Still struggling with it all. The flu I've had is just hanging on like a tenacious drunk at a party that can't take a hint. Kind of like the dude that cornered me at a function last year and slobbered and drooled, 'You know what? If Troy Cassar-Daly was on stage and saw me, he'd stop the show and say 'Hi'.' I smiled the frozen smile of one who has just realised another person has dogshit on his/her shoe. Maybe I should have grown a pair, metaphorically speaking, and come right out and said, 'You know what? I really don't care because I totally fucking HATE country music.' Certainly I'm much better than I was, but I just want it to be gone totally. My head aches from constant nose blowing. My nose is a regular cornucopia of snot. Worst of all, my husband has caught it and when he gets sick, He. Gets. Sick.
Anyway, I've ALMOST finished the paperwork I've had to do for the contents claim we've made since that godawful flood of Anzac Day. Seriously, how much shit did we lose? And how hard is it to work out the cost to replace? We've been in a furniture shop while we were in Dubbo, and last night realised there were still things we'd forgotten to price, such as mattresses, and quilts, and quilt covers, and Oh-I'm-Beyond-Giving-A-Shit-Now. I've spent the precious morning of my day off at the local Harvey Norman finalising quotes, and typing correspondence at the library because I have to replace my computer and printer when my claim is finalised. It's all too hard, and I've been rostered to start work early tomorrow. And I'm getting antsy; I want to get back into my work-in-progress, which is thankfully safe on a USB. But can't do that until I get a new 'pute. Sigh. Well, the paperwork should be posted first thing Monday after I have spent my Sunday off filling in figures on an inventory.
And I'm taking the fruits of my womb laser-tagging tonight, so I'd better go and get ready for it. When will it all end?
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