PMS

PMS should stand for Please Make (it) Stop.  I’ve been in a rotten mood since yesterday when I had a difference of opinion with a published member of my RWA chapter, who shall remain nameless (but if you email me, I’ll gladly tell you who she is).  The implication was that her time is too valuable to waste on our chapter contest, the annual event that funds our activities for the year.  I’m not coordinating this chapter’s contest for the fun of it; this thing sucks up my time like a Hoover.  Yet she wants special privileges if she’s going to deign to help her chapter out.  I asked her to take 2 entries to judge, while I’m taking 25.  I’ve been ready to spit nails since last night.

The snow started around 10:30 last night and it looked like it was coming down pretty good, so I thought, “Yay, snow day!”  Problem being, I was still so pissed off about the chapter/contest/judge mess that I couldn’t unwind, so I stayed up to watch TV and knit a little, hoping it would cool me down.  It didn’t work, and now I’m short on sleep, sitting at work after driving through the slop, only to get here and find I’m one of two people who braved this mess to come in.  Oh yeah, and the cafeteria is closed (because work is on a 2 hour delayed opening) so I have no idea where I’m going to get a cup of coffee, but I need one. 

Monday, Monday.  Can’t trust that day.

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