ranging from cat advice to general office kvetching. No one ever stops by my desk.
I then discovered I was going to spend the rest of my day digging through twenty-some-odd patent files to find a document_ This day was headed for an iceberg.
I went upstairs to calm down. Maybe have a bagel that I'm not supposed to have, since my clothes are starting to leave marks on my body in protest to my expanding waistline.
Oh, did I mention I quit smoking a month ago?
Yes, I'm working out. Yes, it's temporary. But the weight gain makes me about as happy as Hitler at a BarMitzvah.
Yes. That unhappy. Don't you judge me, I'll punch you in the throat.
So I'm toasting my forbidden half bagel, then I decide "Fuck it! The day is already sliding straight to hell!" And I consume a half a custard donut while I wait.
This was underscored by two attorneys discussing their workout routine. Awesome.
As I leave the kitchen, another attorney sees my napkin filled with some foodstuff and says, "Surely, you didn't take a donut. You don't seem like the donut type." I don't even know what that means.
I think today is competing for a title of some sort. It can have it. And a sash. And a crown. And a parade. Just go away.