I have to start working at six ridiculous thirty in the ludicrous a.m. tomorrow, so I am blogging at you tonight and will set this to post at some early-in-the-morning time. So while you are leisurely-ly (it is certainly a word) enjoying this post, just remember that I am over here copy editing like a fiend.
I do not embrace the morning. At all. I do not understand why our society operates at such ungodly hours. Why don't we all get started about 2 p.m. and have dinner at 10:00? That would work for me.
So I really have nothing to talk about. Oooo, except that I emailed the statistics textbook company for whom I freelance and said, "Why haven't you sent me anything since July?" which had been great, given how busy I was with other freelance work, but now that I have no extra work it blows, because I am addicted to the extra money. And anyway they told me they are sending me the nursing book to proof!
!!!!
Since 2002 I have worked for this statistics company, and I have proofread revisions of nearly all their books, and they keep NOT UPDATING their nursing book. You know this hypochondriac wants to read that thing. Finally, FINALLY they are updating it this fall. Oh! I am excited to read about new horrid diseases that I will get.
This evening at the end of the workday at my regularly scheduled job, the one that is making me work at 6:30 insane a.m. tomorrow, I asked, "Where was Charlie today?" Charlie is my favorite new coworker. "Oh, he called in sick today. He's been throwing up."
Three seconds later I felt barfy. THREE SECONDS. I was on my way down the elevator and I had consciously forgotten poor Charlie's plight, yet I thought, "Geez, I feel like I'm gonna blow." And then I remembered about Charlie.
I am a nutbar. I have been gagging all night.
Oh, and also? I have been freelancing for that statistics textbook company since 2002, which I know I just said, but hang on, will you? And since 2002? I have charged them the same hourly rate. Now, I KNOW I can get more out of them. I mean, I can get more out of them because who works somewhere for eight years with no raise, (A), and (14), I got another proofreader a job at the statistics place and told him to charge $10 more an hour than I charge and they agreed to it. Also, (xiii), they are based in Los Angeles, so my measly rate means NOTHING to them. Come on. My hourly rate wouldn't buy a gluten-free lunch there.
But guess who is too scared to bring it up? Why am I scared to bring it up? What are they gonna do, FIRE me? Not like me anymore? They probably have no respect for me because I am willing to work for them for 48 cents an hour. I think when they send me the nursing book, I am gonna get up all my courage and write back and say, "By the way, I have increased my rates to forty-NINE cents an hour."
That'll show 'em.
Other than that, I thought I would show you all the stupid pictures I have been taking with my iPhone. Because I heart my iPhone. I need my iPhone. Like the winter needs the spring you know I need you. I need you. I need you.
For example, who doesn't require a shot of their smoothie? Thank heavens I could immortalize this on film.
We had a fire drill at work, so I captured everyone's shoes. Not literally.
Here are my own shoes, and also the point of the picture, which was to show how many crumbs there are on the floor of my work space. Snack at my desk much?
I came home from work to find Talu waiting in the window.
And Henry waiting in the other window.
Took this one of myself at work. I am certain my bosses would be pleased.
And here's Talu in the dining room, hoping we forget she's on a diet.
Oh, and here's me and poor barfing Charlie. As soon as I wrote that I felt barfy again. I think Charlie looks precisely like Curious George, here. I need a yellow coat and we're all set. Or did he have a yellow hat? Crap.
Bugging Marvin while he tries to read a magazine. Marvin will keep magazines for 15 years or more and read them over and over again. I am not kidding you. He has old music magazines with articles about Kurt Cobain and I'm all, dude is DEAD. Stop reading about him already. Geez.
I guess that's all I have to show you. I guess I had better start heading to the land of nod so that I can attempt to be sharp when I'm up and functioning at SIX RIDICULOUS THIRTY tomorrow. They should just change the name of that time. Any time before 9:30 a.m. should have "ridiculous" in it somewhere.
"We start work here at eight ridiculous a.m."
"The contractions started at about two ridiculous thirty-five in the morning."
When I die? I am going to be sure to do so at some ungodly hour, so you can all wake each other up (yes, you will) to say "June just died at four ridiculous forty a.m." And then I want my funeral held at the same time, so that the very formal program will read:
Saturday, March 12 at 4:ridiculous40 a.m.
Okay. I am going to go celebrate my REM stage. Talk at you.
