It's amazing they let me procreate at all, really

So I was going to sit down this evening and write the next post in the ex-boyfriend series, except that I had this...DAY...today. You know the type. I spent the majority of my afternoon dealing with a client who I will not go into much detail about. I will simply say that her last name rhymes with Penis, and she has clearly been so scarred by that tragic coincidence that it has rendered her a lying, shrewish, demanding bitch who is full of self-loathing, and completely incapable of carrying on a civil conversation without mentioning at least three times that people are NOT supposed to call her on her work cel phone, and why can't they just manage to get along without her very important self?

Her: "Well, it's about TIME you got it right. They are supposed to be WHITE. All the other ones are WHITE. I don't know why that was so hard, I never agreed to the GREY, they're obviously WHITE."

Me: (thinks) Why don't we have video surveillance so I could play you the tape of you agreeing to the GREY?

Her: (phone rings) "Why do they keep calling me on this phone? They're not supposed to. Can't they figure it out on their own?"

Me: (mutters) "I bet you wouldn't be such a bitch if your name didn't rhyme with penis."

Her: "WHAT?"

Me: (brightly) "I said 'Have a nice day, Mrs. Lenus'!"

(Yes, I am actually 8 years old)

Then shortly before I was ready to leave for the day I got a text from my hairdresser, inquiring as to whether I might have forgotten that I was supposed to be sitting in her chair at that very instant?

Shit.

Two minutes after THAT I got a text from hubby saying "Um, the crockpot isn't actually turned ON...". Great. Now I have split ends AND a whole raw chicken that has been sitting on my kitchen counter for eight hours.

And then Trainer Lady worked me over. This isn't actually a bad thing, as she's a physio trainer and she's trying to help me overcome my gimpy back, so I can get back to working out or maybe even running again. But this was my initial assessment, and a few simple tests and some really painful stretches pointed out just HOW gimpy I actually am.

So now I'm sitting here with a glass of wine and a box of Robax Platinum.

The end.