Back to work on Thursday for a few hours, and I'm wondering if there's a job available de-beaking baby chickens that I could apply for instead. You know, something less soul-killing and tedious. Seriously, the entire property crapped its pants in honor of my return, and I get to clean it all up. Goody goody gumdrops.
I'm going to work for a couple hours Friday. [whimper mode] Please let there be no 911 calls from the property this time?
Talking with another property manager the week before I fell ill, we said we should start a property management support group. He told me if you work in the industry any length of time, you will have to do one of three things to cope: smoke excessively, drink excessively or curse like a sailor. I don't smoke, but if I did, it would be excessively. I'm thinking of starting with the patch. I don't drink very often, but I'd love to have the kind of constitution that would help me function and still have a modest daily tipple on par with that of say, oh, Ernest Hemingway. As for the cussing like a sailor? Relax. I'm all over that shit like white on rice.* I can turn it off and act ladylike and all, but sometimes, the only real therapy in the world is setting afoot implacable strings of well-modified expletives, along with copious amounts of cussin', topped with a dollop of potty mouth for good measure.
I know Friday will be better if I just believe...
There's no place like Tahiti. *click*click*click*
*I'm only on semi-good behaviour here because me Da reads my blog. At least there's SOME thing that governs my urge to vent spleen, eh?