Have you ever been shot out of a cannon?

I know we owe two weeks of posts on this blog, but I just have to quit doing anything in order to share the tale of the Half Week of Calamity Jane.

Monday and Tuesday of this week I have been preparing for a major event we had with the Department of the Interior today. Both days I was ONLY doing preparations for the event, and a haze had settled over my ability to think about personal hygiene, email or phone calls. I usually kick my shoes off under my desk when I'm seated there for long periods of time, which I had done on this particular day.

So there I am, at my desk, working on spreadsheets and invitations with my shoes kicked off and I am given immediate instructions to deliver other instructions to a girl who worked on the other side of our office. Up I get and off I go to deliver the assignment, so important was it that my supervisor was waiting on the other end of the phone for me to come back and say it was done.

It was not until I had crossed out of the lobby, through the elevator bay, into cubicle city and out again that I realized I had NO. F***KING. SHOES. ON. Not a sock, not a stocking, not a sole. And who should be standing in the elevator bay as I am running through it, looking at me like one of my feet was falling apart before her eyes, while I'm running, waving my arms and saying "I know, I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry"--my Chief of Staff.

Today was the Main Event, in New Orleans. Now, the last time I had worn my black pencil skirt, some of the hem came undone at work, so I stapled the hem and colored the staples with a Sharpie as a quick fix. And then, as I am wont to do, I forgot all about that shit, and put that pencil skirt on this morning. When I got to New Orleans, not only did I remember that the bitch was stapled on, but realized that the REST of the hem had been liberated also. So a coworker came from the New Orleans office, armed with a stapler and a Sharpie, and hemmed the rest of my skirt. The sad part is that the hem STILL won't be fixed the next time I put it on and leave the house in it.

Finally, you may recall that I made some serious fun of Corey's ass stepping on his own toe and breaking it. I myself have personally broken my own two baby toes so many times they don't face forward--it's cuter than it sounds. It wasn't until I got home after 10 hours in pointed-toe shoes that the pinky toe I had slammed on the closet door at 6 AM started throbbing. Why? Because it's all swollen and purple and BROKEN.

I need a mental health day.