Disco-dancing, Oscar-Wilde reading, Streisand-ticket-holding friend of Dorothy

Uh-oh...now we're in trouble. I've been up since 5:00 this morning and I ate a heaping plate of biscuits and gravy for dinner a couple of hours ago before zoning out in front of the X-Files, so I'm pretty groggy.

What a relentless day at work, man. My old boss is on vacation and I'm covering her accounts for her while she's out and today just freakin' blew up in my face. Thursdays are interesting to begin with, when you consider these things:

• I drive on Thursdays. This may seem normal to some of you, but I usually take the train. Driving is insanely different and throws off my whole damned schedule.
• In order to miss the brunt of the traffic, I need to leave shortly after 5:30 if I want to get to work in the neighborhood of 7:00. That's right...90 minutes with virtually no traffic. Meh.
• I have a weekly job that needs to be done every Thursday, which takes up the bulk of the day.
• I leave the office at lunch time, packing up my laptop and files and hightailing it home so I can be here for The Princess's Thursday-afternoon Julie sessions.
• The remainder of my day is worked from home.

Now add this into the mix:

• One, albeit previously announced, big-ass project for one of The Boss's accounts today
• The fact that her other clients are completely and utterly clueless
• And the fact that this other, clueless, client is bombing me with requests where they don't even know what they want

And I'm about ready to run screaming into the night.
Yet, here I am...sitting in front of the computer rubbing my eyes like a toddler, unwilling to admit defeat.
Ooh, one funny-ass thing that happened today for those of you who are still reading through this stream-of-consciousness mess that is my blog today...and I totally forgot about it until right now, so I haven't even shared this with The Hubbs yet.
So I'm on my way home at lunch time and I pull up behind the girliest pickup truck I've ever seen in my life. It's an opalescent Cadillac Escalade EXT in Wonder Lake with the frilliest license plate cover and just an all-around air of snooty bitch. It's going 10 under, and we hit a passing zone. I drop it into 3rd and zip on by, unable to avoid sneaking a peak at the driver.
A man. Scratch that...a big, hairy man. Smoking a cigar and listening to what I swear was Barbra Streisand. And wearing a pink polo shirt with the collar popped and - I kid you not - movie-star shades (think Angelina, not Brad).
It was all I could do to keep my Focus on the road.
That's right, folks...right here in the good ol' Tucky I had an encounter with a real, live disco-dancing, Oscar-Wilde-reading, Streisand-ticket-holding friend of Dorothy.
Seriously. I couldn't make this shit up.