It’s Monday night, and I’m finally home in my pajamas with a glass of white grape juice because I’m a riveting member of society. Just the IDEA of having wine gives me a Pavlov headache now. So, grape juice in pajamas it is.
Really, my entire goal each day is to get to the part where I’m home in my pajamas for the night.
Just as soon as I got into said pajamas, which I’ve been anticipating all day, did I mention? I got an email about some freelance work I’m doing, and I have to RE-do some of it, because it’s writing, not copy editing, and this is the first time I’ve worked on this particular thing, so I figured it might not be perfect. But I was JUST FINALLY GETTING to the relax part and now I’m tense.
But I’m not gonna work on that now. I’ll think about it tomorrow. I’ll get tense tomorrow. Except I’m tense NOW.
Today, I went to work, as I am wont to do, and had some harrowing copy editing to do. You’d think copy editing would be all relaxing. Maybe you even say the annoying, “You get to read all day!”
Hah! Right. I mean, make sure Mr. Steiner’s name isn’t occasionally Mr. Stienmen the 86 times we mention him, and remember the client doesn’t like the word sparklefraffle, even though this article is about the Sparklefraffle Fair, and don’t forget to check the name of the city the fair is in because it just changed and we fixed it in some places but not all, and, oh, do this all in five minutes.
What are some misconceptions people have about what you do? Because you know what copy editing rarely is? Relaxing. You’re the very last person to see the thing, so it always ends up getting to you late, and you’re asked to do something like edit 80 pages in an hour and a half, which is not possible, but people think it is because people think I
a thing. “Oh, you get to read all day!” And I’m sure people’re all, “Well, I could read 80 pages in an hour and a half.”
So what do people think about what you do that is dead wrong?
I hope someone here is a pharmacist so they can tell us why it takes 45 minutes to give me 9 prepackaged pills. I mean, just like how you can’t “copy edit this real quick,” there’s probably a logical explanation for why it takes 45 minutes to give me the same 9 pills I get already packaged in a little foil-and-bubble container every month. It’s not like they have to compound my pills or count them out. But still. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, here, pharmacy folk.
Anyway. So I went to work as I am wont to do, and I know I already said that. Then at lunch, I went to the hippie healthy co-op where everyone stands in place before the salad bar, in their politically correct TOMS shoes, in order to feel the vibrations of everyone who passes by or whatever. I grabbed an earth-friendly container made of kelp and mentally stabbed 10 stationary hippies with a bamboo skewer to get them out of my way. I mentally had a hippie kabob. I got me some spinach and some blueberries and some salmon and some beet juice, and $642 later I was out the door.
I thought hippies were busy giving peace a chance and making macramé plant hangers. How do they have money to spend $9,000 on lunch? And yet they all do.
After work, I went to the regular grocery store in my neighborhood where everyone looks like a member of ZZ Top or a ZZ Top tribute band, because I live in what you might call a working-class area now. I much prefer ZZ and his Top to the hippies at the healthy store and I’m sorry.
Anyway, while I squeezed past Ray-Nathan and Bucephalis’s confab about NASCAR and chew, I got yogurt and popcorn and grapes and hummus and cheese, which are pretty much m’staples anymore, and then I came home, fed everyone who contains fur, let the dog out, put the groceries away, did a load of laundry, begged Edsel to come inside and got my coat on and left again.
By the time you read this, it will be Lottie Blanco’s birthday. I wanted to get her a little something, because she’s always feeding me and she got me a housewarming gift and besides, don’t you like it when you get to work and someone’s recognized your birthday, somehow?
So I schlepped to the store to try to find her something, and I like how an entire weekend just yawned behind me and did I do it then? No.
Lottie Blanco is less girly than me, and I know that narrows it down. But the pink sparkly boa I’d have gotten, say, Wedding Alex was not going to fly in Lottie Blanco town.
Anyway, I found a little something for her, and a card, and I hope she likes everything. Then I schlepped back here and let the dog out again because he’s obsessed with something out there, and unloaded the dishwasher and did more laundry and ate some cheese and grapes and had this delicious grape juice, and that pretty much sums up my day and my neck is KILLING me because somehow I made all of this stressful.
Why? Why do I do that? Did that day sound all that stressful?
My freelance isn’t due till Friday and it’s maybe one hour more of work. My commute is six minutes. I met all my deadlines today. Tomorrow is payday and I still have $239 left from last paycheck. I mean, I’m golden! And yet? Shoulders up to my ears.