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Sep. 22nd, 2006 03:16 pm
Grillenfangen
Q: What's worse than discovering that the cookies you've just bought from the bakery are mouldy?
A: Discovering this after you've already eaten three of them.
If I'm not there for Korean barbecue tonight, you'll know why.
That especially sucks, because I was counting on the company to help relieve me off the bad mood I've been fighting for a day and a half now. Oh, bte, thanks everyone for the replies to my query yesterday; they helped distract me for a bit so I didn't actually yell at anyone around me.
There's no single thing I can point at that's getting me down. I've just been in the kind of mood where I let every little annoyance and indignity cling to me instead of shaking them off and focusing on the positive. Last evening was the worst. I had only about a half-hour of phone time left, but I absolute needed to call my stepmother up on her first day out of the hospital. (Of course, I only found out she went in from eavesdropping on a call my brother happened to take while I was with him Wednesday night, but let's not get into that.) We had a delightful ten-minute chat--and then she passed me to my father.
For years, I could never understand why she would do that. We both really enjoy each other's company and when we get together we talk up a storm, but when I would call my parents' place, she'd chat with me for no more than five minutes before asking, "Do you want to talk to your father?" Only relatively recently did she confess that she only does that because my father gets jealous if she talks to me longer on the phone than he does. (Ah, my father! 62 going on 6.)
So here it is, I'm tired, upstairs the decrepit felon is banging around the apartment he's fixing up with his disabled son (that is so a story for another time!), all I want to do is read a little for distraction before going to sleep, but, no, I've got to talk to my father for at least fifteen minutes so that I don't hurt his feelings. He's as tired as me, and the conversation is dragging excruciatingly. Finally, he gives me an opening: "You're not very talkative." I explained how tired I was and suggested we both go to bed and pick up the conversation again over the weekend. Then I had to waste another ten minutes adding more minutes to my pay-as-you-go account before I could put on the headphones and lose myself in a little reading.
Tomorrow might be a good day to stay at home and read. That is, unless the renovators are back with their workboots and their heavy tools.
A: Discovering this after you've already eaten three of them.
If I'm not there for Korean barbecue tonight, you'll know why.
That especially sucks, because I was counting on the company to help relieve me off the bad mood I've been fighting for a day and a half now. Oh, bte, thanks everyone for the replies to my query yesterday; they helped distract me for a bit so I didn't actually yell at anyone around me.
There's no single thing I can point at that's getting me down. I've just been in the kind of mood where I let every little annoyance and indignity cling to me instead of shaking them off and focusing on the positive. Last evening was the worst. I had only about a half-hour of phone time left, but I absolute needed to call my stepmother up on her first day out of the hospital. (Of course, I only found out she went in from eavesdropping on a call my brother happened to take while I was with him Wednesday night, but let's not get into that.) We had a delightful ten-minute chat--and then she passed me to my father.
For years, I could never understand why she would do that. We both really enjoy each other's company and when we get together we talk up a storm, but when I would call my parents' place, she'd chat with me for no more than five minutes before asking, "Do you want to talk to your father?" Only relatively recently did she confess that she only does that because my father gets jealous if she talks to me longer on the phone than he does. (Ah, my father! 62 going on 6.)
So here it is, I'm tired, upstairs the decrepit felon is banging around the apartment he's fixing up with his disabled son (that is so a story for another time!), all I want to do is read a little for distraction before going to sleep, but, no, I've got to talk to my father for at least fifteen minutes so that I don't hurt his feelings. He's as tired as me, and the conversation is dragging excruciatingly. Finally, he gives me an opening: "You're not very talkative." I explained how tired I was and suggested we both go to bed and pick up the conversation again over the weekend. Then I had to waste another ten minutes adding more minutes to my pay-as-you-go account before I could put on the headphones and lose myself in a little reading.
Tomorrow might be a good day to stay at home and read. That is, unless the renovators are back with their workboots and their heavy tools.