Never fails.

A seven hour shift will always give one blog fodder. And bang-one’s-head-into-a-wall fodder. Or is that just me.

Before we get to the crazy, can I be sentimental for a moment? It was really weird to be back at work like everything was totally normal and my life hadn’t completely fallen apart since I was there last. It was kind of a fluke that I was off the last week, so I didn’t even have to call in and say, “Um, yeah, not coming in today.” and it’s so weird that it’s all finished now and back to work. Really, really weird.

Okay. Crazy. Let’s start with when one manager and a customer were, like, totally orgasming over Daniel Silva, and his suits! And his articulateness! And whatever! Um. Okay. I don’t get it. And coming from someone who almost freaking preordered In Treatment? That’s saying something.

Then I got a phone call from some woman wanting “the new Obama book”. Which one, lady? The presses are spewing Obama books. Seriously. Like it was the second coming or something. But she doesn’t have a title, or a spelling on the last name, or a first name. But you must know what it is! It’s the hot new seller about Obama!

So I roam for a few minutes, claw through the stacks of Obama books on the new release shelf and ask everyone else who was working and none of us know of this book. I relay this to her, and she huffily hangs up.

Three minutes later the phone rings again. “Hi, I called about a book a few minutes ago?” Yeah, I remember. This time she has a title, Obama Nation. She helpfully suggests, “Obama. Like the guy running for president.”

As opposed to all the other Obamas out there having books written about them. I may not be voting for him, bitch, but I’m not stupid.

I finally find the book in the system, but it isn’t being released until next Tuesday. I tell her this. She doesn’t respond well.

Woman Who Is So Stupid She Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Vote (WWISSSSBATV): Well, I need some placed on hold.

Morena: Unfortunately, I can’t place anything on hold until the street date. I could order some copies for you, but that would take longer.

WWISSSSBATV: *Slowly, as though to a child. A particularly slow child.* No. What I want to do is prepay for five copies, and I’ll pick them up later.

Morena: I absolutely cannot sell any book before the street date, no matter when you pick them up.

WWISSSSBATV: Well! I don’t understand this! Schwartz is selling them!

Morena: I wouldn’t know anything about that. They shouldn’t be. It’s illegal. I would get sued.

WWISSSSBATV: *humph* Fine. *hangs up phone*

Morena: *considers prostitution as a possible alternative career*

All that and three children asked me if I could sell them advanced copies of Breaking Dawn because they were “OMG going to be on vacation.” I’m sorry, wee ones. Did you not live through the Harry Potter phenomenon? I had to sign a freaking release saying I wouldn’t touch the crates of this damn vampire book. Sparkles or no.

Gah, people are stupid.

Still no paragraphs.

Because I am still really, really exhausted. I cannot believe that a week ago he was still alive and we were trying to figure out who was going to help us in October. I didn’t think that within a week the funeral would be over and we’d be talking wallpaper and renters. My mind doesn’t work this quickly.

I’m hoping this fatigue disappears before I have to start classes, because I may just curl up and die if it doesn’t. Or have to drop out. 🙂

Have to work tomorrow, which won’t be too bad because it’s the shortest day you can have and still have an hour break, and I’ll be home by five. Yay.

So this was ridiculously interesting, no? Maybe tomorrow I’ll have crazy-people stories to tell. Maybe somebody will buy some porn or make me order a lesbian romance novel for them or tell me a disgusting story that makes me call Mary on my lunch break because, um, yeah, I wasn’t hearing that story and not telling Mary. And then there will be blog fodder a plenty!!!

Some Comments and Observations

That cannot be condensed into anything remotely resembling a paragraph because, oh, my God, so tired.

– What Not to Wear eyeshadow tricks? Really work well.

– I love my bracelet. 🙂

– I didn’t screw up the reading. Or at least I don’t think I did, but I’m pretty sure no one would tell me if I had. I’m glad I did it, though. And in my years of serving funerals, I’ve seen people flip their shit, so I’m pretty sure I was better than them.

– Mary couldn’t get the coal to light. And that made me laugh, because I’ve been there.

– I like our new priest, he seems very nice.

– Full military honors are really cool.

– The guy who gave my aunt the flag was kind of adorable.

– Am I bad granddaughter for thinking that?

– I’m pretty sure that if I were the soldier person folding the flag, I would have started to giggle. Totally.

– I’m really, really glad that I didn’t have to help somebody from church buy a sex book. Really glad.

-Drinking does make things better. Kind of. I’m not sure if the whipped cream my cousin put in his beer made things any better though.

– I’m not very good at cutting horses’ manes. Case in Point: My horse. Who now needs a stylist. There is a reason that I am toiling in academia and not the cushy world of beauty school, y’all.

– Coming home from a funeral and paying a credit card bill? Not fun.

– Blue drinks? Are fun.

– OMG SRSLY WE NEED BOOZE. We’re out of all the kinds of wine I like, I’ve already had three Manhattans today, and now no more blue drink. *tear*

Perhaps I’ll give you fully formed sentences tomorrow, after I’ve slept for more than five hours straight, which has been the case for the last week.

We’re Irish, it’s gonna be a long night.

If there is one thing we know how to do, it’s have a wake. So because there’s actual shit going on in my actual life that requires me to, like, wear a skirt and do my hair, and that does not just happen, let me tell you, I’m only commenting on links today. You know what they say about women and sausages.

(Okay. I just read that. It sounds dirty. It’s not. You’re just not supposed to watch either being made if you want to enjoy them.)

Oh, wait. I lied. I must comment on the gross unfairness in our society that men (who already get to get old and fat and are still considered hot- see Pierce Brosnan in Mamma Mia) are able to pop into Men’s Warehouse for twenty minutes and emerge with a perfectly tailored jacket that of course looks lovely with the perfectly tailored khaki pants and I had to roam Bayshore for three freaking hours to find the last sober dress they had. It is so not fair.

Anyways, John Mayer cut off his hair. Oh, John, baby, no. Not good. I liked you. I thought you were cute. I guess I don’t have to pretend to like your music anymore.

Maggie Gyllenhaal wears an ugly dress. I only bring this up because at work somebody told me that I looked like Maggie Gyllenhaal, and hey, I’ll take it.

I. Do. Not. Enjoy. Shopping.

I avoid it like the plague. If the What Not to Wear people showed up I’d be like, “Um. No. Two days shopping? Ha. But do you want to get a drink, because I love you guys!!!” I enjoy getting new clothes, and I like to think that I put some thought into outfits and generally look well put together, but I absolutely hate the act of shopping. The walking around and trying on and fending off overeager sales associates who tell you that Yes! Totally! Of course that mid-calf length pink tulle skirt that billows looks good on your 5′ 2″-in-heels-and-no-size-0 frame!!! Because I may be fat and not look good in a tulle skirt, bitch, but I’m not dumb.

But today I really had to shop. My grandfather didn’t like to admit that women had boobs, and so perhaps showing up to his funeral naked would be inappropriate. And I have no summer funeral clothes. Actual summer (the summer you can’t get away with wearing winter clothes in summer) in Wisconsin is like three months long. I’m not investing in a huge summer dressy wardrobe for twelve weeks. I don’t go to a whole lot of formal events, so I kind of skate by with a couple of skirts and dressy pants. But I didn’t have any sober clothes that I felt good in.

(Shut up! I know that what I wear to my grandfather’s funeral isn’t the most pressing matter, and believe me, it’s not. But if I can find a skirt and sweater that make me look good, I can deal with things a lot better. I have a heart, dammit!!!)

So I went to Bayshore with Imladris this afternoon for my least-favorite kind of shopping trip- you absolutely need something RIGHT NOW, you know what you need, and it probably won’t be stocked at the end of July, and it’s a depressing need to boot. Ugh.

$300 and four hours later, I did actually have two outfits. There was some slight screaming and tears and OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHAT AM I GOING TO DO NOW when the zipper of the perfect slate-gray skirt that I had finally found a top for broke and it broke while it was on me and I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to get out of that and oh, yeah, Banana Republic charged me eighty dollars for it. But I got out, and fixed the zipper, and all is right with the world.

In my family, deceased members have had a tendency to send credit cards to people. If they could start that for me now, that’d be awesome.

This sucks.

We knew it was coming. Logically, we should have been prepared. It’s just…well, when I have nothing to say… Words like “died” or “passed away” don’t seem to capture it, do they? Verbs can’t describe the feeling you have when you lose someone who has been such a huge part of your life, this force, sometimes an incredibly trying force, I’m not going to lie, and then he’s just gone.

I knew it would happen last night. I stood in his living room last night and remembered how I felt ten years ago when Grandma died, and I knew that the next time I went back there it wasn’t going to be his house anymore. It’s not just the actual fact of him, my grandfather, being gone, but the huge sucking absence of the whole chunk of my life that was based around him.

At least now he knows that I really did love him, even when I was in a pissy mood.

(I know, right? Me? Never.)

Tell God your plans…

So I literally was pushing “Publish Post” when the phone rang last night, with a rather upset Mickey saying Grandpa was confused and asking for us and something was weird. From a woman who predicted 9/11, we paid attention. So much for good day posts.

Today not so much. Not bad, just oh. So. Tired. At Mickey’s until 1:30 in the morning, worked all day, and then had to pick up the metric assload of mail that had accumulated. I don’t know what kind of mailing lists that man is on, but damn, there are a lot of priests out there asking for money.

Now I want to die. I was so tired that during my break today I read Cosmopolitan instead of my art forgery book because big words like Van Meergeran? And zinc? So hard to focus on.

Great Thoughts

Today not so sucky. Mostly because I got to stay home and scrub floors. Since the shit hit the fan last Saturday, I have done exactly nothing around my own house except laundry, and it showed. Now everything is clean, and I am obsessively compulsively happy again.

Mickey only had to stand in her corner once today. Improvment.

Poor Little Hospice Nurse #2 seriuosly and unwittingly saved her own ass when she complimented Mickey’s decor (something out of Michael Eisner’s wet dream…well, actually, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what really shows up in those…).

Let’s hope it continues.

This totally counts.

I haven’t been to bed yet, it’s still techinically Tuesday.

Dear Starbucks Guy,

Um. Yeah. You tried to take my coupon and when I asked nicely, “Oh, isn’t that reusable?” you kind of just scrunched up your face and went, “Um, I don’t think so.”

Oh. Ha. You’re wrong.

It is reusable. Completely. Until September 2. And you can bet your ass at closing on September 1 I will be there with bells on wanting my $2 grande.

No fair being a Nazi about the coupons, either. Most Starbucks in the area don’t even require them. And also? Do you know what I went through to get those damn coupons? I clawed through recycling, dude. Someone else’s recycling.

And I have not had a good day. Or a good week. In fact, this whole summer is shaping up to be one giant stinking pile of shit. It certainly will be for the poor women who has to work with someone who shall remain nameless but scared Poor Little Hospice Nurse almost out of her chosen profession tonight. It’s late, and I’m tired, and I want my reduced price cold drink, do you understand?

That’s right, pretty boy. Don’t mess with me.