One of those days. Ever have one of those days? Things could have been a lot worse, and that’s the best thing I can think of to say about today. I could have scalded my foot off instead of dropping a bit of grease on my naked toe while making French toast this morning. Yeow, it hurt, but it could have been worse. One of those days.

Last night the water in my house was off for three hours, which was not only inconvenient but also a little freaky, because I couldn’t raise anybody at my landlord’s house. He always forgets to tell me when he’s going to turn off the water for whatever reason, so I didn’t panic until I realized he wasn’t even home. It was a big relief when I got my water back, but I spent a lot of valuable time with my stomach tied up in knots over it.

But it could have been worse. Of course.

When I woke up this morning I thought the worst had happened. My head was so plugged up from sinus or allergies or motor oil or something that I couldn’t hear out of my right ear. This has happened occasionally since the last time I had the wax blown out of it by my former personal physician, but this was one of the worst episodes, and I was worried (especially because I’m between doctors right now).

But I recovered my hearing and my equilibrium after a few hours of diligent head-shaking and jaw-stretching and the like, so I just chalked it up to “one of those days” and felt grateful it wasn’t any worse than it was.

This afternoon I was trying to relax, watching the truck race from Kansas City, when I heard the fax machine roar to life. And then page after page came spitting out of it, so I got up to check on what was happening. By the time the tenth page had been printed, the ink had started to run out.

Tim was sending me not only time cards, but also copies of his personal credit card statements from the last six months. He wanted to be reimbursed for business expenses he’d charged, but he wanted it all done at once. He’s not good on paperwork, and he and I both know it. But when he’s sending me expense sheets for projects that were completed months and months ago, even he should know that he’s throwing off our cost reports. Not that he cares.

But I had to stop the machine in the middle of all this and change the ink cartridge, then call Tim and ask him to re-send the last few pages. While I was shaking out the new cartridge (I always do that so the ink doesn’t stick), I spattered my arms and my shirt with tiny splotches of black ink. That was just about the last straw, until I burned the frozen pizza tonight. But I ate it anyway (the pizza, not the ink), so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It wasn’t good, though.