I don't like surprises. I never have.
Our meeting yesterday started with our boss bitching about how she had this great wine tasting planned for us, had rented a van and arranged for friends to meet us there, save for some new open bottle law which ruined the whole thing.
"It's a good thing we have your fabulous house to come to instead then," I said, attempting to get the ball rolling in the direction of adjournment. I work a lot. I didn't get to bed until 7am on Saturday morning and 6am on Sunday morning. It was 1pm on Sunday afternoon. I was tired.
3pm rolls around and there has already been two glasses of wine spilled and a spider attack (I had seen the fucker early on and been laughed at when I moved. It later fell on Kristie, who had taken my spot). Nothing is getting accomplished and I'm cranky. I've lost my barback this week and need to replace him by Wednesday. People aren't showing up for shifts and I'm the one picking up the slack. Things that aren't my problem are becoming my responsibility, but I can't resolve these issues without other people's help--that's the point of the meeting.
Dawn announces then that this is turning into a surprise party for us, that everyone who had been partying the night before at the bar, everyone I had been serving, is coming over. I still have last night's makeup on and am wearing a glorified slip. I quickly stand to depart, knowing immediately I won't be coming back but answering vaguely when I say how long it will take me to return. I get home and crawl into bed. And I cry.
I cry from exhaustion. I cry from disappointment. I cry from anger. I cry that somebody does something nice, like throwing a surprise party partially in appreciation for my efforts, and my immediate response is to run away. I cry that horrible things happen everyday, and for every horrible thing that happens, somebody who didn't cause it and doesn't deserve it is punished. I cry because there's nothing else to do. I cry because there's no one to tell me not to.