Over the last week or so, a lot of my blog-pals from the distaff side of the species have been expressing themselves on the matter of That Time Of The Month, its effects, the coping mechanisms to bear on said effects, etc.
I, as someone whom God and nature decided to plumb otherwise, have never thought I had anything to compare with such an experience. But I was wrong. I have something that is, admittedly in a weak-tea way, kinda sorta similar. A distant relation.
I have what I will call This One Client (TOC). As you know, my very dear Internet, this is my slow season. Slow is not a synonym for work-free, alas...so I have to do a (very) modest amount of honest toil every day. One of the tasks falling under this rubric is to mail out a statement to my clients. This statement, if you were to see it (and I am not allowed to show you, so don't ask) would be ridiculously self-explanatory. It would list the projects undertaken by the client, who much the client spent initially, how much the client has to spend quarterly, and the likely payoffs if the client were to sell off the project at various stages. Everything has clear column and row headers, and even has those click-to-read Excel explanations/notes on important (and highlighted in twinkly yellow) numbers. Dead simple.
TOC cannot make head or tail of this. Every month, for 5 days, I have to take time out to babysit TOC through the same statement (well, new numbers are added every month, duh) answer the same questions, etc. Every month I have to sit down and write damned near an essay's worth of explanations. (Yesterday, I took three hours--when I could have been shopping for shoes--to do this.) Today I am in danger of missing a most excellent sale at Nordstrom on tchotchkes I wanted for JokeFest'06...or at least missing the good stuff, because it all goes within 30 minutes of opening.
So, I may not feel your pain, exactly (so don't jump all over my $#!+...you know who you are) but I feel your pain's 2nd cousin.