I hate that song.
You know which one.
The one where the guy is singing so passionately and soul-bearingly raw - about a stupid photograph.
He even sings/bellows " - IT MAKES ME LAUGH!" Um - no it obviously makes you scream, dude. Calm down. Try decaf.
Anyway, anytime I hear this song in the morning while getting ready for work - I have a bad day. EVERY FREAKIN' TIME. I heard it yesterday and, man, you could've cut the bad mood cloud in my office with an extra-sharp machete.
I heard the first few notes this morning coming from the clock radio in my bathroom and I flew, like some chubby-non-flighted bird across the room to smack it to "off."
First thing this morning I get an email from Lawyerman "Blah, blah blah, moot, blah blah, blah, didn't check voicmail enough yesterday." I'm pretty sure that's what it said, anyway... First thought : " I TRIED - but those darn clients ya'all insist on talking to kept calling - I'll make sure to hang up on them just so I can go through the complicated process of checking the voicemail." Second thought: "Ass."
The phone system here in the Office that Time Forgot is so archaic the chords are practically made of twine. There is no easy way to check for mail. If I try, and am thwarted, I tend to resolve to "try later." And then I forget. So sue me. Wait, bad choice of words.
Still slightly seething when another member of the staff interrupts my obviously frantic attempt at getting my timesheet together last minute to turn in, she leans over me and says in her pseudo-soft voice: "Do you have any other chocolate?" I told her, nicely enough, to "go'way" and "come back after I get my time in." She stands over top of me chatting in that breathy voice that should've died with Marilyn about, what else, the friggin' weather. What part of "Go'way" didja not get, honey?
THEN - here comes the faux pas/cliche in charge of running this hell on a highrise and asks for my check-in sheets from last week. She points her crooked finger at me and flings it. This is her nice way of requesting that I do something. She's in dire straits of losing one of her precious, gnarled, fake diamond encrusted digits. Next time, I freakin' bite it.
When I tell her that I have NEVER kept the tracker sheets, she looks at me wide-eyed. "I'm sure I've asked you to keep them. Some time last year, I requested it." She scoffed.
"Nope," said I of little patience and sharp teeth, "you've requested that I mark the time in and out of the staff, but never to keep the whole sheet." Sidenote - she stopped asking me to keep track of time when it became readily apparent to all who saw said sheet that she came in 45 minutes late and extended her lunches by at least twice that much.
"Well," she said to me, flipping her finger again, "start doing it now."
"I'll try!" I answered in a chipper voice. Groan.
I loathe that damn song.