Reposting. Because it is MY blog and I can. End of Discussion.

Let's talk about my morning, m'kay? No? Well this is my blog. See how this works? mmmwaaahahahahahaha!

So after a late night, I had to drag my ass out of bed. I was doing good, right on schedule. I was in the basement in the laundry room (where we store all the clean clothes, you know?) in my underwear and a tanktop (visualize, visualize) and the phone rings. Husband is incapacitated (different than decapitated) and All I can hear is someone bitching on my answering machine about how "it's time to get up" and she has "a lot of work to do" and Ya di FREAKIN da. So I RACE up the stairs, trying to catch the phone, and get to it JUST as she hangs up.

So I am PISSED. After I have spent 13 hours, the billable equivilent of $400.00... setting up a network for you FOR FREE, do NOT call my house and place a bitch-ass-rant on my answering machine that it is "time for me to get up" and answer your call because you are computer illiterate and Windows XP is giving you a major freaking breakdown because you are used to Windows 98. (I do not mention the $400 because I want to or intend to bill it, but because people who PAY me for work do not talk to me like that or leave me messages like that, so people who do not pay me, certainly will not be talking to me that way. Note: I would never charge the person who I am actually doing this work for, because I owe them more respect than I can probably ever work off.) Oh no you did NOT just go there with me while I am in the basement in my underwear trying not to be late for the job that sends me home with a paycheck every week, because I was up till 2am working on your problem that out of the kindness of my heart I made into MY problem, without asking for any money because I feel that's what friends and family are for.

Steam. Fucking STEAM coming out of my ears. So I call back.

And holding on to the last bit of politeness in my body I try to explain to her that there is no password to get on the machine and that all she has to do is click the pretty little flower icon next to her OWN name and she can get into the machine and do all of her work. She insists that there is a password. I politely tell her (although exasperated) that I was on that machine until 2am and that I am POSITIVE that there is no password and that the machine did not wake up and decide to put a password on in the middle of the night. It is my **previous experience** (with this person and with other users) that she is probably already logged into the machine and trying to access a website that is asking her for a username and password that she doesn't remember because on her OLD machine she told it to remember everything for her because she could not. Or WOULD not remember them herself. Yet she insists that she can't "get into the computer"

Well, after that episode, in which I tell her to use another computer for her work until *so-and-so* who is computer literate, gets there to help, she relaxes a bit.

So I race back downstairs, not 5 minutes late, throw on my clothes, race back UPSTAIRS, insert earrings, adhere deoderant, and when trying to get the HELL out of there and get to work, I slam my hand in the door. Fabulous. And not a little slam. One of those pinching slams that made me feel like my thumb or perhaps at least the thumbnail would be falling off soon... and I would have no thumbnail like my grandpa.

So I run screeching and stomping to the kitchen to put cold water over it, trip over two dogs who have rooted their asses in my path of travel, and by the time I get my hand under the water it is stinging and I am cursing and bawling and have the big crocodile tears rolling down my face in a river of fresh mascara and eyeliner. Husband (still incapacitated) is yelling at me through the vents "what's wrong, what did you do? (voice laced with concern, but not enough to get off the toilet)" and I scream "I slammed my fucking hand in the door (wild ranting madwoman tone)" and he yells back "Calm down, I thought you cut yourself badly by the way you were cursing and crying." ....

If I were a lion, I would roar. A real "I will put your head in my mouth and snap your neck like a toothpick" kind of roar. Not an MGM lion kind of roar but a serious "you just tried to steal my lion babies" kind of roar. But I just cry and pace and curse until it is out of my system. I unwrap my hand from the kitchen towel, check to see that I still have a nail, disappointed that I don't have a giant bruise that matches the pain in my thumb.... mop the mascara and tears off my face, and stomp off to work.