Monday, January 26, 2015
Things that happened when I worked 70 hours of overtime in less than two weeks in January.
Cold Popeye's chicken fingers dipped in cold Popeye's mashed potatoes was deemed a perfectly acceptable dinner. Twice.
I got dressed from the load of laundry in the dryer, like it was my bedroom bureau.
When my boss momentarily forgot about my crazy deadlines, and asked if I would be "going home to PA this weekend?," I snapped "No! I will be coming HERE this weekend! AND next weekend! AND the one after that!" Like a crazy person.
Half a bag of chipnitzel cookies was deemed a perfectly acceptable dinner.
My hair... suffered.
I began to fondly recall that one Saturday morning when I got to sleep until 10 AM. Before going in to work for nine hours.
Barbecue potato chips and dip was deemed a perfectly acceptable dinner.
I forgot to look at the Oscar nominations until noon on the day they were announced, instead of bounding out of bed to check them.
I left my flat iron on while I went to work for 15 hours. Note: apartment did not catch fire.
I lost so very many Trivia Crack games by not playing them in time.
Half a bag of microwave popcorn and some cheese was deemed a perfectly acceptable dinner.
After working 12 hours on MLKJ Day, I muttered "This is not what they meant by 'a day of service!'"
The day I left work at 9 PM, I thought to myself "I can't believe I'm getting out of here so early!"
I once considered just staying at the office through the night, but I knew my co-worker would notice that my clothes had not changed. And sure enough, the next morning she checked my clothes.
I still managed to watch the six-hour Season 2 of The Fall, which, I guess goes to show that Netflix is like the house in Vegas: it always wins in the end.
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