Confessions of a Chronic Dork

Singing along to: Cat Stevens, Wild World

I worked twelve hours yesterday (eight of them at the caterer, doing a seated served wedding for one hundred seventy-five, I mean seriously, who has that many friends, because I sure don't) and then I worked another nine hours today (buffet for seventy-five), and as a result of all that running around with trays of booze and crab-and-cheese tarts, I feel even more like an old lady than usual. That is, my body feels the same age as my mind and soul, and that age is eighty-seven. (The first weekend back at the caterer is always bad.) My feet hurt of course, and not just in a generalized way: each individual toe and blister let out little gasps of pain when I walk. My ankles hurt, and so do my calves and knees and hips. My lower back aches from all the standing, and my wrists are sore from the trays.

Also, my soul hurts from all the haterade that has been coursing through my system for the past thirty-six hours.

(Why? Well, for starters, the people today had hot pink chair bows. Nothing good can possibly come from hot pink chair bows. When my boss pulled them out, she told me she thinks of me every time we do chair bows. I'm not sure what to make of that.)

So. I got home and I hobbled around like an old lady while I made dinner for one (fish! pasta! corn! latte with cool whip!!) and listened to Cat Stevens hippie music. While I ate, I clipped coupons. After dinner I lay on the couch and shouted for someone to bring me a crossword puzzle and a damn cup of coffee.

Except, oops, I was the only one home. Except for the dog, who is very smart, but who still hasn't mastered the art of making the Perfect Cup of Coffee.