3:36 p.m. - 2006-04-10
Milestones
Nothing too terribly exciting, but y'all know I love numbers, so:
1. I'm 12 weeks into this adventure (now out of major miscarriage territory), and that means
2. I'm down to ZERO vaginal suppositories per day, but...
3. Up to two iron supplements per day, since I can add anemia to the list of things wrong with me, according to my doctor. Also,
4. I have 195 days to go (theoretically), which means that next week,
5. I'm onto my 2nd trimester, which means it's safe for me to
6. Pay $175 to get my hair highlighted this Saturday and touch up all the roots that are down to my ears.
7. Also, I have approximately six months more of being a working-class girl before I can stay home for a while, baby at my bosom, and forget about (temporarily, at least) fun corporate shenanigans, such as my latest: Got a call from a former playroom employee, who says that she'd love to come back to work (it's been several years since she last worked for us -- she left us, she says), but someone at the gym informed her that there's some "nasty stuff" in her file preventing her from being rehired. She goes on to say that the manager at the time was "out to get her," and that when she threw in the towel (even after having worked hard through the death of her fiance), all our clients left, too, because apparently, they couldn't fathom not having such a supremely qualified playroom attendant employed with us.
I love when people tell you that other people are out to get them, don't you? Do you also hear the "ding-ding-ding" of warning bells, leaving you with the distinct impression that you are talking to a crazy person? These are the same people that swear the government is controlling them by emitting radiowaves through fillings in their teeth.
Anyway, Crazy Crazerson, as it turns out, left our employ not because she was fed up, but because we told her, "You can't work here anymore, so stop showing up." And now I have the unfortunate task of calling her back to remind her of this fact and informing her that, sadly, she's no longer welcome to darken the door of any of our gyms. I'm forgetful, too, but if I had been fired from a job, it seems doubtful I'd have a hard time recalling that.
Junior's getting hungry, so it's off to scroung around in my purse for any snacks I might have missed.
