Truly. Deeply. Madly

I'm afraid to go to bed. I'm afraid I'll spend all night making knots of the sheets and my shoulders because I'm gearing up for combat with this asshat tomorrow -- who'se already trying to lowball me on the phone just confirming tomorrow's meeting, -- and not sleep worth a shit, and thus be that much closer to full on Gorgon aspect when he finally does arrive.

I'm so damned tired of them fucking us around. I am so absolutely _tired_ of this shit! I'm too tired to even swear eloquently. I'm falling back on my truckermouth, and that's never a good sign.

And our contractor can't be here to defend his estimate tomorrow, either. He could have been, if the first adjustor had shown up when he promised to, but no, he stood us up instead. He's got a meeting in Queensbury tomorrow, and while I could phone him out of it after a certain time, I have no expectation that will be enough. Not if this guy is determined that he could do nine rooms on that proposed budget. So now I get to be the one to try and defend the proposal I did not write, over construction I am not going to do, and with subcontractors I can't call in to back me up.

Have I mentioned that sometimes, when I get mad enough, I cry? I fucking HATE that, and it tends to push me over the edge from angry to full on Red Headed Wrath state, because I hate being unable to keep the goddamned waterworks down, and I tend to take it out on whoever is goading me, but still -- it never helps. Never. Especially since I don't do 'pity the wee girlie' weeping at all well. Never have done. I never thought that trick would work for me anyhow.

God, I'm winding myself into knots over this already, and I need to bloody well STOP! I can't afford an anxiety attack tonight. I shouldn't be viewing this meeting tomorrow as an impending attack. I shouldn't be feeling cornered before the man's even showed up at the bloody DOOR. I shouldn't be feeling the circulation in my arms squeezing to nothing because my shoulders are too tense to let the blood through. I shouldn't be strongly considering drinking tequila this late at night, or just turning on the TV and staring at it until the hamsters in my head stop running in circles, and if that means just staying up until the appointment tomorrow, well that's why God made Hulu.com, isn't it.

I don't want to do this.
I'm afraid I'll do it wrong, and screw everything up.
Goddamn it.
And I most DEFINITELY don't want to do this while my damned Partner is out of the fucking state!

(I also don't want people to think I'm asking to be rescued here. I'm also not asking for pity or headpats. I'm just voicing my concerns in hopes that naming the demon will give me power over it. That said, positive wishes, and thoughts of calming competence would be gladly welcomed.)

Right then. Enough of this bollocks. I'm going to take a book to bed and see whether I manage to fall asleep before I finish it.

Well.

He's been, taken measurements, and gone. I'm coming down off the tension high a bit now, and suspect there might be a spectacular crash in the works soon. Our contractor was able to get out of his meeting in Queensbury in time to meet the guy here, and that was a tremendous relief to me. Also, it turns out that this guy didn't even see the bid sheet before he came. All he had was the total amount, without seeing so much as a glimpse of the proposal Chris did for us. So his tone with me last night was taken in total ignorance -- which is somewhat more forgivable than intentional distortion, but still alarming.

As expected, the parquet floor is likely to be a bone of contention. The assessor believes that his computerized prices for parquet are going to be adequate. Trouble is, parquet, as defined in modern building supplies, is just like any other self stick floor tile -- you take it out of the box, peel the backing, and chuck it down. That is NOT what we have here. We have hand-pieced 1/4 inch oak, in widths that simply are not milled any longer. So we're going to have to pay to have them re-milled to match. Betcha that's going to ring out at rather higher than a box of parquet flooring from Home Despot. I'm just hoping that the pictures he's taken will make a difference in letting him present the case to his boss.

He also tried to explain why it's taken four weeks for them to get back to us -- which amounts to 'you got lost in the system, sorry.' Not his doing, not his fault, but he did catch some of the fallout from it, seeing as how he was the very first actual PERSON we've seen to represent the company to us. As it happens, before two days ago, he personally didn't even know we, or our claim, existed. So they sent him in cold as well. Which basically strikes me as a stupid way of doing business... but I'm not a multi million dollar indemnity firm, so what do I know?

He's promised that we'll hear from him on Sunday or Monday. I am choosing to believe him as of right now, with the rider that the belief may change with my mood, and the passage of time.

So thank you to everyone who spoke up to calm me down, level me out, and slow the spin-up last night. I really apprecciate it.
And now, I think I'm going to try and go back to bed for awhile.

So I've been watching The Dresden Files on Hulu.com today, just by way of letting the tension of last night and this morning drain out of my ear, and... well... um.

I just might need some fanfic.
Badly.

Because the resentment/alpha male/territorial vibe between Harry and Morgan is the next best thing to Snape/Sirius, I'm telling you. And if one were to find a way to throw in H/C with Bob, I would be a very happy shiny new fangirl indeed. (What? Oh, I know Harry's not the least bit gay. Since when has that mattered for hatesex? My slash goggles DO have a setting that high, thanks!)

And yeah. I know the series is total popcorn; utterly without literary merit or world-changing profundity, and most likely not all that much like the books in any way. And you know what? I don't actually care. Because that scene in episode 7, first season, when Morgan gets up Harry's nose with "Other than that, I have no idea what you're up against, other than your own desire to martyr yourself for those who don't know you, don't like you, and don't understand you." Hohyeah. You could burn houses down with that kind of intensity. I craves it, Precious!

And of course, just like a sandwich, pr0n is always better when somebody else makes it for you.
I'm just sayin'.