Well, the fucking holidays are over and none too soon either.
Because the warehouse that I work in is a 7 day a week operation and is only closed 3 days a year - Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years - we get a heavier workload from about mid-November through the second week of January. Not only that but our work schedule is rearranged to fit the workload during those weeks that the holidays fall in. This year Christmas and New Years fell on a Friday so my schedule went from Saturday through Monday off to Friday through Sunday off which fucked me all up. For 2 weeks I felt like I was a day behind.
But there was gonna be an upside. I was going to get off early New Years Eve and have Friday through Monday off, a 4 day weekend, due to my schedule reverting back. I had planned on heading to the hills and staying for a couple or 3 days and fish my ass off, camp up in the snow, and maybe disrupting the peace and quiet with a little gunfire.
But that didn't happen.
Earlier in the week I found that my Grandpa Bud had been having a series of minor heart attacks. Then on the way home from work Thursday after putting in overtime instead of getting off early my mom calls and tells me that he was at the emergency room because he'd been pissing pure blood.Then she asks me if I'd stick close to the house in case the fucker up and died on us, just in case she needed me.
I swear, Bud's got shit timing. Couldn't he do this any other weekend than my one and only 4 day weekend of the year?
Needless to say, that put me in a foul mood to start my New Years celebration.
So I get in from work and promptly get into an argument via email with my ex - my divorce was to be finalized at midnight and we both needed to get one last shot in, I guess.
I was in bed by 10 pm New Years Eve (Yeah, I'm a party animal) and spent the rest of the weekend just hanging out. Cleaned house, paid bills, regular bullshit, waiting for a call that Bud had finally died.
I got up this morning and made my final payment to my divorce attorney and then headed to the vet's to have a talk with him about putting my old dog down. I've come to the realization that I'm keeping him alive more for me than for him. He's deaf, I'm pretty sure he's almost blind, he has a real hard time getting up as well as walking and I truly think that his mind's going. But it's gonna be so fucking hard to let him go. And here's the thing: He HATES going to the vet and I don't want him to spend his last moments freaked out and afraid. So what I was hoping was that Doc would just give me some pills that I could give him at home and we could spend his last minutes with his head in my lap with me scratching his ears.
But Doc was in surgery and the girl at the desk acted like it was the nuclear codes I was wanting instead of some tranquilizers. "Oh no, we couldn't do that, those drugs are controlled!"
Fuck it, I'll go back Saturday and talk to Doc himself. I've known him for 30 years and he can tell you the name of every dog that's owned me in that time. If for some reason he won't give me the drugs then maybe I can con him into coming out to the house and giving GODAMMIT THE FUCKING STONES ARE ON THE TV the dog a shot here in the living room.
I went to the hospital to see my "dying" granddad and I'll be damned if Bud wasn't sitting up in bed looking better than I've ever seen him, holding up a jar of blood he'd just pissed out, looking proud as hell about it. Thanks for fucking up my weekend, asshole.
I'm back to work tomorrow, hopefully things will get back to normal.