It's been a quiet weekend thus far. I'm meekly recovering from a bizarre, unlikely birthday. For some unknown reason, Friday seemed to be an overly-long work day. There were heaps of regular work, combined with scads of potential projects and one extremely vital, time-sensitive assignment: writing the report for the FY-03/04 LSTA grant, due on Tuesday at the State Library. The sheer quantity of tasks that I faced left me as slack-jawed as Cletus and Brandine. I managed to get a start on several things, but didn't actually complete anything. No work on the grant report at all. It was very frustrating.
After work I had a serious, unexpected argument with a good friend. There's just nothing like a conversation as disconcerting as that one, out of the blue. The only good thing about it--well, I suppose there were two "good" things. It didn't take very long (brevity in dispute is always appreciated). Also, the argument wasn't catastrophic but rather limited in scope and...intensity.
So I gathered my wounded pride (and idiot self, since fault for arguments like that have a tendency to be shared) together and departed for the G suburb (or is it the B?) T and I were to meet at Claddagh for dinner. We met in the middle, each struggling through the crap-assed Friday night traffic on the big Road. Worth the trip for the meal alone, but the night was fabu, just what I wanted. Dinner: a pint of Blue Moon and the Irish Breakfast Sandwich. She had a pint of the ale that's older than Guinness--Smithwick's--and the Spinach Chicken Melt. As she's not a beer fan (i.e. she never drinks beer apart from the occasional Corona [which isn't beer at all]), it was amazing that she downed her pint much more quickly than I. However, it wasn't long before we were laughing too loud and also crying in our beer, and snarfing our meals like rabid librarians after a too-long fucking week.
After dinner we sat in the trunk of my car (well, I sort of did, but she stood next to the car and withstood the glares of those driving by staring longingly at my prime parking space. Nope, we weren't leaving, so it didn't matter how longingly they stared, or how many times they drove past.) and I opened my birthday loot. Once that was settled (and she'd seen the unbelievably horrid print I made of a photograph--it's a long, stupid story, but for some reason she came out looking a bit undead, a la the white-dreaded guys in the second Matrix film) we walked to and through Barnes & Noble. For one thing, we can't be within a mile of one without wandering through. More important, dispersing some of the alcohol was necessary before driving home. I bought [surprise] a copy of the Simple Plan CD. We walked through J.Jill and she tried some things but didn't settle on any of them. Then we stood by her car and talked, while sweat ran down my spine and we were dive-bombed by irritating little bugs. It's always hard to say goodbye.
Home then. Wrote some email, drank a ton of water to prevent the almost-inevitable hangover, and went to bed early.
Today was a strange day on different levels. Reassessment with the person with whom I argued on Friday. Shopping--for thank-you notes for birthday loot. Laundry. (An absolute boatload. Where am I wearing all of these clothes?! And why is such a huge proportion of them hand-wash or delicate?) Still no work on the grant report. Am I crazy? Do I think it's going to write itself? It's not going to be any easier to do on Monday, so I should have done it today. My Sunday's blown to hell and I have no one to blame but myself. At least the weather's utterly horrid so there's no impetus to be outside. 55° right now (12:48 AM). It's August, and it's 55°. What the fuck? It was 67° when I left to go shopping this afternoon and within an hour I was seriously regretting wearing shorts and sandals. By the time the rain had begun in earnest I was wishing for a wool sweater, jeans and fuzzy socks. This weather sucks. (I have to laugh that it's Corn Fest weekend. Serves 'em right. I hope Joan Jett doesn't catch a chill tomorrow, though.)
Sheesh. I hadn't realized how bitchy I was feeling until I started writing it out. Or maybe it's a delayed-reaction hangover, since I've felt fine [physically] all day. Prehaps I'm just tired.
Check on me tomorrow. I'll let you know then.
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