Crap-urday

Last Saturday I got called in to work, because a coworker had water in his lungs, a legitimate medical emergency, or because said douchebag wanted to spend the weekend at 'the cottage'. If you've got a cottage to go to, why are you wasting your time - more importantly my time - pretending you want to work at a minimum wage job that you can never be bothered to show up for?

I wasn't supposed to be there, sweating in impossible heat, swatting flies off of food, and dealing with dickhead teenagers - I was supposed to be having a late brunch with Gord, going book shopping and sitting in the shade at Westmount park reading one of my new books all afternoon. Add to that the fact that it was the busiest day ever, non stop for 8 freaking hours, and I got nauseous from not eating all day, and I was pretty much Dante from Clerks, screaming "I'm not even supposed to be here today!" in my head for 10 hours.

The only thing that could have redeemed that day is if my ex had accidentally had sex with a dead guy in the bathroom. In fact, pretending that he had got me through the evening.