![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Sep. 8th, 2004 07:42 pmThe move has... moved. Closer.
Time passing has a way of doing things like that. Regina's been showing up every couple days, and the living room is now looking more like a storage cubicle than a home... which is fine with me. I want out of this place before I take an axe to the twitchy hunk of iron that's supposed to be a furnace. Most of the nicknacks and clutter in the living room has now been packed away... I need to hit the WalMart up on Ordnance Road to get more totes.
But today included a rather nasty kicker: Megan is again jobless. This time... this time, it's entirely NOT her fault, though... she ended up the target of the office bitch. I know three others who work for that company, and every one of them is enraged that Megan got short-ended today... one to the point of getting into an explosive argument with the office manager, about letting Her Grand High Bitchiness badger the shift supervisor into sacking Megan. She's got calls into three temp agencies, and on our way to the store tonight she dropped off resumés at two other places. I genuinely feel sorry for her - she came home dead certain that I was going to go completely off the rails, not realizing that one of her coworkers had called and told me exactly what'd happened and why.
*rubs her temples* Crys? Check and see if there's anything where you are, please? It'd be the ultimate in convenience, giving where we're moving to. We sign the lease for the apartment on Friday; I've got numbers for startup costs, and we're covered that far. And still the packing goes on and on and on. Given my tendencies to hoard computer hardware, I'd thought that my bedroom would be the worst area to pack. After going through the bulk of the 'little stuff' foo that was out here in the living room, I know better: Megan's room is going to be the bad one. Joy. But things are progressing.
And on that note... I'm going to go pass out. *thud*
Edit: I'm so tired that the 'NOT' in the second real paragraph never made the translation from brain to fingers. It's NOT her fault. *facedesks repeatedly*
Time passing has a way of doing things like that. Regina's been showing up every couple days, and the living room is now looking more like a storage cubicle than a home... which is fine with me. I want out of this place before I take an axe to the twitchy hunk of iron that's supposed to be a furnace. Most of the nicknacks and clutter in the living room has now been packed away... I need to hit the WalMart up on Ordnance Road to get more totes.
But today included a rather nasty kicker: Megan is again jobless. This time... this time, it's entirely NOT her fault, though... she ended up the target of the office bitch. I know three others who work for that company, and every one of them is enraged that Megan got short-ended today... one to the point of getting into an explosive argument with the office manager, about letting Her Grand High Bitchiness badger the shift supervisor into sacking Megan. She's got calls into three temp agencies, and on our way to the store tonight she dropped off resumés at two other places. I genuinely feel sorry for her - she came home dead certain that I was going to go completely off the rails, not realizing that one of her coworkers had called and told me exactly what'd happened and why.
*rubs her temples* Crys? Check and see if there's anything where you are, please? It'd be the ultimate in convenience, giving where we're moving to. We sign the lease for the apartment on Friday; I've got numbers for startup costs, and we're covered that far. And still the packing goes on and on and on. Given my tendencies to hoard computer hardware, I'd thought that my bedroom would be the worst area to pack. After going through the bulk of the 'little stuff' foo that was out here in the living room, I know better: Megan's room is going to be the bad one. Joy. But things are progressing.
And on that note... I'm going to go pass out. *thud*
Edit: I'm so tired that the 'NOT' in the second real paragraph never made the translation from brain to fingers. It's NOT her fault. *facedesks repeatedly*
