This morning, as opposed to this anything else seeing as it's 8 a.m., I went to my computer room, fmr., and who needs to get over the "fmr." thing, do you think? Anyway, I went in there to clean the cat boxes, as I am wont to do. There was litter just strewn everywhere, like the cats had had some kind of bash and everyone used their bathroom, which annoys. And yes, I know about those little catching rugs you can get. Whatever.
Anyway, I got the broom and dustpan y'all gave me when I moved in here, and I sweep sweep sweeped--shut up--that room. I threw away the litter I swept and came back in and sweepded some more. Then? I took a shower, got my robe on, and noticed I'd left the light on in there. Went in to turn it off?
Stepped in cat litter.
"Goddammit."
I brushed my foot off over the trash can, went back to the bathroom and washed feet all over again. Came back out, and?
Stepped in a hairball on the dining room floor.
"GODDAMMIT."
So I already hate this day, and now I have to fit in taking three animals to the pound before work. Speaking of which,
I know. This reaction never happens. "You could just NOT say the word 'walk,'" Ned once told me, with the sense of humor of a thousand suns. "But I ENJOY seeing him get delighted about the same damn thing every single day." Like men aren't that way re boobs.
Suns are usually hilarious.
I've been working on that enormous statistics textbook since April 20, Hitler's birthday, and this week I emailed the managing editor to tell her everything I've completed so far, and did she have any ideas for what else I could check. They didn't rewrite any of it, they just added new stuff to the beginning and end of each chapter, and added all new screen shots. I'm sure you're riveted. Anyway, that's why the index and table of contents got 100% screwy, and that's why I'm checking it every which-way just to be certain nothing more is screwed up.
"Oh you could do this and this," she wrote, not literally. "But there's no rush on this book."
See. You needn't tell me that, because then I turn into Prissy.
So last night I got home intending to spend at least ONE hour on it, and instead I was pretty much Iris all night. I tore a baby bird apart with m'incisors.
Today is May You Have a Sink or whatever, and we have a celebratory May 5 work thing, and have I mentioned my work is all differented up? Now I have to go to meetings all the time, and I have a new boss again, and I told the old one he should write an I Supervised June guest post, just like I asked the LAST last boss to do--my boss, fmr.--and no one ever will. You can imagine the material they have at the ready.
I should ask the new boss to write an Ima Supervise June Now post. That's the way to make a boss not at all nervous. Let them know you need to be written about.
I gotta go, but before I do, I should mention, because you and your tenterhooks, that since I started taking Topamax a week ago, I have had zero migraines, after having 18 of them in April. I've had HINT of a migraine, GHOST of a migraine, just LOOK at a bottle of prepared salad dressing and you'll get one-grains, but no real migraines.
So.
Yesterday, the lunch truck came, and I got a chicken empanada, because chicken is heart-healthy, and a Coke. I got back to my desk, and I was all, This Coke is broken. Oh my GOD with this Coke. Whattup with the Coke? I took, like, six sad sips before I remembered.
Topamax.
It rooooooons the taste of carbonated beverages, a thing I'd remembered before, as I made sure to drink all my LaCroix water, which I'm normally obsessed with, before I took my first pill. But then a week later, there I am, ordering a Coke. You know why I forgot?
Topamax.
Makes you stupid.
Oh my god, anyway. After my work event, if I can make it, there's a whole Mystery Science Theater thing at the movies tonight that I'm dying to go to. Do any of you, or did any of you, love love love MST 3000? I never would have watched it if an old boyfriend hadn't and I got obsessed with it.
I'll try not to order a Coke.
Topamaxly,
June
