Budget madness ends- but my life is still bizarre.

My day yesterday:

5:45 am:  Innocuously climb aboard an elliptical trainer at my neighborhood gym.  Within the 1/2 hour aboard, learn that the new owner of said gym doesn't believe that acid-washed jeans have gone out of style.   Toward the end of my a.m. sweat session, get into a semi-brawl with a father of a high-school classmate who claims that Obama represents socialism and I must want socialists to take over the country. 

8:17 am: Peaceful commuter rail ride disrupted as a set of women sit across from me.  Our knees nearly touch.  Women #1 proceeds to tell Woman #2, and inevitably myself, about her tumultuous relationship.  Apparently #1's Man ditched her at Chowda fest, and paraded around in a costume.  Loosely tied to this event is #1's disdain for the way that the Man treats her.  To resolve this issue, #1 went to have her cahds read.  #2 quickly inquired to whom #1 to get her cards read to which #1 responded:  "I get my cahds read by all of them; Regina, the otha one- I've spent so much g.d. money getting my cahds read this week.  But whateva, it's what I'm into."  Apparently Regina, card heiress extraordinaire, told #1 to change her locks, break up with the Man after he had done all the work that needs to be done around the house.  

8:54 am: I briefly ponder becoming a card reader/opportunistic woman guide.

9:36 am:  Six minutes into a site visit at an urban nutrition center, I realize that the woman who is to guide us through the ins and outs of said center is Not Well.  

10:04 am  Woman at center reveals that she is all jacked up on steroids and other drugs.  Reasons sited include: major problems lately.  Hmmm.  She proceeds to guide us through the paper work needed to apply for the service.  Such directives included, but were not limited to, "and then I have them sign on the line right here.  Then they put the date next to that line, on the 'date' line."  

11:40 am: Return to office, fearing a voice mail box filled with questions about my morality.  Recent budget cuts had dropped upon the Commonwealth the day before and I had the good fortune of having 6 of the 9 cuts highlighted in a local newspaper be those within the departments with whom I work as designated budget cutter.

11:42 am: Finish checking voicemail.  No angry constituents, only those confused that all earmarks are not showing up as cut on the website. 

11:47 am:  Come to grips with the fact that I will never, ever be able to figure out website programming.

12:oo-5:00 pm:  Frantically attempt to catch up on the regular business that fell to the wayside amid budget cut panic.

5:45 pm:  Sign the lease to my new apartment.  Simultaneously become excited and scared (a la Jesse Spano) to live there and pay for it without taking on a stint as a street mime or otherwise untaxed employment.

8:16 pm:  Go to bed.  Exhausted from budget cut madness, commuter rail trauma and occasional anger toward Sarah Palin.