Monday Monday, Can't Trust That Day

There's a certain set of humanity that I really, truly cannot stand.  It is the people who announce that they are not watching the Super Bowl.  Even worse are the people who gleefully announce that they just watch it "for the commercials."  Here's your feedbag, sheep.  Try not to shit on the carpet.

Naturally, I didn't watch the Super Bowl.  I realize that, by typing this, I have become a hypocritical twat.  I'm okay with this.  Mostly, I'm using this as a set-up for the remainder of the sexually-charged, lurid tale I'm about to embark upon.

Okay, it's not that lurid.  I'm just trying to keep your attention.

I didn't watch the Super Bowl, mostly because Green Bay wasn't playing in it.  I don't feel the need to sit and watch a football game when my favorite team is not playing.  If I'm bored, sure.  But, there was a lot of video games to play, laundry to be done, and dinner to prepare last night.  So, no Super Bowl for me.  I've somehow coped.

My weekend was, however, busy as fuck, which is why all this stuff got done late Sunday afternoon and Sunday night.  When a person works two jobs, they tend to spend at least one day of the weekend working; such was my Saturday.  Then, I had to spend Sunday catching up on all those tasks and chores that I did not get done last week because I work two jobs, I am raising a family, and I'm writing a book (or three).  That's a lot of shit to pack into a mere five days.  Occasionally, I enjoy a night's worth of sleep, too. 

On top of all that, it's Girl Scout cookie time.  The sordid tale of that is priceless, as well.  I had signed my daughter up to work the cookie booth on Sunday, from noon to two in case she had basketball practice in the evening.  The Girl Scout troop leader decided to change the location at the last minute.  And, she also decided to change the time.  At the last minute.  But, instead of sending emails warning anyone, we were supposed to check our check-in site.  I'm not even sure I know what that means, but it's what I was supposed to do.  Instead, I drove from one location to another, went home, and then drove back to what was supposedly the correct location.

Man, I love making things more complicated than they have to be.

Finally, we arrived at the right place at the right time only to discover that another troop had set up their booth without clearing it with the Girl Scout council.  We had booth squatters on our territory.  Heads should have rolled.

Instead, I went home and continued with the laundry.

In the end, I crumpled into bed last night, exhausted, around 11:30, knowing full well that the alarm was going to smack me in the face with Kansas at 6:00 in the morning and that this wayward son would be carrying on with his normal, daily routine.  I know, I know.  White whine.  First world problems.  I get it.

I progressed through the morning, preparing the kids, taking them to school, and then I shuffled into work, where my Outlook program reminded me, not unkindly, that I was due to be at a meeting at 9:00.  I hadn't had my second cup of coffee yet.  There needs to be a separate level of Hell dedicated to the nine a.m. meeting crowd.  Level Seven Prime or something.

So, at the meeting, I'm groggy, exhausted, wondering where the fuck my weekend went.  Everyone was focused on the Super Bowl (naturally) and talking about deer antler spray.  My response was something like "yeah, fuck that stabby motherfucker right in his stabhole".  I may have paraphrased that last part, but the general idea has been conveyed (hence the term "paraphrasing). Bite me.  Blogging is hard.

And the meeting progressed.

Later, after the meeting, my supervisor swung by to "check in" with me, because I seemed "a little down" at the meeting, and wanted to make sure "everything was alright."

It's fucking Monday morning, and Monday after the Super Bowl, at that.  Aren't people given a little bit of leniency to not have to have a smile plastered on their face while sipping of the Corporate America Bullshit flavored Kool-Aid?

What?  No, seriously, what?  Is this a new concept, that Monday sucks, that Monday morning might retain some of the vestiges of the weekend, clinging to a person like a forlorn lover still abed?  I thought America was built on the notion that Mondays suck.  Facebook constantly reminds me on Sunday that Monday is the following day and that--watch out--the work week begins anew.

Apparently I missed a memo somewhere that I need to be happy and perky all. the. fucking. time.

So, here's to Monday, the best damned twenty-four hour period of time that can happen to a person!  May no one ever besmirch your good name again!  I so look forward to us meeting once more the following week!

And may all the perky Monday fans have their own Circle of Hell reserved for them.  On Tuesday.