What IS IT with this week?? Has anyone else been encountering some really poor examples of humanity lately? I’m at a loss.

This week started with a two-page rant left on the windshield of my car proclaiming me a bitch twice and ordering me ‘the hell’ out of the lot, which is for ‘people of this block.’

I do, in fact, live on that block but even if I’d just jack-knifed a car and sped off into the sunset, this note was harsh.

Fast-forward to barely intelligible member of a local VFW who, breathing Captain and Coke all over me as I tried to relax with an after-work IPA, asked me to help him publicize his town’s Memorial Day Parade. Done… except he’s knocked on my door twice, interrupted me while I was working to ask about the project, and to then tell me he doesn’t think I’m doing it right. The last I heard, he was slamming his fist on the table in frustration when Ben told him I was unavailable, as he walked by the culprit trying to take our week’s garbage to the curb. No good deed goes unpunished.

Now, here I am today quietly praying that we will get an ‘early dismissal’ from work on this, the Friday before a long weekend begins. But I am still trying to get some work done, and hey, it’s kind of neat work. We are planning a photo shoot for a national product here at the agency. We need a male model, 25 to 35, for said shoot. Great, I think. My friend INSERT JERK’S NAME HERE is the right look, age, and has already sent us his resume and headshot.

‘Send {Co-worker} your stuff, if you want,’ I wrote in an email. ‘I don’t know if we still have your packet from last year on file.’

The response came quickly and tersely.

‘What the #$%^ is with you?’ it begins. ‘Why do you think I’m a male model? It’s degrading.’

‘You sent us your information last year. Nevermind, I was just passing it along.’

‘You’re drinking too many wine coolers.’

Nice. There’s nothing I love more than having a totally benign request equated to what must be a result of my massive drinking problem.

Oh wait, we do still have your packet from last year JERK. To the shredder I go.