My stress level is pretty much off the chart right now to begin with and will be for the next ten days or so.

What does not help is long, rambling 25-minute phone calls from my dad, strategically placed at the precise moment when I’m trying simultaneously to deal with work, a busted computer monitor, and the fact that apparently everyone who’s ever worked in mortgage lending at Bank of America is either an idiot or a flake who can’t return phone calls or email. Or both.

I liked my dad much better when he hated using the phone. And I liked Bank of America much better when…well…I never liked them, but at least I used to never have to interact with them either.

Yes, I realize this is a completely pointless rant, but I needed to yell about it somewhere before going to bed after not getting a damned thing done all night. It was a really bad day. I may need another Portlandia.