The Manic Monday theme carried on into last week with a vengeance. It was accessorized with a cold, which arrived on the weekend, making sure no fun could be had, and hung on like a guest that didn’t know when to leave, even when the lights were off and the chairs on the tables. The Comma made its unwelcome and inconvenient appearance as well, so my condition was already pretty weakened as I embarked on a week of what would turn out to be 10 to 12 hour days in an effort to complete the hand-written project started last week.
My efforts were hampered at every turn by my old enemy technology, partly the (government) system used to submit the project data, and partly due to the Draconian limitations on the computers at work, such as not being able to simply click on an embedded link. Instead, you have to copy it and paste it into your browser. Apparently this is for our own good. Add in the fact that we have the wrong version of the browser required by the government, and our systems will not allow us to download different versions other than the standards already installed, and you have a recipe for a perfect storm of frustration for a sick and tired girl up against a deadline.
I mentioned my less than ideal work day to my more than ideal friend Erin, and she appeared like magic with a care package of chamomile tea, aspirin, and dark chocolate drops, all in a plain brown wrapper and delivered with a hug, germs be damned:
I used all of these secret weapons to get me through the day, and another former co-worker at the jobette gifted me with some wit and wisdom of the late, great, Yogi Berra* to get me through the long days:
To brighten your bad day:
“The future ain’t what it used to be.”
“When you come to a fork in the road – take it.”
“Baseball is 90% mental. The other half is physical.”
I laughed out loud at my paper-covered desk, and attacked the Sisyphean task with renewed energy and a brighter outlook.
Finally arriving home, I passed Rob on the driveway. We rolled down our windows to say hi, and he told me that he had dropped off a card for me on my front porch. There it was, gleaming silver in the twilight, and opening it revealed a beautiful card from my friend Joy:
She had picked it up in Paris and thought I would enjoy it, knowing how I fell in love with Paris on my first visit there at the impressionable age of 17. Indeed, two of my favorite bookmarks are postcards she sent me from Paris, and I have laminated them so they will last longer.
As I fell into bed that night, surrounded by kitties, I felt so thankful for my friends and the life I have built in this beautiful place. With friends like these, I can do anything.
*Somehow, I never thought he would actually die. Roger Angell, one of the finest baseball writers ever (and stepson of the immortal EB White) wrote a brief and wonderful appreciation of the legend in a recent issue of The New Yorker (feel free to click on the link with wanton abandon).
A YEAR AGO: Hmm. I had a cold then, too. ‘Tis the season?