Maquinna's Poop du Jour

Goin' out of my frickin' mind

This day is going to hell in a handbasket and it's only just noon.

First was the dentist appointment, to discuss what to do about why I STILL can't put anything cold on the left side of my mouth without feeling like someone just stabbed me with an icepick. This, after having a tooth crowned in December and then having said crown ripped out last month and replaced after a root canal. My share of that bill: $800. The dentist is first-rate - no quibbles there - but he isn't cheap, either. Still, he tried to talk me into having the tooth beside it (now considered the co-conspirator of my pain) re-filled with some space-age goo that would hopefully desensitize it 'until the nerve calms down'. Why the hell would the nerve calm down now when it's been like this for over a year? Methinks Dr. SpaceGoo would like to see me in his chair more often. I told him screw that, we're goin' in and getting this over with. Root canal that sucker. OK, he said, agreeing that it would likely come to that anyway. Estimate for this one: you guessed it, another $800. How I'm supposed to pay for all this and still try and save tuition money is beyond me.

So then I come into work. How is it possible that you can have a productive week at work and come in on Monday to piles TWICE as large as before? Work must breed work; the only cure is to stop doing it altogether. The ad agency I'm dealing with are frickin' amateurs; my Einstein account exec plainly had a lobotomy before joining her equally koo-koo firm. I can barely express my lack of appreciation without it causing a severe migraine. Suffice to say they end up eating a lot of charges because of their own incompetence. I can't wait to show them the door - but I have to hang onto them for another two months before that thrill. Thank the politics of a university bureaucracy for saddling me with them in the first place.

Through all this this morning, I get saddled with a phone call from a certifiable nutjob who has now figured out, at age 58, that she's missing 'computer stuff' from her resume, and that is holding her career back. Forty-five minutes on the phone with her. I think I'll give her to my director to talk to. I owe him for making me interview a whacky Renaissance-fair type for our database coordinator position last month. She was a drama teacher who had been fired by her school board ('they didn't understand my methods'), had no computer skills, and was really just looking to do 'something completely different'. He thought that was pretty funny. I was this close to strangling him.

So now it's lunchtime, and I'm scarfing down salad before my 1 pm meeting. During the time it took to type this message, my desk gained two more pieces of paper. Work DOES breed work. I can't wait until my desk job days are behind me.

posted by Maquinna @ 12:31 p.m.