I’ve gone back to work, but I’m not myself. I’m grouchy and sore and, generally, moving a little slower. I am aware of it, which is why my answer to “How are you?” is “Sixty percent”. SIXTY. PER. CENT. GET IT?

Anyway, my discomfort is apparently amusing/annoying PITA and he has been really vocal about it. He’s spent the last three days making smartass comments about it, in his manic-y, bugeyed, not unlike Heath Ledger as The Joker, way. “IFYOUWEREMOVINGANYSLOWERYOUDBEGOINGBACKINTIME!” is one of my favorites. And, “HAVEYOUEVENMOVEDTODAY?” is another gem. Also, has taken to checking on me every fifteen minutes or so, saying things like, “WHATHAVEYOUDONESINCETHELASTTIMEIWASOVERHERE?” Please note: each quote is accompanied by hyena-like laughter.

Now part of it *is* that I don’t feel well, physically. The other part being that I came back to a hot mess of dead plants, slimy flowers, and a department that has been completely rearranged. There was time for moving everything I had spent a year setting up, but not for replacing stem rot soup with clean, fresh water. **Side note: I get a tiny quarterly bonus based on the profit my department turns. I have tossed thousands of dollars of merchandise in the last few days and seen my bonus crushed in a dumpster that smells like sweet death and hauled away by surly garbage men that in NO WAY resemble Roc.** Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, it took them four weeks to destroy it, and I’ve only had three days to clean it up.

Well, today the tiny, coked-up (allegedly) straw broke this ladycamel’s back. I snapped, and I’m not sorry. Santa’s helper (have I mentioned he is really short?) pushed me to the edge and I jumped. I went to the restroom, and came back to find him with a pen and a pad of paper, inspecting my department. “What’s up?” I said, not really wanting to know. “We need to talk. This is a list of things you SHOULD have gotten done today. THIS is a list of things you ACTUALLY got done. You are not even moving at HALF speed, at this point.” What? He had time to compose a list of my shortcomings but NOT to offer to help me complete the tasks that were obviously so important to him? I had frigging had it. “Hey, Nozo, how about I call a lawyer and you can tell HIM how slow I am? Oh, and don’t forget to show him that list you’ve got there because he’s gonna want an explanation as to why there isn’t one for ANYONE ELSE IN THE STORE!” He got quiet and took one step back. “…you don’t have to get mad,” he said, in a tiny voice, and walked away.

I am not that kind of girl. I have lived many years without threatening to sue anybody. In fact, it never crosses my mind. But, frig, you guys, I just couldn’t take it anymore!

Now Michael Jackson died. And Farrah Fawcett died. And I am a girl who yelled at her boss about suing his ass. Unless one of you knows Ally McBeal, this is going down a seriously unsexy road. And I like my roads sexy. It’s not been a good day.