And as I wrote that...

..I realize I need to focus.

I want to tell more...

..but I'm so tired.

New condo board, Yours Truly as president; cast in two shows, one as a supporting character, another in a couple of scenes of a showcase; still working 4 hours a weekend; trying to complete a painting, need to do taxes for Boston property; another audition tomorrow and one on Monday. Job continues to spiral down into unmitigated hell; all I really want is to live near SP and eat dinner together.

But for now, will crawl into comfy flannel sheets and sleep well.

I keep looking for the PUNK'D camera...

Today at staff meeting, upon being informed that some insurance policies were sent in binders with a CD at the back containing the reams of backup data and documents that went into the policy, the department head decided that we needed to print out everything on CDs because at some point in future they may become obsolete and we won't be able to read them.

Nice? NICE?!?!?

I'm going through the latest cycle of  being so aggravated with my pointless job that I want to walk out, never look back, sell all my possessions, load up my car with my animals and a few items, drive back East, and live in someone's basement.

The latest, briefly (omitting for time's sake the complete LUNACY of wasted effort that this entire procedure represents): we have sent to Property Managers, among other things, Excel spreadsheets, each containing a list of the properties they oversee. The information on these sheets needs to be updated, then we transfer the updated info. into the original master sheet. There are approximately 20 columns of data for each property. The master of this was created by our sadistic, incompetent broker who decided that oh, by the way, we need to highlight EVERY CELL that people change. We're talking a LOT of properties. I flatly refuse to sit with my coworker manually comparing the original to updated sheets, and instead downloaded some unknown software that will compare sheets and give us 60 free uses. Because I am the only one who knows how to use the Internet for anything other than sending jokes about cats and testicles.

All of this galls me, all of this sucks, but what is really sending me from 0 to 60 is that in addition to people sending these things in past their deadlines despite numerous reminders, when they finally do send them, we have to keep sending them back because people DON'T READ DIRECTIONS.

Today, I was on the phone with SP and I saw one come into my inbox. This had been sent before, and returned to be completed. I opened it and lost it.

"SHIT. Shit shit SHIT!!!!" I hissed into SP's ear. "These stupid F*CKING PEOPLE! HOW DO THESE PEOPLE HAVE JOBS?!? WHAT IS SO HARD ABOUT "ALL CELLS MUST BE FILLED IN -- NONE MAY BE LEFT BLANK!"

"I can tell you're angry because you're whispering," said SP. "It used to scare me, but I'm used to it now."

"OK, I have to go," I said. "I need to get real with this guy." I hung up.

"Now, now, be nice," said my spineless co-worker.

And here, Lades and Gentlemen, is where I lost all interest in worrying about how she will cope when I do finally leave.

"I don't have to be nice. He does, however, need to learn how to do his damn job," I snapped.

 WTF?!?!?  NICE? Really? Is there any lingering mystery as to why this woman gets walked all over? "Oh, I should really take charge of these procedures, but I'll worry about being nice instead when these dickheads ignore my instructions and blow past deadlines EVERY TIME, making life three times as hard for me and my co-worker, who is already seething with visions of homicide."

I sent him a very direct email. Short sentences. Periods.

He replied, "What do I do if I don't have the information?"

Let me interject here that in every column, there is an elaborate header that describes the information they're looking for. Under this explanation is a list of possible numbers, with what each stands for. At the top is 0. "0=Unknown," to be exact.

"As the instructions clearly state," I typed, gritting my teeth,"you put '0' when you don't know. The broker won't accept an empty cell; they need an indication that you have answered every question."

I have had to ask for information to be corrected over and over, simply because people will not read directions. Apparently people no longer respond to anything that is more than 42 characters long on a smartphone text screen.

Spineless Coworker isn't in tomorrow, so I stayed until 6:30 to get things under control before tomorrow. If I'm not in the headlines, I've smuggled rum into the office.

When I am an old woman, I shall...

We most of us know how this poem begins.  "When I am an old woman I shall wear purple, and a red hat that doesn't go, and that doesn't suit me."

When I was in college, my friend Linda and I would gleefully recite this poem, Warning, an anthem to finally getting to an age where you are fully, freely, joyously and eccentrically yourself and stop worrying about being responsible and dignified. I have seen flocks of grey-haired members of local Red Hat societies, identifiable by their conspicuous headwear in varying shades of crimson.

Yesterday I was coming home from work and waiting at the light to cross Sheridan before going down my street. I had on my iPod. An older woman was waiting at the curb; she appeared in her early 60s, dark, coiffed hair, makeup - pretty, in a Liza Minelli way. Animatedly stepping to and fro. She wore a coat with a leopard-print collar, shiny black knee boots, and a red hat on her head. I wondered whether she belonged to a Red Hat club. She turned and said something to me, so I removed my ear buds and smiled at her. "Pardon?"

"I have to pee," she said, stepping from side to side.

"Then I hope the light changes very soon for you," I said.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

And by way of casual conversation, tell people when I need to pee.

Absolutely marvelous.

Oh, yes he did!

The other day I was patting Leroy, my rabbit, caressing his snout, which he loves. My fingers brushed something rough, so I picked him up and looked at his mouth. His lips were scaly, almost scabby. I was worried that he'd eaten or chewed something that had caused a reaction, or something poisonous. I scheduled an appointment with the vet.

So yesterday morning we arrived at the vet. She came in, gave him a physical, wrapped him in a towel, flipped him over, and looked at his mouth.

She smiled at me. "He has syphilis."

I stared and then burst out laughing. "Of COURSE he does. Because that's just perfect. HOW?!?"

"He probably had it when you got him but didn't have any symptoms," she explained. She also assured me that if he'd given it to Amie, it would not have been what killed her.

"Wait. So if he's had it for a year," I said, "am I going to come home to find sunflowers all over my wall and a long, velvety ear on the floor?"

She explained that it doesn't affect rabbits the same way as people, as far as they knew, and that three injections of antibiotic should do the trick. She also assured me I couldn't catch it (I had visions of THAT doctor's appointment).

As I was paying the bill, a small, lean Basset Hound on a leash moaned and wailed with ecstasy at the prospect of someone who could pat her. She kept scooting across the floor, groaning and wagging her tail. I went over, crouched, and gave her a hug. I scratched her back and the base of her tail. She wooed and groaned and was in heaven. She was very pretty.

"She lost the use of her hind legs," her person said. "She's only now getting it back, slowly. That's why she was pulling herself towards you."

"Well, she's so adorable it's hard not to come to her, so she's got that worked out," I said, rubbing the dog's ears (her tag said her name was Lily). Lily tucked her face into my armpit and sighed with pleasure. Her tail beat a dull rhythm on the floor.

"Whoa Lily, you sure got that hound aroma going on," I said, as the musky doggy smell wafted over me.

"Yeah, she needs a bath but I wanted to wait until she could stand better," her person said. She looked toward my carrier. "Is that a cat in there?"

"It's a rabbit," I told her. Then, relishing the anticipation, I added, "with syphilis."

"What?!?!"

"Yep. Not contagious. Easily addressed."

"How does a rabbit get syphilis?!?" she asked.

"The usual way," I explained. "He was rescued in a raid on a place that had about 70 rabbits. He was neutered and adopted out, but it seems that until that time, my Leroy was a Travelin' Man."

It's fun to go to the YYYYY! M! C! A!

Now that fall is here and I wake in the dark, I'm not so motivated to ride my bike to work. This means I'm back to a regular routine at the gym, which is the Y. I love the Y; the people are nice, it's not an ego factory, and I never feel unwelcome when I have to go to a predominantly male part of the gym (I'm more a strength-training gal; attempts at aerobics invariably degenerate into a Jerry Lewis tribute, and an attempt at mat Pilates looked like the wrong end of a Milgram experiment).

But I used to attend a spin class on Tuesday nights, when my work location allowed me to get to it on time. It kept me in biking form, and the instructor gave us a great workout to fantastic music. The room looked out via a glass wall to the indoor running track outside, so if you were facing the outside wall, you would see people do their turns around the track: runners, walkers, people in singles and in pairs.

The thing is, because the spin room was dark, the window had a TV effect: anytime someone went past, if you were facing the window, your eyes flickered to it. Thus, the 50-something guy who walked for a solid hour around the track would often look to see me looking at him (among others). He began to look in, and this mildly awkward chronic eye contact began. I was not interested in this person; he was just a guy walking, we had never had a conversation, and I had never seen him speak to another person or crack a smile. I created a backstory for him, imagined he was a retired Marine who had Seen Too Much. I don't think he was particularly looking at me; he seemed caught up in the same wandering cycle of eye-catches-movement-oops-you-again-really-not-staring-a-you.

I haven't been to spin all summer, but I've been going to the gym to work out. I keep seeing this same man in the workout area. It's a cavernous high-ceilinged room, cardio machines on one side, resistance stations in the middle, and a section for free weights at the other end. The man and I have met eyes a few times, and it's clear we recognize each other, but there is nothing -- not a smile, not an acknowledgement. I have to stress that I'm not attracted to him at all. (He never smiles. How can you be attracted to someone who never smiles?)  We seem to be in this awkward dance where we keep inadvertently meeting eyes (the walls in the weight area are mostly mirrors) and it's irritating, because I don't want to do this, which seems to guarantee that I will.

There's also another thing. Back in my 20's I was a special instructor for Severely and Profoundly  Mentally Retarded Adults. Think grownups with the mental capacity of a toddler, usually with other behavioral or physical issues.

There was one client, Steven, who had issues with self-injurious behavior and a clothes obsession. This man looks a lot like Steven. So even when I idly try to imagine what it would be like to go to dinner with this man, the scenario invariably involves him being served something that disappoints him, resulting in him slamming his head against the table, then soiling his clothing before peeling it off and throwing it. I give him a time out, and drive him home.

And still, not all that much worse than a few dates I've actually been on.