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Sep. 6th, 2008 10:39 amGut instincts. As Kiki says, we has them. And I should listen to mine more often.
Ugh. So fucking tired now, though. Despite it being a short week everything in the world somehow contrived to dump at my desk this past week. There was the 21-box yarn shipment, the backlog on Tuesday of stuff from the three day weekend. The two days of unpacking the yarn shipment and labeling everything which was, admittedly, less physically exhausting and more just time consuming. I can live with a couple days of peeling off labels and putting on labels and gossiping with the five or six other people clustering around to do the work. But after that there was packing all the backorders now fillable by that yarn shipment. And there were some fucking huge backorders. And then there was Jim's order to fill. And that was a 50lb yarn order. Going up, grabbing the yarn, coming down, weighing everything to make sure we were giving him weaving yarn cones of a good weight. Then packing it. Then discovering it was fifty fucking pounds. Then hauling it from the scale to the cart which, admittedly, is a difference of about a foot. But I still have to lift it onto the cart because they're at different heights. Which I damn well did. Rarr. And then running to the bank so I could get quarters to do laundry. And then discovering when I got back that we did have 10 cones of black chenille between the stuff on the backstock shelf on the first floor, the stuff on the third floor, and the stuff in the front of the store. And ... no, by that point I was not going to unpack that fucking box again.
And then coming home, starting laundry, cooking dinner, turning over laundry, and I have to actually schlep the laundry to the facility. And then come back and start dinner and keep an eye on dinner and turn over the laundry and then after cooking dinner I had to do the dishes, which violates the unwritten first rule of cooking. Fucking hell.
So this weekend there will be no Morris. There will be no English Country Dance even. There will be Jag, lying on her bed, reading her books finally or making headers or writing porn or something. Writing prompt responses. And sleeping. Oh so much sleep will I get. I've fucking well earned it.
... Good god I said 'fucking' a lot in this post.
Ugh. So fucking tired now, though. Despite it being a short week everything in the world somehow contrived to dump at my desk this past week. There was the 21-box yarn shipment, the backlog on Tuesday of stuff from the three day weekend. The two days of unpacking the yarn shipment and labeling everything which was, admittedly, less physically exhausting and more just time consuming. I can live with a couple days of peeling off labels and putting on labels and gossiping with the five or six other people clustering around to do the work. But after that there was packing all the backorders now fillable by that yarn shipment. And there were some fucking huge backorders. And then there was Jim's order to fill. And that was a 50lb yarn order. Going up, grabbing the yarn, coming down, weighing everything to make sure we were giving him weaving yarn cones of a good weight. Then packing it. Then discovering it was fifty fucking pounds. Then hauling it from the scale to the cart which, admittedly, is a difference of about a foot. But I still have to lift it onto the cart because they're at different heights. Which I damn well did. Rarr. And then running to the bank so I could get quarters to do laundry. And then discovering when I got back that we did have 10 cones of black chenille between the stuff on the backstock shelf on the first floor, the stuff on the third floor, and the stuff in the front of the store. And ... no, by that point I was not going to unpack that fucking box again.
And then coming home, starting laundry, cooking dinner, turning over laundry, and I have to actually schlep the laundry to the facility. And then come back and start dinner and keep an eye on dinner and turn over the laundry and then after cooking dinner I had to do the dishes, which violates the unwritten first rule of cooking. Fucking hell.
So this weekend there will be no Morris. There will be no English Country Dance even. There will be Jag, lying on her bed, reading her books finally or making headers or writing porn or something. Writing prompt responses. And sleeping. Oh so much sleep will I get. I've fucking well earned it.
... Good god I said 'fucking' a lot in this post.