A Day Away

Yesterday, after a fascinating CLE lecture in which I believe we might have found Bernie Madoff's hidden money and a good client meeting, I returned home to a frenetic GPOM.  He had spent the afternoon "fixing" our place, and to me it looked like nothing that was mine.

I had a wooden planter in my front room where I stored my frequently-worn shoes, my purse, my basket with all my keys, and my phone books.  (Yes, I still use a phone book.  Ain't no-one else letting their fingers doin' the walkin'.)  I looked about, looked at him, muttered, "No," and went to change clothes and take off my face.  I was not pleased.

Plus he put my mission side table in the same place where whenever he puts anything, I complain that I will break a toe there.  Because I do.  Inevitably.  Break a toe.  It hurts, people.  It hurts a lot.  I have an S-shaped left pinkie toe.

A bit later, after a breath, I was sitting in my office waiting for the internet to offer solace, when I noticed that my special secret tiny hiding space was now sitting on the floor.  It was out in the open.  It had been violated by eyes that weren't mine.  What do I keep in said place?  Well, I'll tell you, since the secret's out:  The key to my safety deposit box.  Spare keys with computer chips in them.  My good jewelry.  My savings bonds and much-loved two-dollar bills.

People, I was beyond pissed.  I told GPOM he might as well read my journals now, since that's all I have left.  "Your blog?" he asked.  NO.  I still have hand-written journals, full of piss and vinegar, from my childhood through college years.

Today I am calmer.  And my special secret tiny hiding space has found a new home.  And I think GPOM will never open anything of mine again.