Fie upon thee, Friday. Fie, I say.

As much as it may appear that my workdays are all populated entirely by unrepentant loons, there is actually quite a wide range of bat-wackiness that I deal with from day to day. Fridays after 7 p.m., for instance? Major spike on the ape-snot seismograph, on pretty much a weekly basis.

The winning caller du jour: a woman who wasn't able to get through to her husband's number. Which, coincidentally, was her number. As in, the one she was calling from.

Now, this isn't unusual; I run into this a couple of times a week. Usually it's either simply a brain-lapse, or a caller dealing with the early stages of Alzheimer's or something similar. In this case, though, she wasnot only seemingly coherent, but there was apparently someone in the room with her, which made it a classic folie á deux. She would not take no for an answer, even though she somehow already knew that it couldn't be done. She insisted that I get her through to "that number," because it was "very important," and began to give me grief for my noncompliance.

It wasn't until I sent her up to my supervisor that a wee truth came out: the person sitting next to her in the room? That would be her husband. The one it was absolutely imperative that she get a hold of. And when the supervisor tried to explain the whole thing to her yet again, she handed him the phone to explain it to him instead. (He didn't get it either.)

Tomorrow, I get to chase two sugar-enhanced young'uns around a larghe back yard for a while. Shoudl be nice and calming.