Day 195: Missing Work

There are days when I am tempted to miss work.

Not sick days, mind you. If I'm actually sick, I'm more than happy to spend the day drugged and lying on the couch with a good book and a honey-lemon tea (made by Nathan, of course).

Except when I'm teaching. If it's going to take more than four hours to prep for a substitute, I drag my hacking, shaking self to work anyway and try to only cough on the bad kids.

Just kidding.

But seriously ... sometimes on quite ordinary days, life kicks you when you're down and makes even the very thought of work overwhelming and unbearable.

And you have to decide ... to work or not to work?

One of those days was last Thursday.

I'd already made the decision to re-home Kia. Of the almost 3000 views my ad had garnered in 3 days, more than a dozen people had contacted me. One of them was the manager of the House of Dogs (grooming salon/doggie daycare). We had met (I liked her), she had met Kia (and fallen in love with her), and Kia had already spent a day at daycare (and enjoyed it immensely).

But Thursday was the day that Kia was going home for good. I was supposed to bring her stuff with me in the morning, but I was running late and would have to drop it off after work. So when a staff member came out to help me lift everything, there was only Kia.

He took her leash. Since I am the primary dog "care-giver" in our home, Kia walks best with me. Even when Nate tries to walk her, she insists on walking by my side and obeying the commands I give to Sam.

As the man gently led her across the parking lot, Kia kept looking over her shoulder to see if I was coming. I got back in the car so she couldn't see me. When they reached the door, he pulled it open and they both stepped inside. The door had one of those special "slow-closing" hinges, and at the last minute, Kia changed her mind and headed back out to the parking lot. The door closed around her middle.

The whole thing lasted only a second or two, but it carved itself painfully on my memory.

Kia, physically trapped between two worlds, was not in distress. Her ears were perked forward, her mouth gently open, her eyes bright and expectant. Her tail swished back and forth, softly painting the air behind her. She was waiting. Waiting for me to come join in on her next big adventure.

Not this time, babe.

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to march into the shop and demand her back. But what would I do? Take her home and crate her? Skip work and spend the day together? But what then? Tomorrow I'd still be in the same situation as today.

When I looked back, the man had already freed her and she was happily perched at his feet, waiting for a treat. She'd been given a golden opportunity. Another chance at life. And I wasn't going to let my emotion steal that away from her.

I put the car in drive and pulled out onto the road. I was already crying.
To work or not to work?

To work. Fortunately, I was painting bathroom stalls, so I could cry quietly in private. I ate silent tears all day. But when we brought Kia's belongings in the evening, she looked so content that I knew I'd made the right decision.

I still missed her, but all was well.
Then life kicked me again today.
But this time, it kicked me in the ankle instead of in the heart.

I woke before 5:00, showered, ate breakfast, and let the dog out. Because of the heat, I've been keeping Sam in the basement while I'm at work (we don't have air conditioning and the basement stays cool all day). I was running late, so I didn't bother to turn on the light before I carried his water bowl downstairs.

That was a mistake.

I fell.

I missed a step and my ankle turned.

Water went flying as the bowl and I careened down the steps and into the wall. Sam showed his deep concern by barking at the top of the stairs and then coming down to lick the water off my legs. Then, as if trying to be helpful, he picked up the metal water dish (which is quite heavy) and carried it down the last few steps. But instead of setting it down on the basement floor, he started carrying it back upstairs.

I say started because the bowl didn't make it all the way up.

He dropped it. Without warning. On my hand.

Suffice it to say that an hour later, I am sitting in the sun room with a sore wrist and a frozen bag of assorted peas on my ankle.

Sam is snoring at my feet ... occasionally farting happily to himself.
He is so weird.

To work or not to work? That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer through
A day of pain or to take precautions against more serious injury...

I called in sick.
Happy Wednesday, everyone.

But mums... I did not means to make you fall...

Day 180: It will only take an hour, they said.

Today, I celebrate a momentous occasion.

The end of my career as a newspaper carrier.

It lasted 2 days (plus the required 2 weeks notice which I shall endure as a sort of purgatory for my overwhelming stupidity). Aside from hand-raising puppies (which is a level of insanity not to be mentioned here), they have been the longest 2 days of my life.

I should have seen it coming.

The good people who hired me said that according to the computer's calculations, it would take me 60 to 90 minutes to complete the route.

Mua-ha-ha-ha-ha!
I should have done the math myself.

In order to deliver every paper inside of an hour and a half, I would have to average one delivery every 50 seconds. But on Canada Street, the houses are v-e-r-y   f-a-r   a-p-a-r-t.

:(

Even with a car, I could not deliver those papers in less than two hours unless I was Superman.
Or Superwoman.
Is there a Superwoman?

It doesn't matter, because even if there is ... I am not she.

My first day, Canada Day morning, we picked up the papers at the Marysville Irving at 6 am. Nathan drove the car and I called out the house numbers and ran frantically though the rain to deposit each paper safely in each mailbox.

We dodged blind corners and potholes and slippery grass and hidden house numbers and crafty mailboxes.

It took us over 2 hours. I was soaked with sweat by the time we were finished.

Being the psychopath that I am, I thought that making a better map would help. Even on my own, I would be able to beat the time Nate and I set together.

How wrong I was...

This morning, I awoke at 4:15 and made a map, complete with ordered house numbers. I counted every single one to make sure I had them all, then showered and fled out the door at 5:30 so I could be at the Irving when the papers were delivered (usually at 6:00 am).

I was there in time all right. 6:00 came and went. Then 6:10. Knowing I have to be at work at 8:00, I called the carrier hotline, only to be told that the press was late, but not to worry - they'll be dropped off by 8:00, so you have until 10:00 to deliver them.

Seriously???

I was already on my way back home to spend 45 minutes with my hubby when they called again. The papers will be here in 5 or 10 minutes, they said. I turned around and headed back to the Irving.

6:20 came and went.
6:30...
6:35...

Finally, a nice man in a van named Jim dropped off the papers.
(The man, not the van, was named Jim.)

I only got half of them delivered before work, and I was still late.
Not to worry, said the Gleaner, we'll send out a broadcast saying that they won't be delivered until 6 pm tonight.

Sure...

After spending 8 hours painting a classroom the exact same crappy off-white color that it was before, I drove back to Marysville. I didn't get home until 6 pm.

All in all, I got told off by two old ladies (apparently they didn't get the Gleaner's memo about the late delivery), had my arms bruised by more than one screen door, got lost, was told I failed to deliver to an address that I distinctly remember delivering to, and swallowed a mosquito (which almost made me throw up).

Newspaper carriers around the world, I salute you!
(But you can no longer count me among your brethren.)

If anyone wants to be a martyr for 2 weeks (possibly less) ... Facebook me.
I'll pay you everything they give me (about $150/week).
But I wouldn't recommend it.