Ellen Million (ellenmillion) wrote,
Ellen Million
ellenmillion

*grumble*



I was going to go make comments in some peoples journals, but stopped myself when I realized I just felt like 'up-shitty-ing.' You know... that one-up contest it's so easy to fall into. Sure, /your/ day was bad, but my day - my day was so much shittier. It doesn't really comfort, it's not really useful, it's just pity-me stuff that I can't stand in myself. So I'll drag it back to my own journal, hide it behind a cut and vent away.

So all that work I'd done earlier this afternoon, all those cards I'd printed for the orders that needed to go out - and some extras for the bazaar this weekend - are ruined.

Let me backtrack.

I took the afternoon off. I printed mostly cards, because I had some largish card orders to fill. About 4:40, my sister frantically asks me to watch the kids for her while she goes to teacher conferences. Jim was supposed to be there at 4:30, he'd be there any second and I could go. I wanted to be home about 5:30, and I still had to get the cards cut at Dateline and get groceries. I was getting hungry, too. Never a good thing in Ellen's life. Hungry Ellen = vicious, irrational, defensive Ellen. Ellen makes bad decisions, like 'sure, I'll watch the kids even though I have seventeen other things to do that don't involve sticky fingers and you can't trust Jim to be on time or anything other than flaky and undependable.'

I don't get mad at people that often. Honest I don't. And I don't like to badmouth people in a specific sense because I figure that anything I write /will/ come back to haunt me some day.

But Jim is a moronic, self-centered, shallow little creature and it occurred to me that if I saw him in a crosswalk, I might not slow down.

He showed up at 5:45.

Fuming, furious and hoping a glass of milk would last me to the grocery store, I went to Dateline where the brilliant number behind the counter tried to tell me how my designs weren't laid out so that a cut in the center would be correct.

I tell myself not to bite the head off the new girl who doesn't realize I've just been ignoring the sorry excuses of a pathetic weasel and doesn't know that I've been making cards for longer than she's been punching buttons on a cash register and has no idea how close she is to low-sugar induced homicide.

I just grit my teeth and say '5 and one half inches, please' with whatever stiff imitation of a smile I could muster. She shrugs and says okay.

She cuts the cards, and wraps 'em up in rubber bands for me. I point her towards my tab, she tells me the laminator will have to warm up to make the bookmarks, fine, I've got to go shopping anyway, I'll be back in half an hour. Scoop up cards, stalk out. No murder or anything! I'm so proud of me.

Got stuck behind the train.

Shopping is its usual headache. Bookmarks come out well, prices on lamination are gawdawful.

I get home, wrangle with Jake until we've both eaten, after which we make up and watch That 70s show, and tell each other about our days. (Bad news on the construction loan front...)

I wash dishes. Always a great time.

I head off to fold the cards to fill the orders.

And they aren't cut at 5 and one half inches.

There is a quarter of an inch difference in my stacks.

Here I am, trying desperately to pass myself off as something resembling a professional print service, and I can't even offer a damn uniform product. The difference isn't enough that a cutter would be able to trim it, it's a stack three inches thick - probably 175 - to cut individually, and half of them will be undersized.

All that ink, all that cardstock, all that goddamn time, right down the toilet. Sure, I can sell 'em in the bargain bin, but now, less than a week from the biggest show of the season, I've got to go back and do all that work /again/ so that I have cards that are /correct/ to include with the orders. And I won't be able to get more time off this week. And to be salvaged at all, I've got more time to invest in the mis-cut cards.

I am so frustrated I could cry.

In other news, I'm thinking about giving a one-week extension on the submission deadline. Remember that relief when the professor gave you an extra week to finish that big paper? I need that. I need that for me, so I can finish my mermaids and the snowy picture, and I'll bet there are some others that would appreciate it too.
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