The weekend was a bust. Not like my bust, I mean a substantial bust. Like a Dolly Parton/Sumo wrestler embryo transfer love child into Pamela Anderson kind of bust. (FYI, try Googling “man boobs” some day. Just saying. It can be done, and you can find 10.1 million possible sites — including this one, now.)

Friday, high winds — I won’t subject your eye-brain accord to the torture, so just imagine that two-word descriptive in all caps with occasional gusts of italics.

Saturday, lovely day, me inexplicably exhausted and just a titch, shall we say, crabby. And by titch I mean that, if my crabbiness were the bust, it would’ve been in “Attack of the 50-foot Woman” proportions.

That evening I read a job posting for an online, three-month humor-writing gig. Sounded interesting and a bit twisted, so yeah, it was attractive. The two downsides were: 1) They wanted a writing sample on a specific topic and the deadline was end of day Sunday, as in just a little over 24-hours. 2) This is the start of riding season, do I really want a third job when I could be on horseback?

Sunday dawned cold and gray outside, warmer inside. I kind of had an idea, so mulled it over as I went about chores … and digging post holes. It occurred to me that in some dream world vision in which I could beat out roughly a gazillion people for the gig that I could hire someone to grunt their way through my corral project. Awe-some.

I was an idea machine after that.

So, throughout the day amongst my duties, both horsey and domestic, I worked on the project and my resume refresher. By 10:30 p.m. I folded the last load of laundry and left John to slumber as I wrapped up the last details with a hit-send-and-in-bed-by-11 objective. Tweak the text, twist, plump, retie, resave, copy/paste, recopy/paste, attach, delete, reattach, blah blah blah … because I. Can’t. Stop. Re-editing. Until you pry the work from cold, deadlined fingers. It’s an illness,

In the brief blah blah blah email about the purpose of this blah blah blah, I said something to the effect that I had pasted the writing sample below, but it also was attached as a Word doc. (Because the filing directions didn’t say which way they wanted the info to come, so do both, right? Cover all the bases. Smart, eh? Now I’m thinkin’.)

At 11:41 p.m. I was tired and totally ready to be rid of the burden of my OCD-related codependency on this fledgling writing sample. I copy/pasted the text one last time and just hit “send” for cryin’ out — Noouhaaarghhh! I didn’t reattach the final draft of the writing sample into the email.

At that point, Sunday officially became a complete bust. Not only am I certain that the company can and will find people of = or > caliber writing skills, I’m quite certain at least one of those witty geniuses will be thorough enough to make sure that all attachments promised are, in fact, attached. I’ve heard that it’s a simple thing to check, but I don’t know, and I certainly couldn’t swear to witnessing or practicing it.

I was in bed at 12:03 a.m. By going past midnight, I pretty much assured that Monday would be equally bustfull in a flat-busted sense of the word. Broke down and low down. Bust-er-o-roony.

I want to dig those post holes myself, really, at: pam(at)viewfromthenorth40.com

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