Barking At The Moon

Bitch Party: Everyone's invited!!

Last night at work I wrote a sarcastic, bitchy e-mail to my supervisor about a coworker (the same Ditzy Person mentioned in a previous post). Okay, it was probably horribly unprofessional. Now I feel guilty. I think I'll follow up with an e-mail telling him I was talking out of my ass, and I'll even donate some PTO hours to her (anonymously) on the condition that she stop meandering into work at whatever time she can make it, making death warmed-over look good, and let her frigging broken foot heal.

I'm tired of feeling like my reward for being healthy is more hard work. I guess I must not have noticed another coworker limping soon enough, so she hoists up her pant leg to show me her cellulitis. Sheesh. I guess it was so I wouldn't give her too many dirty looks as she sat at her work area with a newspaper and a thick novel with her feet propped up. Okay, it was now clear this is a special case from any other time she's parked on her hind end reading. I've gotten so sick lately of seeing her sit on her butt nearly the whole shift. Should I hoist up my pant legs so she can see my spider veins from standing and working on my feet all night, every night? OK, cellulitis is bad. But I simply don't want to feel sorry for her. Nope. Uh-uh. Can't make me. I'll hold my breath until I turn blue if you try.

Not one, but two people during the same night said things to the effect that they would like to have something happen to them that required a hospital stay. WTF kind of crazy talk is that? Are you that overworked/tired/abominably lazy?? The one I'm not surprised *rolls eyes*. But when someone else said it too, I couldn't believe it.

I must have sounded like 'Rain Man' toward the end of the shift. I caught myself mumbling 'I definitely ran that CBC, definitely ran it, now where's the histogram...' shuffling through stacks of specimens and papers. It's just like trying to run underwater these days, the morning work volume is so high. Hell, it's summertime. Intern season.

I don't dare give feedback right now for the item I bought on e-Bay last week. A rather sneaky 'Second Chance Offer' hooked me into buying a similar item, but one I had not seen. Look dude, if you're going to offer another item, don't attach the picture of the one I really wanted. My bad for not asking and making sure. It's only a stupid $5 item. I'm still annoyed. I'm annoyed at myself for being annoyed.

The way I wrenched the lid off the tub of chocolate frosting this morning scared Tim into thinking it was his head I really wanted to do that to. This craving for chocolate cake has grown monstrous over the last few weeks, and I thought I'd done something about it yesterday by making chocolate pancakes. I had plenty left over, since I'd made a small mountain of them. Nope, turns out it was really the frosting that pushed the correct button. I took three pancakes, slathered whipped chocolate frosting between each one, cut the whole thing into quarters, and crammed each one in my mouth. With my hands. And told Tim, no, I wasn't mad at him.

I listened to a beautiful piano concerto on my way into work. Lovely. Too bad I can't remember the artist. Someone Italian I had never heard before. Then NPR switched to something artsy-fartsy I didn't like, so I started surfing. I ended up with 'System of a Down' on the WRIF. So guess which music re-surfaces as an ear-worm this morning? Not the lovely piano concerto. Oh no. Snippets of 'Bring Your Own Bomb' keep running through my head. What a nutty, angry song. But I guess it's far more appropriate right now.

Yes, by the way, the moon was full last night.