I agreed to do a job for my boss. Specifically, painting the interior of his "weekend home". I estimated it would take nine days. Then some tasks were added, so I guessed twelve and added two more crew. Then I got there. The job was three times more work as described.
After the shock waned and my mouth went from agape to its normal, half-frown position, I went to work. Then after fifteen, fourteen-hour work days I sent the crew home (I couldn't afford to pay them another day)--the job a little over half completed. Then I went back, worked four more days, came home. I will go back again on Thursday.
I won't say I can see a light at the end of the tunnel, but there does appear to be a glimmer-like thing in the distance. Like the sheen on the oiled-up bloated belly of Brittany Spears, or similar.
I know there's some appropriate adage, along the lines of "never a lender or a borrower be..." about working for friends and relatives. How one should NOT do so. How does that go?
HEY! I'm back!...ooop! Wha? I have to what? Do what? Oh. Really? But... But I...okay.
It seems I need to get back to work. And find a backbone.
The dreaded morning has arrived. Today I must leave town to do a monstrous two-week gig that may, or may not, be the end of me. Light a candle for your Anti, will ya?
In the meantime visit the super smarty pants people to your right, and try to cut back to a half-pack a day.