I’m not sure if my exhaustion is making me intolerant or if people are just morons and I’m simply more forgiving when I’m well rested.

For example, in the face of my moving and life change stressors, one friend felt the need to fill me in on the supposed horrors of the neighborhood where I’ll be living. Apparently, I’ll be living in a very dangerous section of the ghetto where my status as a single woman living on her own will make me a ready target for rapists, murderers, and thieves. This friend is shocked at my choice and concerned both for my safety and judgment at choosing such a place.

What I wanted to say: gee, thanks Friend! My worries about choosing an appropriate place to live, someplace where I feel safe, my dogs will be safe, and my neighbors are tolerable has abated considerably after your well-intentioned comments. Apparently, my judgment really IS severely impaired. Remember the crack den that used to be at the corner of your street where you lived with your new baby? I guess I should have chosen to live there! Instead, the area I’d chosen based on its proximity to school, affordable rent, and what I’d supposed was a relatively safe area populated by a largely gay community with an abundance of shops and coffeehouses is apparently rife with crime. What was I thinking? It’s great that you discussed this with all of your coworkers, rabid women who are entirely unfamiliar with the area and are famous for nonsensical horror stories (remember the time Ethel’s nephew’s girlfriend’s friend went swimming in a public pool and contracted syphilis, cholera, and chronic bad BREATH!?!), and felt the need to share your entirely reliable information with me when I am so desperately in need of such information. To hell with supportive, informed acquaintances! Who needs to live without that kind of stress?

Then, of course, there’s the coworker who overheard that, thanks to a last minute cancellation by my dog sitter for next weekend when I’m out of town for a wedding, I’m trying to find a respected kennel for the forty-eight hours I’ll be away from home. After barging in my cubicle and asking a half a dozen probing questions about exactly what sort of person would dare to leave her dogs in such an establishment, I discovered that I’m apparently one step away from being jailed for animal abuse. Don’t have anyone to watch your dogs? Then stay home!

What I wanted to say: sorry, you judgmental Republican Conservative Catholic busybody, but get the fuck out of my cube. If I’d wanted your opinion I would have sought out a mental clinic for desiring such a thing. I’m sorry that you have neither friends, much of a life, or anyone that cares about either of the former, but what I do or do not do with my dogs is none of your damn business. I take excellent care of them, thanks all the same. Now please, go back to your desk and pretend that you know how to do your job.

Yes, people are pissing me off.

The highlight of my otherwise crap-laden weekend was my lazy Sunday evening with A. As usual, I met him after sailing at his house for dinner. He ordered a spread to satisfy my every insane craving from the week and I ate until I practically exploded. Afterwards, I worked on some editing from the day job (I never turn my nose up at OT) while he sat with me and read. It was a perfectly companionable evening. We’d just glance at one another every so often and grin shamelessly. If this night was a preview of the years ahead then I will be absolutely content. I love that we can be together without focusing every ounce of attention on one another. I can’t imagine him getting exasperated when I read and, desperate for attention, grabbing my book and flinging it across the room, forbidding the reading of books in his presence. Oh yes, I’m speaking from experience.

Wish I could just end on that note, but I can’t help looking ahead to the events of this coming week. Work today and tonight. Work tomorrow and tomorrow night. Work Wednesday and pack in the evening. Work Thursday and Thursday night. Depending on whether or not I have a dog sitter this weekend, shop hurriedly for a dress to wear to a wedding on Friday morning and drive to Michigan with A and company Friday afternoon to meet his college friends and attend a wedding. Drive home Sunday, get the dogs, see String Cheese Incident Sunday night, then start another week of work. I’m tired just thinking about it, but note that weekend off I have coming up. Can’t gloss that over, no matter how bitchy I am today…