Just A Bit Outside

Most of the time, life is just swell. There may be those dogmatic moments that make you want to bite your lip off in aggravation but they are soon tempered by some sweet upswing, that proverbial silver lining that puts the world in perspective and makes all things right with the world. Most the time. But now and again, you get the curve ball of crap hurled squarely at your head and not only are you not allowed to advance to first base, you have to muddle through numerous other foul balls slung at your person until the day draws at last to its final close.

This was one of those days.

The morning alone set the scene. I rambled from my apartment clutching an overstuffed purse, a briefcase overflowing with numerous transient files, my battered old laptop, a gym bag stuffed with bulky boxing gear and clutched in my arms was a pet carrier containing a wailing geriatric cat named Figaro slated for an ultrasound with my cute vet. Resembling nothing short of an urban Sherpa, I flagged furiously for a taxi with my one good hand. It took a long while for one to stop. Temper on simmer.

After I dropped the cat off, I hotfooted it to the subway, still draped in the balance of my baggage. On the subway, I tried to wrestle a woman for an available seat at the Lincoln Center stop. She stepped on my toe to get to the seat before I did. While I resigned the seat, I am still stewing over the fact she did not acknowledge trodding her big dogs on my bare sandaled toes.

Once downtown, I stopped to get a bagel and coffee at the nearest deli. I got in late from Boston last night and having skipped dinner, I was ravenous this morning. The counterman poured the coffee and asked, "Sugar?" "No, just cream, please" "Half & half?" he asked. "No. Skim milk," I replied. "We don't got skim milk," he said. "OK, how about 2%?" "No." "Fat free?" "No." "Regular milk?" "No. We just got half & half." "Just black, please," I ask. When I got to work, he did leave it black, but it was flavored coffee...raspberry chocolate or some such crap. I pitched the lot.

I had two hours to finish my quarterly financial forecast before the review with my business manager. I open the database to review it in line by line detail to check for any variance flags that might alert the CFO. There are revenue shortfalls, yes, but I've got my narratives highlighting the market conditions ready to go. Suddenly, I look at the expense lines. They've all increased. Significantly. The contribution is utterly eroded. Cue the music from "Psycho." WTF? Did we hire Celine Dion to perform at the Christmas Party? Panic ensures. I spend the next three hours dissecting 12 profit centers.

During that three hour period, I get numerous phone calls which I foolishly answer. One is from the Queen Bee who's in a panic over a tense situation with one of her staff. I can tell she's on high octane java (I note enviously) because she's repeating herself. I love the Queen to bits, but I'm under the gun for time and have already offered her what I think is sound advice. I finally have to utter the cut the cord phrase: "Bottom line it for me." Cruel to be kind, I'm afraid, at least today.

Midday, I had to interview a candidate for a sales manager position. He was very charming, clearly competent, fearless and fresh with that idealism that he can take on the world and make it his bitch. Good. Those are qualities I like in a salesperson. As I led him out of my narrow office back to the reception area, the pocket of my new Banana Republic pants caught on the uber-modern knob of the office door and as I turned, I got caught. The salesman had to detach me. Brownie points, for you young man; assbite credit for me.

It's past lunchtime and I'm starving again. I don't have time to go out to fence some lunch so I rummage in the boxes I've packed to ship to my Connecticut office but haven't bothered to mail yet. I find a really hard chicken bouillon cube and a packet of Saltines. I combine this with half a bag of trail mix that I bought at Logan Airport last night. A little boiling water can make a meal.

While writing a reorganization document for my boss, I get a call from my gym. They are concerned that I am slacking on my training. I want to say to them, "Are you fucking kidding me?" Slacking? I barely get home anymore. But I'm scared of the Joshi who can kick my ass six ways to Sunday. I promise to go five hours between now and Saturday. Time travel is now worth investigating since that appears to be the only way to fulfill that commitment.

Mid afternoon, I hear a curious thing--one of our regional sales managers has quit because she can't figure out how to work our e-mail system. Well, that's original. Or a new euphemism.

The cute vet calls and announces that my nearly 19 year old Figaro has cysts in his depleted kidneys. Long pause. I am waiting for the cute vet to tell me that my cat has sucked dry the ninth of his lives. But no. Cute vet says, "But he's doing really good! The cysts are non cancerous. His edema has reversed. He's OK. He should be dead by now, but he continues to persevere. It's really miraculous." Oh, and by the way, please pick him up by 6:15 pm when the office closes and today's fee will be $411. All credit cards accepted.

I run for the subway in order the make the vet deadline. My blackberry is buzzing with e-mail arrivals like a hornet's nest. I have left half my workload unfinished. I am feeling incompetent. As I get on the subway and fence for a seat, I realize my vision is out of whack. My peripheral vision is shaky and static like a TV channel you can't get the reception for. These are my presenting symptoms for a migraine. I only get them a few times a year and recognizing the symptoms, I know how to deflect them with analgesics. I root through the bag of plenty useless (read: purse) for something to combat what will be a very painful problem in 20 minutes. I find a small container with some liquid gel Advils and quaff them down dry. I don't do that very well for within seconds, I am hacking like a critter heaving a furball. Christ on a Stick. Undignified behavior on the train is the natural denouement of the shit day. I finally get the tablets down and leave that delicious ibuprofen aftertaste in my mouth for the next hour.

I collect the cat, wink at the vet and as I began the day, try to hail a cab with my person loaded down with baggage. I finally flag one down in front of the Beacon Theater (where I note Earth, Wind & Fire are playing in two weeks). The cab driver's first language is grunt, but he does get me and Figaro home. I'm spent. I'm deflecting pre-mature hot flashes. I have absolutely no groceries in the house. My blackberry is buzzing like an epileptic. The dregs of the migraine are dissipating, leaving a dull tinny taste in my mouth. And the dreary cold weather of this morning has suddenly turned humid and warm.

I got home. I put on shorts and a tank top. I poured a glass of wine (despite my no drinking during the week rule unless I have a dinner/company/bad day). And now I have to find someone who will spirit me off to Fiji for two weeks. Accepting all applications.