I'm About to Crash

Why, pray tell, are you about to crash, Ms. Strainedconsciousness?

Dear Reader, I am about to crash because I spent 5 hours on a job site today.

Five freaking hours.

It was fun for the first 15 minutes or so, sure, but after that, concrete gets kind of boring.

Yes, concrete was the reason for my prolonged site visit(s): a 10 a.m. concrete pour this morning, at which I stayed for two hours, with a one hour break for lunch at Freebird's. After a little over an hour in the office, I was back on the site for a meeting with the general contractor and the foreman and the landscape architect and the interior designer, and the owner's representative/son.

The owner's representative/son is a couple of years younger than myself and is fascinated by construction.

He is also incapable of asking me a question.

He will ask anyone a question but me, in fact.

Today, he had a question about the concrete form work, so who did he ask? Naturally, he asked the interior designer, who is old enough to be his mother and who he's known for years. God forbid he should ask me a question. God forbid he should talk to a girl his age.

It's like middle school all over again, complete with the everyone's embarrassed because we're sweaty outdoorsy phys. ed. type atmosphere, but with khakis and work boots instead of Keds and hideous green nylon shorts.

After the site meetings were all over, I returned to the office to sit in the air conditioning for a while in a stupor while I rehydrated my brain. When 6'o'clock rolled around I fled and started driving towards home, at which point I realized I would have to cook, and that I didn't want to cook. I also realized that I didn't want what I thought I wanted (a cherry Slurpee).

No, I wanted a beer.

I briefly considered calling a friend of a friend who had offered to buy me dinner Saturday in a booze-fueled haze to force him into buying me food, but then opted to call my mom, instead (you got off easy this time, friend-of-a-friend). She met me at The Flying Fish, and I indulged in a catfish basket - two fillets, instead of my usual single - and a Pabst Blue Ribbon, for which they charge an ungodly $2.95.

Seriously, who charges $2.95 for PBR? Highway robbery!