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Our pilot light somehow went out last night, causing our heater to shut down. When I woke up, everything in the apartment was like ice. (I am not exaggerating.) I threw a blanket over Sable, relit the pilot light, cranked up the heater, and got back in bed until it was -- well, not warm, but less cold. I can't wait until this damned cold weather is over. Sable shit all over the floor a few days ago, probably because the weather was so terrible (cold and wet and windy) that he didn't want to go out. Either that, or he's so old that his plumbing doesn't work anymore. And I really hope it's not the latter, because I can't deal with that.
I am a tiny bit excited that the Saints are going to the Superbowl, but I also will be very happy when it's over and everyone stops talking about it. A lot of my customers today were wearing Saints shirts and/or black-and-gold Mardi Gras beads. I'm scheduled to close tomorrow, no doubt because my managers knew that I don't pay attention to football and wouldn't care.
I had a dream a few days ago that one of my managers -- one of my nicest managers, actually -- went drunk-driving and crashed his car into our apartment building (or a house nearby, I can't quite remember). He was okay even though he was covered in blood, and when he saw me, he slurred, "Rebecca, you can't tell anyone at work about this!" I began to suspect I was dreaming at that point, because he's the last co-worker I'd expect that from. I told him about it at work the next day -- which I maybe shouldn't have done, in retrospect -- and he was weirded out.
I am a tiny bit excited that the Saints are going to the Superbowl, but I also will be very happy when it's over and everyone stops talking about it. A lot of my customers today were wearing Saints shirts and/or black-and-gold Mardi Gras beads. I'm scheduled to close tomorrow, no doubt because my managers knew that I don't pay attention to football and wouldn't care.
I had a dream a few days ago that one of my managers -- one of my nicest managers, actually -- went drunk-driving and crashed his car into our apartment building (or a house nearby, I can't quite remember). He was okay even though he was covered in blood, and when he saw me, he slurred, "Rebecca, you can't tell anyone at work about this!" I began to suspect I was dreaming at that point, because he's the last co-worker I'd expect that from. I told him about it at work the next day -- which I maybe shouldn't have done, in retrospect -- and he was weirded out.
