Underwire

Men have it easy in some ways. Well, I'm thinking in one particular area.

They don't have boobs. They have no need for a bra. They will never experience a full day with an exposed wire poking into soft tissue.

If they do, I don't want to know about it.

And that, my friends, is about the extent of my day. All manner of irritating bits of underwire poking me and making me stark raving mad.

First, it's humid again. We had this lovely week of cool temps last week. It was accompanied by rain, but I was willing to have rain because it meant I was wearing sweaters and 3/4 sleeves without being a mess of sweat.

We're back to normal July weather for these parts. It's not hot, but it is humid and I am constantly sticky. Add the lingerie issues and I'm not set up to be in the greatest mood.

Now, add one steam-rolling, over-ambitious, downright scary faculty leader, who rubs me slightly the wrong way on a good day, and, well, let's just say I'm eating chocolate and trying not to scream the "F" word at the top of my lungs.

In most work environments, when you ask your supervisor for assistance, they give it. Mine loses it in her staff-room tray, then gives it back to me with a smile and a very insincere "I'm sorry!!!"

I'm no closer to knowing what to do with it than I was, and it's late because this woman has her head up her substantial rear end.

Urgh!

Anyway, I suppose if that's all that's making my day hellish, I'm still blessed. I had a lovely lunch with my friend Louisa. We skipped out of school during fourth lesson (which we both have free) and went to the Railway Pub for lunch. It was nice to just sit and relax and talk for an hour without being surrounded by kids, other staff and the "I need this, and hey, d'ya know where I left my ass this morning??" of St. Peter's High School.

Now, where's that chocolate?