The Post That is a Non-Post

Well, well, well. Here it is Friday, and I am just now sitting down to blog.
A. is out filming a show, Birdy sleeping like a teeny, exhausted log since her *@#*$^)#** daycare can't seem to get a handle on a little thing called "napping." I had such plans for tonight. All of the little three-word notes that I scrawled in the parking lot of the Zombie post office that would turn into full-length posts would actually turn into those full-length posts tonight, when I had the house to myself (mostly) and could turn my little hamster-wheel brain loose.

Okay, so I'm not going to do that. I've been staring at a computer screen all effing day and I think my eyes might burst into flames if I do it for much longer. I had also planned to review the budget and figure out how I convinced myself that dipping into savings just one more time wouldn't totally deplete the eensy balance. Which it has. I had planned. I had plans.

It's finally catching up with me and my engulfed-in-flames eyeballs that I'm in a little over my head with work and school and freelance stuff and a baby and a husband and two needy dogs and a malicious cat. I completely blew a deadline this morning for an article I never even started, and I have two others due in the near future that have been even less than started, if that's possible. Doing practicums for class. Making healthy dinners (with A's assistance, I'm no June Cleaver). Grinding up food for the bird. I am tired, and I'm going to the couch right... NOW.

Except one more thing:
I got the job today. No interview or anything, just got called into the ED's office from my little secretary desk and she asked if I wanted it. So I said yes, she said $dollars, I said $dollars plus some, and we shook on it. The end. I don't know if I'm up for it, to be honest, but I think I can summon up my many years of psychosocial work (kind of like vomiting, really), and pull it together enough to be legit. In any case, I have claimed that I can make that happen, and now I have to do it.

Here's the moral of the story: counseling people who are dying from a terminal illness that is both terrifyingly quick and heartbreakingly slow is better than data entry.

Well, that, and we are brokeass broke, and it sure would help if one of us could bring home a little more scratch.

Okay, going to the couch... NOW.