Rough Day

Does anyone remember the children's book: "Alexander and his Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day"? Well, I think I'm having Alexander's day, though I did not wake up with gum in my hair and no one cares if I call Australia. I know a couple of people in Australia that I wouldn't mind chatting with, some who sew, some who wheel, some who are just cool. But I haven't called them.
I did get a report dumped on me at 9 for a 12 o'clock deadline by someone who thinks I can pull number out of my butt (now THAT would be a cool trick - maybe get me on Letterman?) and gets angry when I can't do it. Now do you get mad at David Copperfield when the tiger doesn't disappear? No, you just think it's part of the show. When numbers don't appear out of my butt, his boxers get in a wad. **sigh**
My pants are too big. They're pinned on and look stupid. These pants are just plain laughing at me, calling me names and waiting for me to trip over the hem so they can tell that pair of cropped jeans all about it tonight in the dark closet. Nasty pants.
My banana was all schmussed. Yuk.
My reports don't run right in our antiquated computer system. I think someone dropped the stone tablets and superglued them back together all wrong. But this relates to the numbers out of my butt theme from above. Does my phone actually connect to any one? Or does it just go into an empty room with an answering machine sitting on a bar stool?
I can't find my gel pen to write with, so I have this stoopid Bic thing. Soon as I find my real pen, it's going in the trash, along side the giant paperclip with ridges on it that tore my paper.
Too many people want too much stuff on too short a notice. No more **sigh**, we're up to a full blown **ARGGGGGH*, as Charlie Brown would have said.
Well, for 10:30, that's not bad. I have to go now, I need to call Australia.