I've got sunshine. Whoopity-doo.
Mar. 10th, 2008 06:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"Maybe you don't like your job, maybe you didn't get enough sleep, well nobody likes their job, nobody got enough sleep. Maybe you just had the worst day of your life, but you know, there's no escape, there's no excuse, so just suck up and be nice."
- Ani Difranco (American singer-songwriter & non-traditionalist)
Today was never going to be a good day. I woke up this morning with my circadian rhythms still totally mangled in the wake of Daylight Savings Time and a Saturday-afternoon wind storm that knocked out our apartment's power for twelve hours, spoiling at least a grocery bag's worth of recently-purchased meat and dairy products. We had enough power Sunday night to exacerbate a pounding headache and illuminate a quasi-argument with J., the timing and tenor of which effectively prohibited any notion of a peaceful slumber.
(The quasi-argument: Not a fight. It was nothing near a fight; there was no yelling, or even disagreement, really. It was one of those conversations where we were both talking at, rather than with, the other person, subtextually pleading with each other to concede or capitulate while our increasingly strident tones of voice only intensified the defensive tension. Worst of all, there was no resolution, so the quasi-argument just hung there like a hideously gaudy light fixture, casting shadows of recrimination and paranoia all over the place.)
Anyway, in addition to the emotional hangover from that argument and the overall dyspepsia engendered by no more than two hours of sleep, I awoke with a ache in my stomach. Not a flu-bug kind of ache, or an ill foreboding kind of ache, but the kind of ache created by an inability to digest a giant meatball of stress. It was as if the pounding headache from the night before had gone base-jumping into my abdominal cavity.
That may be because I was to have an "annual performance evaluation" with the president of my company today. While we have always had brief conversations about my activities and agendas around this time each year, in my eight-plus years with the organization there has never been a formal process for doing so. In an attempt to buckle down and carve out some time for a more thoughtful discussion, the president asked me to make a lunch reservation for us.
This task alone made me nervous, as I tried to balance the elegance and sophistication with which I associate my boss with the desire not to indicate overly extravagant or wasteful tendencies. Unfortunately, there are no Chuck E. Cheese Pizza Palaces in the immediate area.
So we ended up going to a mid-range business-lunchy restaurant where the waiters wear tuxedo shirts but no jackets. And we had a nice conversation, and I was insightful and otherwise impressive, and I didn't spill anything on myself. And my tummyache went away. And the big old nasty bill that was supposed to come up in the House tonight looks to have been postponed until tomorrow, which means I can go home now.
The sun may still be out, but I'm going to bed early.
- Ani Difranco (American singer-songwriter & non-traditionalist)
Today was never going to be a good day. I woke up this morning with my circadian rhythms still totally mangled in the wake of Daylight Savings Time and a Saturday-afternoon wind storm that knocked out our apartment's power for twelve hours, spoiling at least a grocery bag's worth of recently-purchased meat and dairy products. We had enough power Sunday night to exacerbate a pounding headache and illuminate a quasi-argument with J., the timing and tenor of which effectively prohibited any notion of a peaceful slumber.
(The quasi-argument: Not a fight. It was nothing near a fight; there was no yelling, or even disagreement, really. It was one of those conversations where we were both talking at, rather than with, the other person, subtextually pleading with each other to concede or capitulate while our increasingly strident tones of voice only intensified the defensive tension. Worst of all, there was no resolution, so the quasi-argument just hung there like a hideously gaudy light fixture, casting shadows of recrimination and paranoia all over the place.)
Anyway, in addition to the emotional hangover from that argument and the overall dyspepsia engendered by no more than two hours of sleep, I awoke with a ache in my stomach. Not a flu-bug kind of ache, or an ill foreboding kind of ache, but the kind of ache created by an inability to digest a giant meatball of stress. It was as if the pounding headache from the night before had gone base-jumping into my abdominal cavity.
That may be because I was to have an "annual performance evaluation" with the president of my company today. While we have always had brief conversations about my activities and agendas around this time each year, in my eight-plus years with the organization there has never been a formal process for doing so. In an attempt to buckle down and carve out some time for a more thoughtful discussion, the president asked me to make a lunch reservation for us.
This task alone made me nervous, as I tried to balance the elegance and sophistication with which I associate my boss with the desire not to indicate overly extravagant or wasteful tendencies. Unfortunately, there are no Chuck E. Cheese Pizza Palaces in the immediate area.
So we ended up going to a mid-range business-lunchy restaurant where the waiters wear tuxedo shirts but no jackets. And we had a nice conversation, and I was insightful and otherwise impressive, and I didn't spill anything on myself. And my tummyache went away. And the big old nasty bill that was supposed to come up in the House tonight looks to have been postponed until tomorrow, which means I can go home now.
The sun may still be out, but I'm going to bed early.
