Everything's a Mess
I've always been an orderly sort of person.
Not Felix Unger, mind you, as my public persona is more Madison-like, but everything has to be in its place.
I bring this all up because when you live with people who don't quite feel that everything has a place, you are in for a long day...
...of trying to put everything in its place!
I'm off of work for a little while as I try to get the tendon in my hip to stop being inflamed. I've been struggling with it for 10 months now, and to be honest I've received about 20 shots in the hip, I've tried anti-inflammatory drugs, muscle relaxers and deep tissue massages. I golfed once this past year and that was pretty much a disaster (other than the company and the bologna sandwich). The hip is structurally good, but there's the problem of lifting the leg...even a couple of inches off the ground.
So, home I am.
And I may just have to suffer with the bad hip and return quickly to work because I have a family here that...
...doesn't put their shit away.
It's funny but years ago I worked with a supervisor who was an absolute nightmare when it came to organization. His desk was littered with papers, old magazines, discarded fast food wrappers, and once, yes once I found a half-eaten tuna fish sandwich in one of his desk drawers.
That's right out of the Oscar Madison handbook.
Anywho-ha.
He had to go on vacation for two weeks. I was left with the task of sitting at his desk and answering his phones until he got back.
Yep.
I cleaned it from top to bottom.
He was pissed.
"I'll never find anything!" he said.
Isn't that odd?
What sort of person are you?
I'm telling you, I can tell when someone has used the stapler that's on my desk in my office.
I've never lost my I-pod, a flip disk, or even a pen.
Half the conversations around here between the beautiful wife and the hoodlums begins as such:
"Have you seen my?"
And do you know who they ask?
Yeah, me.
"I know where all my stuff is," I answer.
"You moved it! Where do you think it belongs?"
But I've given up on moving their stuff. I don't pick up the clothes in their rooms. I don't kick their strewn shoes across the floor anymore.
I don't dig through anything.
I'm afraid of finding a half-eaten sandwich.
Not Felix Unger, mind you, as my public persona is more Madison-like, but everything has to be in its place.
I bring this all up because when you live with people who don't quite feel that everything has a place, you are in for a long day...
...of trying to put everything in its place!
I'm off of work for a little while as I try to get the tendon in my hip to stop being inflamed. I've been struggling with it for 10 months now, and to be honest I've received about 20 shots in the hip, I've tried anti-inflammatory drugs, muscle relaxers and deep tissue massages. I golfed once this past year and that was pretty much a disaster (other than the company and the bologna sandwich). The hip is structurally good, but there's the problem of lifting the leg...even a couple of inches off the ground.
So, home I am.
And I may just have to suffer with the bad hip and return quickly to work because I have a family here that...
...doesn't put their shit away.
It's funny but years ago I worked with a supervisor who was an absolute nightmare when it came to organization. His desk was littered with papers, old magazines, discarded fast food wrappers, and once, yes once I found a half-eaten tuna fish sandwich in one of his desk drawers.
That's right out of the Oscar Madison handbook.
Anywho-ha.
He had to go on vacation for two weeks. I was left with the task of sitting at his desk and answering his phones until he got back.
Yep.
I cleaned it from top to bottom.
He was pissed.
"I'll never find anything!" he said.
Isn't that odd?
What sort of person are you?
I'm telling you, I can tell when someone has used the stapler that's on my desk in my office.
I've never lost my I-pod, a flip disk, or even a pen.
Half the conversations around here between the beautiful wife and the hoodlums begins as such:
"Have you seen my?"
And do you know who they ask?
Yeah, me.
"I know where all my stuff is," I answer.
"You moved it! Where do you think it belongs?"
But I've given up on moving their stuff. I don't pick up the clothes in their rooms. I don't kick their strewn shoes across the floor anymore.
I don't dig through anything.
I'm afraid of finding a half-eaten sandwich.
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