...zzzzzzzzz....

03-05-00

I got this chain letter the other day. Normally I toss 'em; I'm not that superstitious. This one, I decided to conduct a little experiment. It said "send this to your friends." It didn't say all my friends, it didn't say family, so I sent it off to two people and waited for "something very good" to happen to me in "four days." I set my digital planner to go off at noon on Saturday, just to remind me that "something good" was supposed to happen, and I'd better keep an eye out for it.

I went through all of Saturday waiting for my "something very good." If there is a god of chain letters, I want to let that god know that it's not very funny to play with people like that. Having a good day at work does not constitute "something very good." It's a nice change, perhaps, or a good start to the day, but when that's all you get for the whole day, well, screw you, creepo. See if I mail out any more chain letters.

Yesterday's okay day at work made today's crappy day look really bad by comparison. Today sucked. I didn't sleep much last night, to begin with. You'd think since I skipped the party upstairs and got in bed at 10:30, and since I'd been fighting to keep my eyes open all day, I'd conk out when my head hit the pillow. Uh-uh. I futzed around with a book and the TV and didn't get to sleep until 3. This morning I was up bright and early, for whatever reason.

When I went in to work, I let myself in and fired up the computer. Logged in, headed through the intensive care to the back and let the first dog out to pee. This dog's an ancient Newfoundland named Bear, and Bear had a messy in his cage, so I had yuck to clean up. I shuffled the dog's dishes and food to a new cage, did some laundry, and let him back in. Let out dog number two: some kind of a springer spaniel mix named Laddie. I walked back into the ICU for a can opener, and switched on the light. The poodle with pancreatitis slept soundly while I sang a Ben Folds' Five tune and ground open a can of Pedigree. I looked at the poodle suspiciously. "Morning, Tiffany!" I called out loudly. "Hey! Yo! Tiffany!" Nothing. Shit. Bang bang bang on the cage door. Fuck.

"Hi, Dr. F, this is Betsy...it's Sunday morning and I'm feeding the dogs, thought I should let you know that the poodle in the ICU is dead...I'll just leave her for now—" Click-

"Betsy? Hey. Do you have that lady's phone number? Thanks. And could you double-bag the dog and put her bed and stuff in the washer? Thanks. See you later."

Okay, dumbass, you've just confirmed my suspicion that you're screening whenever I leave messages for you.

So I started out my Sunday with a dead dog and a poopy cage that shouldn't have been. All the boarders were quiet dogs this weekend, and good dogs, they weren't supposed to poop! Or die! I went back this afternoon and Laddie had messed all over his cage, too. I left that to be cleaned up tomorrow. To top things off, I found a big lump on the chest of my favorite mini-dachshund, Greta.

Once again, a low-energy day. John and I played half a set of tennis, and were too disinterested to finish it. We had SSR down by the lake until I couldn't take the sun's glare anymore. Georgia is a really bright state. I need to get my contact prescription so I can wear sunglasses; otherwise I'm going to have a migraine from now until November.

Someone remind me to take my vitamins tomorrow.