Friday Blues

It feels like Friday the 13th.
The big ol dark storm clouds combined with excessive thunder and lightening and the intermittent gushes of rain are fitting for a day loaded with negative superstitions.

I’m in a foul mood.

A project I am working on got nixed even before I presented my findings because some figures were passed along before they had been finalized. “Start over” I am told. Grrr.

“Your job will now include preparing weekly reports” I am informed this afternoon. “You’ll have to learn a new program.”
“Aren’t these reports adequate?” I ask of the reports automatically generated on the program I’ve been learning these past few months.
“No. They want weekly, month to date, and year to date, and actual to budget. You’ll need to learn some financial stuff.”
I hate financial stuff.

The kids were talking dumb in the truck on the ride home from school.

The child tax credit cheque I received today is made out for half of what it’s been all year. Why would they cut it half? I’m not much of a budgeter, but yeeesh. I kind of had that money ear-marked for something significant. Most cheques have a rip off thingy on the bottom, with some sort of explanation. But this one came with nothing. Who do I phone? Would someone actually talk to me? Or would I get stuck in voice-mail hell?

I decide to finally do some errands that I never have a block of time to do during the week. With the kids arguing about our weekend plans, I leave the house.

First stop, LSS, to get a signature stating it would be OK for Max to cross boundary to Poppy next year. Offices are supposed to be open. But there’s no parking in front of the office… so I park in the visitor lot a block away. By the time I get to the office my hair is wet. Which is not a good look for me. And find the office very closed.

Sighing, I proceed to the bank. To order cheques. As I pull up, I see Mark’s truck parked outside the front entrance. Deciding I don’t need to run into him looking wet and frazzled, I keep on going, and deposit my meagre cheque via the drive thru teller.

Next stop: Staples. To look at desks and paper. With my tape measure in hand, I look for a desk that would fit my allotted space at work. The kidney-shaped rolling computer table is not cutting it. I need some drawers. And a file cabinet. And a desk top larger than 6 square inches.
There is nothing. “Real” office furniture is built for business people who have more than 4 square feet allocated for their desks.
I need to go to IKEA’s children’s section and buy something designed for toddlers. That’d fit.
I leave the furniture area discouraged and head towards the paper aisle.
I have a colour sample that I want to match.
NOTHING was even remotely close. If I wanted to go with a vivid bright neon paper to print a letter from the President on, I would’ve gotten bogged down with all my options. Who sells manly yet elegant paper? Not Staples.
I walked back to my truck just as the heavens opened up again.

My dad’s birthday was on Wednesday. My gift to him would be a hammock. To replace the 30 year old purple one that started to unravel at the end of the summer last year. I drive over to the home hardware store that was advertising nylon woven hammocks in their flyer.
“No. Sorry. We didn’t get any. You could try the Surrey store.”
I go back out in the rain.

My next stop is the scrapbooking store. They have thousands of sheets of paper. I know they will have exactly what I want, because I bought some last Christmas.
They are sold out.
So I buy two permanent markers in brown ink. The leather bound album that is housing 400 of my favourite Europe photos has buff coloured paper with brown accents so the brown pens are perfect. At Christmas I was given a $50 gift card from this particular establishment and I’d only spend ½ of it, so I had a nice credit on file there.
“That’ll be $10.42 please.”
“Just take it off my credit.”
“You have no credit.”
“Yes. I was given a gift card at Christmas and only spent half of it. I was told I would not get any change, but I’d have a credit for the next time I came in.”
“I’m sorry but we have no record of any gift card on your account.”
“I asked her if I needed to keep my receipt and she said that wasn’t necessary, it would be in your computer.”
“Well, here… Look.” She says as she pushes the monitor around. “No record.”
“I believe you. If your computer says no gift card, how can I argue with that?”
“Sorry for the mix up.”
“Yeah. Whatever. Next time I’ll know to spend the entire amount at once.”
“Actually, there’s no record of you buying anything here since the fall of 2004.”
“Well, I can’t argue with your computer. If that’s what it says – hey, who am I to disagree? I can tell you I was here at Christmas. And again in the new year… I make cards. And I purchase a lot of supplies here.”
“Not according to our computer.”
“Right.”
I think I am being called a liar. In a nice way. By a computer.
I buy my pens and leave, hoping I never have the need to go back.

Deciding it was probably best if I just go home, I call in my standing Friday evening pizza order and head back to Murrayville.
With 7 minutes to waste, I shop in the dollar store near the pizza place and take advantage of the 50% off sale underway.
I step out of the store, with 2 big bags of dollar store stuff, and use my shoulder to brush my poker straight, slightly greasy, very damp bangs out of my eyes and nearly bump into Mark. He’s holding his 1½ year old child…the one who adores and loves him unconditionally as only 1½ year olds can. He is picking up his little one while his wife gets her hair done at Champers.

I’m soggy. Discouraged. And have just spoken to Mark’s others sons … the ones who live with me. They all are angry. One because he wants to be at Cultus – RIGHT NOW. One because he doesn’t want to go AT ALL. And the other one is just always mad.

I pick up their friggin pizza.
And come home to find the house a mess.



The straw that’s breaking this camel’s back?
The spine has split on my new photo album.
Start over?




I’ve got the house to myself for about an hour.
“Mom? How ‘bout if you just sit and write?” Max suggests. “And, maybe blog.”
Then he added, “It seems a lot of girls from my school are reading your blog, so….”

So.
Can’t talk about sex anymore.





Sigh.