Andare, Partire, Tornare


Crisis + tour group + good food + sex = sleep

Woof. Yesterday was one of those interesting days that you have to recover from before you can write about it. It began innocently enough, although I suppose Hawaiian pop music isn't exactly of the norm (see the last entry) and I did have those schoolgroups to chase around the building making sure they were getting their daily reccomended dose of knowledge for Friday. But the real trouble started when....*cue Wayne's World "flashback" music*

I got back from the second of the two groups, and headed upstairs to help my boss reassemble the New Hampshire children's attic, which had just been repainted. She left to go get a dustbroom, and returned with a puzzled frown - our office manager had said something about going to the first floor because of a water leak, but she had gone to the first floor and not seen anybody, so headed back up to the attic to finish up with our little task. We finished placing the dolls in their little tea party and boudoir and kitchen setups, lined up the animals from the Noah's ark, and dusted off our hands. Job well done. So we went back downstairs to the first floor to see if the crisis was really a crisis.

Oh, boy. Was it ever. It had been pouring down with rain and hail all that day, and apparently some of the roof gutters stopped up, and started a beautiful cascade of water down one of the walls next to an atrium. Apparently it was stunningly beautiful, if not for the fact that it was INSIDE the building. And then we discovered that one of the whitework cases in the museum gallery had water dripping down the front of it, and some of it had seeped in, threatening the christening gowns that were inside it. And then we discovered that the archives of the library were equally threatened. Plus, when trying to move a piano (not the museum's, thankfully enough - if it was ours we would have never let it sit in the sun like it is, with its poor finish absolutely baking and bleaching away) that dated to the 1800's and had a cast-iron frame inside of it, two of the detachable legs had popped off and send the thing crashing to the ground. It'll have to be substantially conserved, but heck - since they'll be able to help the varnish, there's a good chance it will come back from the workshop looking better than it does now! Luckily, our christening gowns were safe - only one got even the slightest bit damp, and it can be washed out without giving it a second thought.

Was this the end of my day? No! Even though it was already five by this point, I had to hang around, because I had volunteered for a special event occuring that evening. We always have trouble getting docents to show up, and this was a big catered party for 400 oncology nurses that were having some sort of convention. They had a band and buffet tables scattered everywhere -it all looked gorgeous and springy. So from seven to ten, I escorted tours of nurses around. They were all interested, cheerful women (although I'm sure the booze helped - sometimes it takes alcohol to have a good appreciation for decorative arts) and I had a better time than I expected to. Finished off the evening by snacking off the catered food remains - yummy spinich and feta in philo dough, big strawberries, turkey and ham, and different kinds of cheese - with Bemo, who had come to pick me up.

Got home, had an entertaining romp in the sack with Bemo, and slept like a rock. There's nothing like a crisis followed by a tour group followed by good food followed by sex to make you sleep well. Not that I would have known that before yesterday. And I don't think I can replicate those conditions again.

Today was nice, but average - therapy riding, followed by swimming at mom's house (where Boop took off a big hunk of skin off my nose by flinging a plastic pool toy at it) and then home, where Bemo is napping until eleven, when he has to head to the radio station to work tonight. I'm staying at home to make a dent in Mt. Laundry.

Speaking of Boop, by the way, she had decided to abandon LiveJournal's distinctively inferior format *sneer, sneer* to a diaryland diary. So you can now find her at Purrbiscuit,which was a name I half-jokingly gave her (we call Bogie the cat purrbiscuit a lot). So don't go looking into the name for deep psychological insights into her existence, ok? Just go read her diary.

9:12 p.m. - 2002-04-20


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