For whatever reason, I quite like the term "international pariah."
Now if only someone *ahem* would feed the pariah some poisoned sardines...
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
I Got Your Hey-Oh
1. I am only somewhat amused by the gleaming white toilet currently adorning my neighbor’s side yard. It’s been a month now and I’m more than tempted to gather up a bag of cat shit and dump it unceremoniously in the bowl. I wonder if my neighbor is confused about the generally accepted functions and locations of a toilet. I mean, maybe they're from the hills of Uzbekistan where a toilet is considered a Tool of Satan. Maybe they like hovering over a hole in ground. Maybe it’s an art installation piece and I’m just too uncultured to appreciate its bold statement about the struggle of humanity against oppressive societal norms. Or maybe they’re just lazy. Total toss-up. Also, the piece of plywood propped up against the toilet tank does nothing to disguise the actual fucking toilet sitting in the yard. The YARD, people.
2. Whenever I go to the grocery store I have to drive past a giant green billboard with JESUS in pristine white letters. It’s always confused me because there is no church affiliation stamp to lead Jesus-seekers to the proper Jesus location. Just Jesus. All the time. I also seem to pass the disgusting foot sore billboard, at least more than I would consider my fair share. I’m all for people getting foot ailments taken care of, but I’m not sure it’s really necessary for me to see a giant gaping quarter-sized crusty hole on the bottom of some customer’s foot. Because, EW.
3. My new work schedule makes every day feel like Saturday. Only I’ve discovered I don’t much like a never-ending Saturday. I get the impression I’ve been sucked into some Groundhog Day-esque time warp. Let’s do the time warp again! God, sorry, total flashback to my college days and dancing to the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack dressed up as Snow White. That whole Snow White thing is a complicated explanation; just rest assured I was a bitchin Snow White. I had chin-length dark hair with pale skin and cartoon-proportioned breasts. Put me in a blue dress and it was like sending out a homing beacon to all the cranky dwarves in the world.
4. I’m pretty sure someone just got shot in the house next door. Only logical explanation, really. I heard a pop, followed by an OH SHIT, followed by a BITCH! followed by the sound of rubber not making good contact with wet pavement followed by police sirens about ten minutes later. The last time I heard someone get shot I was living on the corner of Broadway and 16th. Don’t judge, it was a wicked cute apartment. Anyway, as it happened some young delinquent with robbery (and crack) on the brain decided to break into my neighbor’s restored Victorian house. The delinquent was obviously new to the ‘hood because of all the houses to pick, THIS WAS DEFINITELY NOT THE ONE. The guy gardened with a 22 by his side, for goodness sake. His car was covered with NRA and ‘God Bless George W.’ stickers. Put two and two together and you’ve got a gun-toting right-wing Republican. I recognized him for a man not unlike my father, who told me if someone ever tried to break in our house that I was to aim for the head and drag the body inside the house. Didn’t want the little fuckers suing us after a disabling shot. As for my neighbor, he aimed the gun through his window when he heard the lock being jimmied. He missed the first, second and third time. But then he got good and warmed up, jogged out the front door and shot the would-be deviant as he was running down the street. All in all, it was quite the good time.
2. Whenever I go to the grocery store I have to drive past a giant green billboard with JESUS in pristine white letters. It’s always confused me because there is no church affiliation stamp to lead Jesus-seekers to the proper Jesus location. Just Jesus. All the time. I also seem to pass the disgusting foot sore billboard, at least more than I would consider my fair share. I’m all for people getting foot ailments taken care of, but I’m not sure it’s really necessary for me to see a giant gaping quarter-sized crusty hole on the bottom of some customer’s foot. Because, EW.
3. My new work schedule makes every day feel like Saturday. Only I’ve discovered I don’t much like a never-ending Saturday. I get the impression I’ve been sucked into some Groundhog Day-esque time warp. Let’s do the time warp again! God, sorry, total flashback to my college days and dancing to the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack dressed up as Snow White. That whole Snow White thing is a complicated explanation; just rest assured I was a bitchin Snow White. I had chin-length dark hair with pale skin and cartoon-proportioned breasts. Put me in a blue dress and it was like sending out a homing beacon to all the cranky dwarves in the world.
4. I’m pretty sure someone just got shot in the house next door. Only logical explanation, really. I heard a pop, followed by an OH SHIT, followed by a BITCH! followed by the sound of rubber not making good contact with wet pavement followed by police sirens about ten minutes later. The last time I heard someone get shot I was living on the corner of Broadway and 16th. Don’t judge, it was a wicked cute apartment. Anyway, as it happened some young delinquent with robbery (and crack) on the brain decided to break into my neighbor’s restored Victorian house. The delinquent was obviously new to the ‘hood because of all the houses to pick, THIS WAS DEFINITELY NOT THE ONE. The guy gardened with a 22 by his side, for goodness sake. His car was covered with NRA and ‘God Bless George W.’ stickers. Put two and two together and you’ve got a gun-toting right-wing Republican. I recognized him for a man not unlike my father, who told me if someone ever tried to break in our house that I was to aim for the head and drag the body inside the house. Didn’t want the little fuckers suing us after a disabling shot. As for my neighbor, he aimed the gun through his window when he heard the lock being jimmied. He missed the first, second and third time. But then he got good and warmed up, jogged out the front door and shot the would-be deviant as he was running down the street. All in all, it was quite the good time.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
It’s not to say that I’ve become disenchanted or disillusioned, because that would imply I had grandiose illusions and, um, enchantments to begin with. Is ‘enchantments’ really the word I’m looking for? Because short of stewing toad legs and newt eyes in my spare time, I can’t say as I’ve ever let myself be enchanted by much of anything. I’m nothing if not a realist. Maybe a very optimistic realist, but a realist nonetheless. I’m aware that kittens get run over, puppies are bludgeoned and little old ladies have their life savings stolen by men of ill repute, men who normally lack a full set of teeth. Maybe the grannies relate to their lack of toothedness, I have no idea.
I’ve spent the past few weeks simmering down from my full boil of righteous anger after a boss of mine was treated horribly. This, in turn, means that what little morale we had left around this place has gone directly down the shitter. It’s gone down so far and so hard, not even Heidi Fleiss can relate. Here was a man standing up for us, speaking his mind (as he was encouraged to do) and running our department with the kind of intelligence that makes me struggle with ever referring to myself as a Smart Kid. Then one greasy old cheeseburger of a woman gets her panties in a twist, smiles smugly and says There’s the door, sonny.
It started back in October, when my boss, we’ll call him the Can Can Man, got wind of some change in the air. The change had the kind of odor that accompanies Important Decision Makers within general crumbling companies that are struggling to keep their very large heads above water. This odor is greatly reminiscent of dirty asshole, because more often than not these Important Decision Makers have their heads firmly lodged in someone else’s rectum. And if I had someone’s head lodged up there, I’d have a hard time keeping that particular area clean, too; hence, the smell of dirty asshole. Not pretty flowers, just asshole.
The rest of us got the news at the start of January. Happy New Year, ya’ll! It was a shock to say the least because, hello, we make money. Oodles and oodles of money. The Big Company? Not so much. We’re better and quicker and faster than The Big Company because down here in Aw Shucksville, Arkansas, we don’t fuck around. It’s too hot for all that. Plus, there’s a rule in the handbook about putting your head up where the sun don’t shine. It ain’t sanitary, it ain’t healthy and it sure ain’t conducive to getting your work done and heading on home for a cold beer on the front porch.
The thing about The Decision (the one that puts me out of a job in X amount of months) is it really does look good from a high-level perspective. Can Can Man made a note to point this out because it’s best to understand the rationale THAT PUTS ME OUT OF A JOB. But when the Big Company brings in a third party to run test after test, wouldn’t you think it would be a good idea to utilize that information? The information that says this company right here in Arkansas, whooo-eee do they get their shit done right- ya’lls yankee system ain’t near as fine as what they got right here, and we reckon you’ll lose a bunch of money by trying to reabsorb their business. Can Can Man thought so, too. And he wasn’t shy about saying it.
Ultimately this was his downfall. The Big Company just wasn’t used to hearing such clear, succinct words. After all, it’s rather hard to understand someone when they’re speaking from the general location of your colon. Can Can Man had valid points: why WOULD you destroy a system that generates millions of dollars to put it on your decrepit and function-less one? Why would you ignore processes and procedures that we can prove generate a substantial profit? Why would you ignore study after study after study that says THIS is the better system THIS is the better process and THIS is the better company?
Why? Because someone way up high, someone so high on the food chain they’ve retired their personal ass hat, said so. They deemed it so, and so it shall be.
They said it was Can Can’s fault that we were leaving in droves. They said he should have done more to keep us here until the end. The end where they hand us our meager severance check and we all pray for a job in the middle of this forest called Little Rock. What they didn’t, and don’t, understand was this: He was the reason we stayed as long as we did. He was our morale booster, our rock of knowledge. You don’t find those qualities much nowadays. Mostly you get the Vice President who kiss-assed his way to the top, or the one that knows his job but couldn’t begin to grow appropriate personnel skills.
And so, because I’m too low on the ladder for anyone to really listen to me, here’s what I’ve got to say:
Dear Big Company,
You are very cordially invited to go fuck yourself.
Sincerely,
Robin Holmes
Overall I’m just gravely disappointed, and I hate it that I didn’t expect to feel any other way. What little loyalty I had left was destroyed by the treatment of Can Can Man and you can bet I’m going to smile when you fall flat on your ass. Of course, you won’t really fall. You’ll just move your losses here and there, claiming that they’re capital interest or some such flumubbery. That spreadsheet where you showcase your loss-recoup time will casually be thrown in the shredder and you’ll all pinky swear not to tell the board of directors about your giant failure. No one but us slow-brained Arkansans will remember how you made a poor decision and went about that decision’s execution like a two-year-old and a plate of spaghetti.
I wonder how long it will take before I get fired for running my mouth.
I’ve spent the past few weeks simmering down from my full boil of righteous anger after a boss of mine was treated horribly. This, in turn, means that what little morale we had left around this place has gone directly down the shitter. It’s gone down so far and so hard, not even Heidi Fleiss can relate. Here was a man standing up for us, speaking his mind (as he was encouraged to do) and running our department with the kind of intelligence that makes me struggle with ever referring to myself as a Smart Kid. Then one greasy old cheeseburger of a woman gets her panties in a twist, smiles smugly and says There’s the door, sonny.
It started back in October, when my boss, we’ll call him the Can Can Man, got wind of some change in the air. The change had the kind of odor that accompanies Important Decision Makers within general crumbling companies that are struggling to keep their very large heads above water. This odor is greatly reminiscent of dirty asshole, because more often than not these Important Decision Makers have their heads firmly lodged in someone else’s rectum. And if I had someone’s head lodged up there, I’d have a hard time keeping that particular area clean, too; hence, the smell of dirty asshole. Not pretty flowers, just asshole.
The rest of us got the news at the start of January. Happy New Year, ya’ll! It was a shock to say the least because, hello, we make money. Oodles and oodles of money. The Big Company? Not so much. We’re better and quicker and faster than The Big Company because down here in Aw Shucksville, Arkansas, we don’t fuck around. It’s too hot for all that. Plus, there’s a rule in the handbook about putting your head up where the sun don’t shine. It ain’t sanitary, it ain’t healthy and it sure ain’t conducive to getting your work done and heading on home for a cold beer on the front porch.
The thing about The Decision (the one that puts me out of a job in X amount of months) is it really does look good from a high-level perspective. Can Can Man made a note to point this out because it’s best to understand the rationale THAT PUTS ME OUT OF A JOB. But when the Big Company brings in a third party to run test after test, wouldn’t you think it would be a good idea to utilize that information? The information that says this company right here in Arkansas, whooo-eee do they get their shit done right- ya’lls yankee system ain’t near as fine as what they got right here, and we reckon you’ll lose a bunch of money by trying to reabsorb their business. Can Can Man thought so, too. And he wasn’t shy about saying it.
Ultimately this was his downfall. The Big Company just wasn’t used to hearing such clear, succinct words. After all, it’s rather hard to understand someone when they’re speaking from the general location of your colon. Can Can Man had valid points: why WOULD you destroy a system that generates millions of dollars to put it on your decrepit and function-less one? Why would you ignore processes and procedures that we can prove generate a substantial profit? Why would you ignore study after study after study that says THIS is the better system THIS is the better process and THIS is the better company?
Why? Because someone way up high, someone so high on the food chain they’ve retired their personal ass hat, said so. They deemed it so, and so it shall be.
They said it was Can Can’s fault that we were leaving in droves. They said he should have done more to keep us here until the end. The end where they hand us our meager severance check and we all pray for a job in the middle of this forest called Little Rock. What they didn’t, and don’t, understand was this: He was the reason we stayed as long as we did. He was our morale booster, our rock of knowledge. You don’t find those qualities much nowadays. Mostly you get the Vice President who kiss-assed his way to the top, or the one that knows his job but couldn’t begin to grow appropriate personnel skills.
And so, because I’m too low on the ladder for anyone to really listen to me, here’s what I’ve got to say:
Dear Big Company,
You are very cordially invited to go fuck yourself.
Sincerely,
Robin Holmes
Overall I’m just gravely disappointed, and I hate it that I didn’t expect to feel any other way. What little loyalty I had left was destroyed by the treatment of Can Can Man and you can bet I’m going to smile when you fall flat on your ass. Of course, you won’t really fall. You’ll just move your losses here and there, claiming that they’re capital interest or some such flumubbery. That spreadsheet where you showcase your loss-recoup time will casually be thrown in the shredder and you’ll all pinky swear not to tell the board of directors about your giant failure. No one but us slow-brained Arkansans will remember how you made a poor decision and went about that decision’s execution like a two-year-old and a plate of spaghetti.
I wonder how long it will take before I get fired for running my mouth.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Honey put on that party dress
Yesterday morning I drove across town, to the place where hillbillies and the like build plywood houses for refuge against the bustling demonicity of The City, to drop my car off for repairs. I wouldn’t have chosen this particular body shop had it not been for my last experience with bumper replacement. A year and a half ago I let the insurance agent suggest/coerce me into going to XYZ body shop, the body shop that is run by my ex-employer. This wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, except the last time I saw my old boss I was screaming Fuck You and other obscenities. I also might have mentioned his tight pants, and that he might want to take his miniscule dick that he so loved showing off and put it in his ass. I was having a very bad day. And he deserved it.
There was nothing so awkward as running headlong into the aforementioned previous employer, because even though we both smiled and shook hands, there is no doubt in my mind that while I was thinking Coked up fucktard he was thinking Raging bitchface. I crossed my fingers and prayed that my Honda came back with a recognizable paint color and intact upholstery. It did, but still. I figured it was best to be on the safe side this time around.
Which is how I ended up among the cast of Deliverance in bumfuck Little Rock, waiting patiently in their trailer-turned-waiting room for Enterprise to make good on their commercials. Twenty minutes later I was greeted by Joe, my friendly car rental representative. Joe had obviously had a hard life, one that involved a lack of teeth-brushing and a possible head trauma.
During the fifteen minute drive back into town I was serenaded with none other than Joe’s highly deviated septum. I kept wondering if it was possible that he just couldn’t hear it, that steady stream of whistling air bringing oxygen to his ancient bloodstream and expelling germ-tainted nose breath into the confines of the vehicle. But there was no way possible, no way in hell, that he was oblivious to the ceaseless sound. People thirty miles away were turning their heads to the side and asking each other, “What’s that sound? Is it the wind?” NO. It’s just Joe and his whistling nose.
Joe also liked to make small talk, whereas I am much averse to the stuff. I thought I had finished with my polite overtures when I climbed into the van and nodded politely, asking him about his day. He responded in kind and we settled into, what I thought, was a peaceful silence. It’s a long drive back to town and there’s only so much chitchatting a girl can handle. But Joe wanted to make comments on everything, from the silvery purple color of a Cadillac to the possible conspiracy of five white sedans in a row on the interstate. He intimated that the sedans were probably with the FBI and on their way to some secret rendezvous. Only when Joe said it, it came out as randy-voos.
About halfway through the journey, Joe turned to me and asked if I was sulking. He thought he’d heard me sighing at some point and had probably mistaken my unconscious verbal expression of annoyance with general sulkiness. I haven no idea how he heard it over the 1820 Overture playing steadily from his nostrils, but he merely nodded his head sagely and asked how long she’d been hurt.
It took me a good five seconds to respond. And five seconds is a damn long time for car silence when someone is paying no attention to interstate and waiting breathlessly for your response. Only I hadn’t the damndest of clues what he was talking about. A ‘she’ had been hurt? And I knew about it?
Then I realized he was talking about my car, with its bumper hanging pathetically from the rear driver side. My car was a ‘she.’ This was news. So I told him it had been a week since the accident and ‘she’ would be fine. But of course Joe couldn’t leave it at that, he had to regale me with stories of his vehicularly challenged wife and her propensity to wreck his brand new truck, over and over and over.
To which my only response was, “Perhaps you should stop handing her the keys.”
There was nothing so awkward as running headlong into the aforementioned previous employer, because even though we both smiled and shook hands, there is no doubt in my mind that while I was thinking Coked up fucktard he was thinking Raging bitchface. I crossed my fingers and prayed that my Honda came back with a recognizable paint color and intact upholstery. It did, but still. I figured it was best to be on the safe side this time around.
Which is how I ended up among the cast of Deliverance in bumfuck Little Rock, waiting patiently in their trailer-turned-waiting room for Enterprise to make good on their commercials. Twenty minutes later I was greeted by Joe, my friendly car rental representative. Joe had obviously had a hard life, one that involved a lack of teeth-brushing and a possible head trauma.
During the fifteen minute drive back into town I was serenaded with none other than Joe’s highly deviated septum. I kept wondering if it was possible that he just couldn’t hear it, that steady stream of whistling air bringing oxygen to his ancient bloodstream and expelling germ-tainted nose breath into the confines of the vehicle. But there was no way possible, no way in hell, that he was oblivious to the ceaseless sound. People thirty miles away were turning their heads to the side and asking each other, “What’s that sound? Is it the wind?” NO. It’s just Joe and his whistling nose.
Joe also liked to make small talk, whereas I am much averse to the stuff. I thought I had finished with my polite overtures when I climbed into the van and nodded politely, asking him about his day. He responded in kind and we settled into, what I thought, was a peaceful silence. It’s a long drive back to town and there’s only so much chitchatting a girl can handle. But Joe wanted to make comments on everything, from the silvery purple color of a Cadillac to the possible conspiracy of five white sedans in a row on the interstate. He intimated that the sedans were probably with the FBI and on their way to some secret rendezvous. Only when Joe said it, it came out as randy-voos.
About halfway through the journey, Joe turned to me and asked if I was sulking. He thought he’d heard me sighing at some point and had probably mistaken my unconscious verbal expression of annoyance with general sulkiness. I haven no idea how he heard it over the 1820 Overture playing steadily from his nostrils, but he merely nodded his head sagely and asked how long she’d been hurt.
It took me a good five seconds to respond. And five seconds is a damn long time for car silence when someone is paying no attention to interstate and waiting breathlessly for your response. Only I hadn’t the damndest of clues what he was talking about. A ‘she’ had been hurt? And I knew about it?
Then I realized he was talking about my car, with its bumper hanging pathetically from the rear driver side. My car was a ‘she.’ This was news. So I told him it had been a week since the accident and ‘she’ would be fine. But of course Joe couldn’t leave it at that, he had to regale me with stories of his vehicularly challenged wife and her propensity to wreck his brand new truck, over and over and over.
To which my only response was, “Perhaps you should stop handing her the keys.”
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Love me, Love me- Go on and love me.
I’m not one of those girl who lights (or even buys) candles. I’ve got a green mottled one that has moved with me since 1999. I know this because, well, I just do. Leave it at that. I always intend to light it, I intend to utilize its forrest-scented-ness, but I end up spraying some febreeze instead. Because spraying a bottle of overpriced smelly water in the air is wicked easier than finding a lighter.
The other day I was shopping with Amanda for some apartment accoutrements. She is moving into a two-bedroom duplex that gives her and her new husband roughly forty times the space of their current living arrangements. No one is happier than Amanda with this development, except for maybe Senora Robin. This is very selfish of me, but the thought of sharing a space the size of my bedroom with another living, breathing, excreting human being makes me want to claw out my eyeballs and serve them as appetizers.
So along with helping pick out curtains and table covers, I was suckered into throwing a super spiffy oven mitt in the buggy. I should have done this a long time ago but I’ve always been relatively content to wad up paper towels to protect my fingers from the oven’s flesh-searing metal. But after a near-miss on Saturday when the pizza pan became unbalanced and almost landed on my delicate and unprotected feet, I decided it was time to take a big girl pill and pony up.
After the kitchen aisle came the candle aisle. I am normally loathe to stop here, a) because the mix of honeysuckle, vanilla, sage, rose and patchouli makes me want to hurl, b) I am indecisive about candle scents- do I really want my house to smell like Jasmine and Honeydew? and c) TWENTY BUCKS FOR A FUCKING CANDLE? ARE YOU HIGH?
But there was a sale aisle, which was right next to the Relaxing Music display, the kind where you get to push the buttons and hear tracks from each CD play somewhat obnoxiously over cheap speakers. Amanda had already gotten onto me for making the oven mitt talk (it looks like a puppet, dammit) so I had to keep my excitement to a minimum. I was busy switching between Inspiring Salsa and Big Band Classics when I noticed a sale shelf of candles.
So I bought one. And now my house smells like cake, just like the ad said it would. I am also very hungry because of said candle.
The other day I was shopping with Amanda for some apartment accoutrements. She is moving into a two-bedroom duplex that gives her and her new husband roughly forty times the space of their current living arrangements. No one is happier than Amanda with this development, except for maybe Senora Robin. This is very selfish of me, but the thought of sharing a space the size of my bedroom with another living, breathing, excreting human being makes me want to claw out my eyeballs and serve them as appetizers.
So along with helping pick out curtains and table covers, I was suckered into throwing a super spiffy oven mitt in the buggy. I should have done this a long time ago but I’ve always been relatively content to wad up paper towels to protect my fingers from the oven’s flesh-searing metal. But after a near-miss on Saturday when the pizza pan became unbalanced and almost landed on my delicate and unprotected feet, I decided it was time to take a big girl pill and pony up.
After the kitchen aisle came the candle aisle. I am normally loathe to stop here, a) because the mix of honeysuckle, vanilla, sage, rose and patchouli makes me want to hurl, b) I am indecisive about candle scents- do I really want my house to smell like Jasmine and Honeydew? and c) TWENTY BUCKS FOR A FUCKING CANDLE? ARE YOU HIGH?
But there was a sale aisle, which was right next to the Relaxing Music display, the kind where you get to push the buttons and hear tracks from each CD play somewhat obnoxiously over cheap speakers. Amanda had already gotten onto me for making the oven mitt talk (it looks like a puppet, dammit) so I had to keep my excitement to a minimum. I was busy switching between Inspiring Salsa and Big Band Classics when I noticed a sale shelf of candles.
So I bought one. And now my house smells like cake, just like the ad said it would. I am also very hungry because of said candle.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Wears dark glasses like the cops in Texas
I would show you a picture of the back of my car, the bumper hanging so precariously from its plastic and styrofoam sheath, but I will not. Mainly because that would constitute physical proof of my poor luck, but also because the car is outside (obviously) and I am inside. Also inside is my camera. Hence, due to some very simple logic, I will remain inside.
I started my taxes on Saturday night but they asked such ridiculous questions. It’s worse than filling out the form to give blood. Did you ever have sex with a man who had sex with another man before 1978 in the Congo region of Africa? Did you ever engage in questionable acts with a primate from the Congo region of Africa? Have you ever kissed a transvestite? Similarly, the tax software I use wants to ask silly questions about my personal property taxes, as if I would be so organized as to keep that information. Did I purchase a large item this year, such as an auto, but not a boat or RV or jet ski? Yes I did! I get a tax credit! BUT WAIT. Please enter the selling price of the vehicle minus the sales tax plus the commission, less the depreciation and adding the cost of after-market items. Please put that number HERE in this yellow flashing box. It’s all very simple, didn’t you know.
I gave up finishing that project because I have a mind to become a fugitive from the law. I will wear dark jeans and learn to live off the land. I will lure fat squirrels into my lair and roast their pitiful bodies over bic lighters. I will rob convenience stores for Dr. Peppers and Oatmeal Crème Pies.
Randomly, I am thinking of getting a new phone. I have been thinking of getting a new phone for a year now but it’s such a grand commitment. I become overwhelmed by all the features and options and buttons. What if I purchase this one but realize three months from now that I really should have gotten the one with mp3 capabilities? What if I realize I needed unlimited internet access? So I’ve decided that my current function-less phone and I are just stuck, stuck together like Dolly Parton’s breasts. I will upgrade only when the current model truly fails to deliver. Presently it is only cranky and I cannot in good conscience put it out to pasture.
Anyway. It’s been a long time since I updated this poor thing, hasn’t it? I reread some of the crap from the past few months and realized I had to cut myself off. It was for the benefit of mankind, really.
I started my taxes on Saturday night but they asked such ridiculous questions. It’s worse than filling out the form to give blood. Did you ever have sex with a man who had sex with another man before 1978 in the Congo region of Africa? Did you ever engage in questionable acts with a primate from the Congo region of Africa? Have you ever kissed a transvestite? Similarly, the tax software I use wants to ask silly questions about my personal property taxes, as if I would be so organized as to keep that information. Did I purchase a large item this year, such as an auto, but not a boat or RV or jet ski? Yes I did! I get a tax credit! BUT WAIT. Please enter the selling price of the vehicle minus the sales tax plus the commission, less the depreciation and adding the cost of after-market items. Please put that number HERE in this yellow flashing box. It’s all very simple, didn’t you know.
I gave up finishing that project because I have a mind to become a fugitive from the law. I will wear dark jeans and learn to live off the land. I will lure fat squirrels into my lair and roast their pitiful bodies over bic lighters. I will rob convenience stores for Dr. Peppers and Oatmeal Crème Pies.
Randomly, I am thinking of getting a new phone. I have been thinking of getting a new phone for a year now but it’s such a grand commitment. I become overwhelmed by all the features and options and buttons. What if I purchase this one but realize three months from now that I really should have gotten the one with mp3 capabilities? What if I realize I needed unlimited internet access? So I’ve decided that my current function-less phone and I are just stuck, stuck together like Dolly Parton’s breasts. I will upgrade only when the current model truly fails to deliver. Presently it is only cranky and I cannot in good conscience put it out to pasture.
Anyway. It’s been a long time since I updated this poor thing, hasn’t it? I reread some of the crap from the past few months and realized I had to cut myself off. It was for the benefit of mankind, really.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
I've got skills, just ask me
Before I get to the reason for my lethargic depression, I thought I’d make an attempt at pushing myself out the relentless need to stay in bed and read trashy novels by pinpointing the things I normally would have written about. Things that take normal people three sentences to accomplish but in my overly-verbose case, take forty-five paragraphs. I think I’ll start with the mysterious case of my magical healing powers:
Saturday morning I was awakened by Kimberly peeping her blonde head inside my bedroom and pitifully calling my name. We’d made an attempt at killing our mutual depression by walking downtown and tossing back glass after glass of cranberry juice and vodka. Then we ate an entire pizza, after which we deemed ourselves properly refueled and continued with the vodka concoctions. It was all in good fun until the next morning, when the effects of throwing down like a college student were clearly and painfully felt in our non-college student bodies. Kimberly slept in the guest bedroom until the early morning sun refused to abate, deciding the recovery process was best completed in the confines of her king-size bed and ample cereal selection.
I sleepily followed her to the door and locked it behind her. I was already up, so I decided that at least fifteen minutes of productiveness was in order. I focused my attention on the dishes from the 2am eggroll snack scattered across the kitchen.
When I was finished rinsing the last of the dishes, I reached across the sink to turn off the hot water. Only it didn’t turn off, not all the way. I was left with a steamy stream that was far greater than a trickle but less than a gush. I pounded and pushed and pleaded, all to no avail. The water continued to flow and I had a sudden image of next month’s electric bill, my ensuing bankruptcy and swirling demise into Crazy Destitute Cat Lady status.
All day long the water poured straight down the drain. It continued on through Sunday, paying no attention to the wealth of tools I half-heartedly waived in its direction. By Monday I was frustrated with my landlord’s lack of activity and his obvious disregard for my hot showers, showers that had become lukewarm at best. And so I did what any woman would do. I stared down the ornery faucet, stomped my foot and screamed in frustration.
That’s when it stopped. It slowed to a gentle stream, then to a trickle, coming to a complete and utter halt within seconds of my hissy fit. I cautiously approached the sink, reaching over to turn the hot water back on. Hot water gushed forth. Then I held my breath and turned the knob to the off position. Hot water stopped. No drip. No trickle.
I HAVE MAGICAL HEALING POWERS.
Moving along…
On Tuesday I got up in what has, of late, become my normal routine. I hit snooze for forty-five minutes before finally rolling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom. I appraised the hair situation. Definitely in need of a wash. Full shower, conditioning and shaving was in order.
About a year ago I purchased one of those new-fangled vibrating razors. I’m a sucker for new shaving devices simply because my skin can sense a razor when I’m twenty feet away. It can sense it and it’s not happy. The skin expresses it’s unhappiness by screaming in pain and erupting into red fire. Therefore, I’m highly choosy with said razors.
The vibrating one seemed like an excellent idea. I mean, hello, it vibrates the hairs right up into the razor’s path. Surely this will be wicked awesome. Unfortunately, it was no different from a regular three-blade razor. I kept it anyway and used it on the no-way-no-how-vibrate setting because the little moisturizing strips were kind of nifty.
I wish I could somehow make this the enticing part of the post, the part where you visualize me in the shower, but in truth I’m as far from appealing in the shower as watching Donald Trump masturbate. Okay, obviously I’m more appealing than the Trump bit, but you get the point. I’m normally sleepy and cranky and unhappy that I have to rush through my routine because of my ancient water-heater. I have nine minutes to accomplish what should take normal women with ass loads of hair and body parts at least fifteen. Sort of like speed-dating, only naked and alone in your shower with shampoo, conditioner, exfoliator and razors to choose from.
After I finished shaving I placed the razor back in the shower caddy and rinsed the conditioner from my hair. I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. But something was amiss. There was a strange noise coming from the bathtub. A noise that screams angry gremlins jumping around or, for the less imaginatively inclined, what could very easily be air in the pipes. It was loud and obnoxious but I was already late for work, so I made a mental note to call the landlord if the situation had not resolved itself by evening.
When I came home that night, I could hear the crazy noise from the hallway. Concerned that something had seriously malfunctioned in my absence, I warily walked into the bathroom expecting to see shattered tile and sewage. Instead, it was clean and white, just as I’d left it. I resigned myself to calling my landlord and began removing all the pretty bottles from the edge of tub, thinking that I could never be so lucky to get a hot, manly plumber that would appreciate my display. With my luck, I’d get a tubby, gelatinous mass of a plumber with low-rise dickies and a thin t-shirt. (All the better to showcase the man titties, m’dear.)
As I got to the shower caddy, I struggled a bit trying to lift it up and over the shower head. I finally succeeded and placed it in the sink. It was then that I noticed that the abrasive noise had mysteriously subsided to a dull hum.
Strange, I thought.
I stepped into the bathtub and placed my ear against the tile wall. Nothing. I leaned up and listened carefully to the showerhead. Nothing.
I stepped back out of the tub, my eyes going to the shower caddy resting in the sink. The noise, it had moved.
You know what’s coming so I won’t even try to deny it. I’d somehow managed to inadvertently turn on the vibrating razor, which succeeded in sending vibrations straight through the metal caddy, right into the metal pipes within the wall.
I AM A FUCKING IDIOT.
And finally…
There’s nothing like spending money when you know you don’t have it. I purchased an electric blanket on Tuesday night and I can liken the sensation of sliding into a pre-warmed and deliciously cozy bed to having someone handing you a check for a million dollars. No shit.
Now, to the real story….
My lethargic depression, which has manifested itself in many delightful ways, was caused by a rumor, a confirmation of a rumor with no additional information, and finally the Rumor herself appearing in person to deliver the news.
The company I work for is part of another company, which is, in turn, part of another company. It’s all a bunch of strategery, as George W. would say. The fun part begins when the big company has lots of big-minded and big-idea-ed individuals who make a decision and decide that come hell or high water, their decision will be carried out.
I’m being laid off.
This is oh so cliché, but it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
Dead cats, bleeding esophageal lesions, compulsive vomiting, alien transmitters, nose catheters, poking and prodding and needle-happy nurses had only primed me for the news. Before I could emit my stomach contacts, I grabbed my first cigarette in two years, pulled the smoke in my lungs and waited for the blessed relief of nicotine to hit my bloodstream.
The thing is, and please feel free to groan, I quite like my job. I won’t say I love it, because that seems to invite all kinds of eye-rolling. But in truth, I kind of do. I appreciate that my bosses know more than I do. I love that everyone stopped by to hug me after Llama died. I like that I have never been micromanaged. I love that some of these people have turned into my best friends. I enjoy the work I do, the products I work with, the random bits of knowledge I add to the pile everyday.
In one fell swoop, my five-year plan was crushed all to hell. And that pisses me off. More than anything, it pisses me off that I finally find the place I like to be, the place where getting up in the morning doesn’t make me want to stab myself in the eye with a dull spoon, and some ill-educated loony-toon had to go and fuck it up.
I don’t want another job. I want this one, dammit.
On the somewhat-of-a-plus side, I will have a job for around ten months. And then I will get a severance package. And then I’m going to take one very long vacation. So no need to start sending me your canned goods quite yet. If a food drive is ever in order, rest assured I’ll let you know.
Saturday morning I was awakened by Kimberly peeping her blonde head inside my bedroom and pitifully calling my name. We’d made an attempt at killing our mutual depression by walking downtown and tossing back glass after glass of cranberry juice and vodka. Then we ate an entire pizza, after which we deemed ourselves properly refueled and continued with the vodka concoctions. It was all in good fun until the next morning, when the effects of throwing down like a college student were clearly and painfully felt in our non-college student bodies. Kimberly slept in the guest bedroom until the early morning sun refused to abate, deciding the recovery process was best completed in the confines of her king-size bed and ample cereal selection.
I sleepily followed her to the door and locked it behind her. I was already up, so I decided that at least fifteen minutes of productiveness was in order. I focused my attention on the dishes from the 2am eggroll snack scattered across the kitchen.
When I was finished rinsing the last of the dishes, I reached across the sink to turn off the hot water. Only it didn’t turn off, not all the way. I was left with a steamy stream that was far greater than a trickle but less than a gush. I pounded and pushed and pleaded, all to no avail. The water continued to flow and I had a sudden image of next month’s electric bill, my ensuing bankruptcy and swirling demise into Crazy Destitute Cat Lady status.
All day long the water poured straight down the drain. It continued on through Sunday, paying no attention to the wealth of tools I half-heartedly waived in its direction. By Monday I was frustrated with my landlord’s lack of activity and his obvious disregard for my hot showers, showers that had become lukewarm at best. And so I did what any woman would do. I stared down the ornery faucet, stomped my foot and screamed in frustration.
That’s when it stopped. It slowed to a gentle stream, then to a trickle, coming to a complete and utter halt within seconds of my hissy fit. I cautiously approached the sink, reaching over to turn the hot water back on. Hot water gushed forth. Then I held my breath and turned the knob to the off position. Hot water stopped. No drip. No trickle.
I HAVE MAGICAL HEALING POWERS.
Moving along…
On Tuesday I got up in what has, of late, become my normal routine. I hit snooze for forty-five minutes before finally rolling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom. I appraised the hair situation. Definitely in need of a wash. Full shower, conditioning and shaving was in order.
About a year ago I purchased one of those new-fangled vibrating razors. I’m a sucker for new shaving devices simply because my skin can sense a razor when I’m twenty feet away. It can sense it and it’s not happy. The skin expresses it’s unhappiness by screaming in pain and erupting into red fire. Therefore, I’m highly choosy with said razors.
The vibrating one seemed like an excellent idea. I mean, hello, it vibrates the hairs right up into the razor’s path. Surely this will be wicked awesome. Unfortunately, it was no different from a regular three-blade razor. I kept it anyway and used it on the no-way-no-how-vibrate setting because the little moisturizing strips were kind of nifty.
I wish I could somehow make this the enticing part of the post, the part where you visualize me in the shower, but in truth I’m as far from appealing in the shower as watching Donald Trump masturbate. Okay, obviously I’m more appealing than the Trump bit, but you get the point. I’m normally sleepy and cranky and unhappy that I have to rush through my routine because of my ancient water-heater. I have nine minutes to accomplish what should take normal women with ass loads of hair and body parts at least fifteen. Sort of like speed-dating, only naked and alone in your shower with shampoo, conditioner, exfoliator and razors to choose from.
After I finished shaving I placed the razor back in the shower caddy and rinsed the conditioner from my hair. I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. But something was amiss. There was a strange noise coming from the bathtub. A noise that screams angry gremlins jumping around or, for the less imaginatively inclined, what could very easily be air in the pipes. It was loud and obnoxious but I was already late for work, so I made a mental note to call the landlord if the situation had not resolved itself by evening.
When I came home that night, I could hear the crazy noise from the hallway. Concerned that something had seriously malfunctioned in my absence, I warily walked into the bathroom expecting to see shattered tile and sewage. Instead, it was clean and white, just as I’d left it. I resigned myself to calling my landlord and began removing all the pretty bottles from the edge of tub, thinking that I could never be so lucky to get a hot, manly plumber that would appreciate my display. With my luck, I’d get a tubby, gelatinous mass of a plumber with low-rise dickies and a thin t-shirt. (All the better to showcase the man titties, m’dear.)
As I got to the shower caddy, I struggled a bit trying to lift it up and over the shower head. I finally succeeded and placed it in the sink. It was then that I noticed that the abrasive noise had mysteriously subsided to a dull hum.
Strange, I thought.
I stepped into the bathtub and placed my ear against the tile wall. Nothing. I leaned up and listened carefully to the showerhead. Nothing.
I stepped back out of the tub, my eyes going to the shower caddy resting in the sink. The noise, it had moved.
You know what’s coming so I won’t even try to deny it. I’d somehow managed to inadvertently turn on the vibrating razor, which succeeded in sending vibrations straight through the metal caddy, right into the metal pipes within the wall.
I AM A FUCKING IDIOT.
And finally…
There’s nothing like spending money when you know you don’t have it. I purchased an electric blanket on Tuesday night and I can liken the sensation of sliding into a pre-warmed and deliciously cozy bed to having someone handing you a check for a million dollars. No shit.
Now, to the real story….
My lethargic depression, which has manifested itself in many delightful ways, was caused by a rumor, a confirmation of a rumor with no additional information, and finally the Rumor herself appearing in person to deliver the news.
The company I work for is part of another company, which is, in turn, part of another company. It’s all a bunch of strategery, as George W. would say. The fun part begins when the big company has lots of big-minded and big-idea-ed individuals who make a decision and decide that come hell or high water, their decision will be carried out.
I’m being laid off.
This is oh so cliché, but it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
Dead cats, bleeding esophageal lesions, compulsive vomiting, alien transmitters, nose catheters, poking and prodding and needle-happy nurses had only primed me for the news. Before I could emit my stomach contacts, I grabbed my first cigarette in two years, pulled the smoke in my lungs and waited for the blessed relief of nicotine to hit my bloodstream.
The thing is, and please feel free to groan, I quite like my job. I won’t say I love it, because that seems to invite all kinds of eye-rolling. But in truth, I kind of do. I appreciate that my bosses know more than I do. I love that everyone stopped by to hug me after Llama died. I like that I have never been micromanaged. I love that some of these people have turned into my best friends. I enjoy the work I do, the products I work with, the random bits of knowledge I add to the pile everyday.
In one fell swoop, my five-year plan was crushed all to hell. And that pisses me off. More than anything, it pisses me off that I finally find the place I like to be, the place where getting up in the morning doesn’t make me want to stab myself in the eye with a dull spoon, and some ill-educated loony-toon had to go and fuck it up.
I don’t want another job. I want this one, dammit.
On the somewhat-of-a-plus side, I will have a job for around ten months. And then I will get a severance package. And then I’m going to take one very long vacation. So no need to start sending me your canned goods quite yet. If a food drive is ever in order, rest assured I’ll let you know.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Insert Applicable Title Here
Hi, My name is Melodramatic. What’s yours?
I’m a little annoyed with my Whiny Self, not only because I’m a terrible whiner but because it takes a lot of effort to be this depressing. And if there’s one thing I don’t have at this particular moment, it’s the desire to expend any effort whatsoever.
So in lieu of bitching about my current situation (due to that pesky unlubed legal fist and all), I’m going to talk about cute boys.
Here is one:
I’m a little annoyed with my Whiny Self, not only because I’m a terrible whiner but because it takes a lot of effort to be this depressing. And if there’s one thing I don’t have at this particular moment, it’s the desire to expend any effort whatsoever.
So in lieu of bitching about my current situation (due to that pesky unlubed legal fist and all), I’m going to talk about cute boys.
Here is one:
Dear Jeremy Piven:
First, you should know that your hairline in the movie PCU circa 1994 is very different from your current hairline. Normally men continue to lose hair, but you have mastered the male hair loss gene and actually REGROWN hair on your head. I commend you for this, I really do. Just know that I love you in spite of your current strange, artificial mop. Though in the above picture you look wicked hot and I would totally make out with you.
Here is another one:
First, you should know that your hairline in the movie PCU circa 1994 is very different from your current hairline. Normally men continue to lose hair, but you have mastered the male hair loss gene and actually REGROWN hair on your head. I commend you for this, I really do. Just know that I love you in spite of your current strange, artificial mop. Though in the above picture you look wicked hot and I would totally make out with you.
Here is another one:
Dear Robert Downey, Jr:
You have a bit of a drug problem. For whatever reason, I find this attractive. Possibly because it causes your normal rapid-fire wit to explode into unknown territory. Also, I bet you’re a hell of a compulsive cleaner and there’s nothing more appealing than a man who will assist me in all-night cleaning fests. I would bear your children if I was into that whole caring for another being for the rest of your natural born life thing.
All my lust,
Robin
You have a bit of a drug problem. For whatever reason, I find this attractive. Possibly because it causes your normal rapid-fire wit to explode into unknown territory. Also, I bet you’re a hell of a compulsive cleaner and there’s nothing more appealing than a man who will assist me in all-night cleaning fests. I would bear your children if I was into that whole caring for another being for the rest of your natural born life thing.
All my lust,
Robin
Friday, January 12, 2007
It's Friday, I'm (Not) In Love
If there is an opposite of an adrenaline junkie, I am most definitely it. I’m anti-adrenaline, anti-rush, anti-jitter. I don’t watch scary movies because the stress involved in viewing people being chased by aliens, chainsawed into skin lamps or eaten by overgrown predators is just too much for me. I will never jump out of a plane or bungee off a bridge or strap on an oxygen tank and swim 150 feet below the surface. Why? Because genetics and evolution saw fit to leave me with arms and legs, not wings or gills. I do everything in my power to engineer my surroundings into the antithesis of drama and stress. Should you, as a person, be involved in creating drama or stress in my life, I will undoubtedly cut you out, just as I have cut out alien movies and scuba diving.
This isn’t to say that I’m not a good handler, because I am. I can handle just about anything. And when I say ‘anything’, I’m still talking about middle class employed white girl ‘anything.’ Like spending two-hundred dollars on shoes and realizing DAMN this pair is wicked uncomfortable! Or, OH NO! I appear to have torn my nail! Whatever am I to do? I can handle the stress of not finding earrings to match my outfit or the button mysteriously disappearing from my jeans. I deal well with deadlines and projects, simply because it gives me something to do. I do not handle boredom well, and it’s just pure luck that I never set the house on fire as a kid. I could go through a box of matches in less than an hour, scratching each red-tipped stick against the side and watching it burst into flames, only to flicker out forty-five seconds later.
But the past three days- sweet baby jesus. The stress, the anxiety, the all consuming fear, is about to kill me. I find myself alternating between a desire to buy a carton of cigarettes and hoping that a bottle of valium will just magically appear in my cupboard. What’s funny, and not, is that I used to make fun of people with valium. “I could use a valium dispenser,” they’d say. And mentally I would berate them for needing a crutch, a pathetic drug, to ease the pain. “Try breathing exercises!” I’d say. “Maybe a yoga class!” And then I’d put a sympathetic smile on face while inside I said poor, poor schmuck. Can’t even manage their stress levels.
I am here to tell you I am sorry. I should never have made fun of you. Perhaps your commute to work really was that bad. Maybe your child really is the devil. I judged, and I’m sorry.
Last night I laid on my couch for three hours, willing my legs to stop their nervous, uncontrollable twitching. Praying my heart would slow it’s frantic pace for just one godamn minute, just to give me some peace. Stomach and I had several chats about how keeping food below the Mason-Dixon line was non-negotiable. And then I pulled out that (prescription) bottle of valium and thought, maybe, please, yes, this will help. I took four.
I am notoriously hard to sedate and didn’t have much hope, but two hours later it finally kicked in. Oh, the peace. The blessed, blessed peace.
I know, trust me, I know, that I’m being very vague. I haven’t elaborated on my three days (and what will probably be many more stress-filled ones) and that’s a little unfair. It’s only because I seem to have forgotten my KY and I imagine that an un-lubed legal fist up my ass quite would be quite uncomfortable.
Just know that I realize I asked for it. I had to go and tempt Fate. I had to complain about my luck and my shitty, shitty month of sickness and dead cats and strange, invasive tests. I accept it, and that is fine. I am a grown ass woman. It would just be nice to have a permanent IV full of heavy sedatives.
This isn’t to say that I’m not a good handler, because I am. I can handle just about anything. And when I say ‘anything’, I’m still talking about middle class employed white girl ‘anything.’ Like spending two-hundred dollars on shoes and realizing DAMN this pair is wicked uncomfortable! Or, OH NO! I appear to have torn my nail! Whatever am I to do? I can handle the stress of not finding earrings to match my outfit or the button mysteriously disappearing from my jeans. I deal well with deadlines and projects, simply because it gives me something to do. I do not handle boredom well, and it’s just pure luck that I never set the house on fire as a kid. I could go through a box of matches in less than an hour, scratching each red-tipped stick against the side and watching it burst into flames, only to flicker out forty-five seconds later.
But the past three days- sweet baby jesus. The stress, the anxiety, the all consuming fear, is about to kill me. I find myself alternating between a desire to buy a carton of cigarettes and hoping that a bottle of valium will just magically appear in my cupboard. What’s funny, and not, is that I used to make fun of people with valium. “I could use a valium dispenser,” they’d say. And mentally I would berate them for needing a crutch, a pathetic drug, to ease the pain. “Try breathing exercises!” I’d say. “Maybe a yoga class!” And then I’d put a sympathetic smile on face while inside I said poor, poor schmuck. Can’t even manage their stress levels.
I am here to tell you I am sorry. I should never have made fun of you. Perhaps your commute to work really was that bad. Maybe your child really is the devil. I judged, and I’m sorry.
Last night I laid on my couch for three hours, willing my legs to stop their nervous, uncontrollable twitching. Praying my heart would slow it’s frantic pace for just one godamn minute, just to give me some peace. Stomach and I had several chats about how keeping food below the Mason-Dixon line was non-negotiable. And then I pulled out that (prescription) bottle of valium and thought, maybe, please, yes, this will help. I took four.
I am notoriously hard to sedate and didn’t have much hope, but two hours later it finally kicked in. Oh, the peace. The blessed, blessed peace.
I know, trust me, I know, that I’m being very vague. I haven’t elaborated on my three days (and what will probably be many more stress-filled ones) and that’s a little unfair. It’s only because I seem to have forgotten my KY and I imagine that an un-lubed legal fist up my ass quite would be quite uncomfortable.
Just know that I realize I asked for it. I had to go and tempt Fate. I had to complain about my luck and my shitty, shitty month of sickness and dead cats and strange, invasive tests. I accept it, and that is fine. I am a grown ass woman. It would just be nice to have a permanent IV full of heavy sedatives.
Monday, January 08, 2007
I Don't Care If Monday's Blue
You could probably say I’ve had a spell of bad luck. Naturally I’m talking about middle-class employed white girl bad luck, not poverty-stricken Somalian bad luck. That kind of bad luck would involve my last goat being eaten by neighboring dogs and contracting a flesh-eating virus while trying to squeeze the last drop of milk out of my shriveled breast for my crying baby, who’s covered in flies and clinging to the legs of Sally Struthers. So forgive me my self-centered drivel today, because I’d like to start at the beginning and just work my way forward. Maybe I’ll find a pattern. And then I can kill the pattern, preferably by breaking the pattern’s knees.
It started with a combination of bronchitis, sinusitis and laryngitis. Not so bad, really. I mean, I was just choking runny snot down my throat and coughing it back up again for shits and giggles. Breathing is very highly overrated. But then the running snot made a trail of inflamed tissue down my throat, which made a lovely home for my acid reflux. I ended up with actual bleeding lesions on my esophagus that didn’t go away for a week and a half.
The first morning I woke up without a crusty nose and an aching throat, I felt like throwing myself a party. I was healed! I met Kasi for dinner at a small Italian place downtown and ordered the special, the pan-seared salmon. Food was finally tasting like food and I couldn’t have been happier, as sinus infections convert normal food into peanut butter. Cheerios? Tastes like peanut butter. Chicken? Tastes like peanut butter. I might have mentioned on here that I can’t stand peanut butter. Hence, an eleven day stretch of peanut butter flavored everything was about as amusing as rubbing battery acid on my arm. But oh, the delicious salmon! Flaky and seasoned, it was! I especially enjoyed that seasoning when I contracted the stomach flu at 3am and vomited up fish, spinach, bread and diet coke until 5am, when I switched to straight stomach bile for another ten hours. I would have tried to drown myself in the bathtub but I didn’t have a stopper.
Four days later I took The Demonspawn to the vet for some routine shots and a little declawing action, because my sofa is new and I happen to quite like the arms covered in intact, rather than shredded, fabric. But the vet killed Llama (undeniably my favorite) with an overdose of Valium. I was sad.
The next day I went in for a procedure involving a radio transmitter being implanted in my esophagus (by the aliens) and a catheter through my nose. Unfortunately I was one of the .2% of people who react badly to the implantation. When I say badly I mean that stabbing myself in the chest with a fork was a viable option for over five days. Christmas was a blast. Also, I have an insanely high tolerance for Valium.
The day after Christmas my mother drug me to the animal shelter because she needed to adopt a friend for her current cat, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson used to have a friend named Sherlock but Sherlock got runned over by a reindeer. There was another cat in the house named Cleo who maintained his superior cat-distance for over eight years, refusing to give in to Dr. Watson’s friendly gestures. Then Cleo died of some strange ear-slash-eye-slash-mouth infection but he was eighteen so it’s not like we were surprised. Very long lead in to the fact that my mother was looking for a new kitty friend for Watson and the animal shelter seemed like a good place to start. Save the animals from Certain Death!
She narrowed it down to two sweet ones, one orange and fat and another one small and gray. With Certain Death looming over their heads I decided to take the small gray one, naming her Josephine. She went immediately to the vet for declawing and spaying because I thought if someone was going to kill another one of my cats, they might as well do it before I got all attached. But two days later she started sneezing. Then strange liquid coughs that made her tiny chest heave with effort. I took her to the emergency vet and was told to squirt antibiotics down her throat twice a day. No need to worry, they say. Cats get this all the time.
The Sunday of New Year’s Eve was a no-go. I misread a new bottle of pills, assuming when it said Take With Food it meant that any food was acceptable. What it meant to say was Take With Five Course Meal Or Severe Nausea And Vomiting Will Occur. Also, Attempting To Operate Machinery While Vomiting Can Lead To Messiness. I rang in the new year with re-runs of CSI and a bottle of Pepto.
By Thursday I was kissing Josephine on the nose and tearing up in front of my Kervorkian vet as she sent her off to kitty cat heaven. No need to worry, indeed.
That afternoon I took myself out for a late lunch and early beer. My boss works with a lot of women and recognizes mental instability when it’s crying in front of him. During lunch my right arm started to feel weird, kind of like it was asleep but without the tingle. As the day progressed I became more and more jittery and everything from my eyeballs to my toenails felt like they were stuck in limbo. I wanted my finger to press Channel Up on the remote, but my finger was cranky and slow to respond.
By lunchtime the next day I was miserable. I hadn’t slept a single minute and I was feeling like Michael J. Fox but without Rush Limbaugh to make fun of me. I called my specialist doctor and talked to his nurse, who told me to turn the car around and head to the nearest pharmacy for some Benadryl. Apparently if you don’t act fast these side effects can last for a very long time, as in weeks or months. Fearing the worst I took three times the normal dose and waited for relief. Three hours later I was still wide-eyed and crazy. It took many more Benadryls and many more hours before I felt human again. It was a wicked fun experience, one I’d pay people to never experience again.
I think it would be kind of dryly amusing to end this with a “And I stubbed my fucking toe this morning” but I’m not about to encourage anything else, plus I’d be lying. I want no more dead pets, no more strange pains, no more exhausting stomach viruses and no more alien transmitters in my esophagus. Which is why I spent all day Saturday inside apartment, refusing to even unlock the front door. My big accomplishment for the day was taking a shower and watching John Grisham movies on TNT.
**After rereading this I see no pattern. Obviously I have just pissed somebody off.
I’m not a resolution maker because January 1st is exactly the same as any other day of the year. It just happens to be when some yo-yo way back in the day decided to restart the 12-month calendar. It could be the month of Gilgamesh for all I care; I just like to put on a pretty dress now and then. Make kiss a boy at midnight. Toss back some overly-sweet champagne.
But this year I’ve decided that I’m done. Bad luck is supposed to come in threes, and this shit is getting old. I’d better be getting something really nice for my birthday. Like a hot, gainfully employed man with the ability to form grammatically correct sentences. Or I could win the lottery. I’d be fine with that, too.
It started with a combination of bronchitis, sinusitis and laryngitis. Not so bad, really. I mean, I was just choking runny snot down my throat and coughing it back up again for shits and giggles. Breathing is very highly overrated. But then the running snot made a trail of inflamed tissue down my throat, which made a lovely home for my acid reflux. I ended up with actual bleeding lesions on my esophagus that didn’t go away for a week and a half.
The first morning I woke up without a crusty nose and an aching throat, I felt like throwing myself a party. I was healed! I met Kasi for dinner at a small Italian place downtown and ordered the special, the pan-seared salmon. Food was finally tasting like food and I couldn’t have been happier, as sinus infections convert normal food into peanut butter. Cheerios? Tastes like peanut butter. Chicken? Tastes like peanut butter. I might have mentioned on here that I can’t stand peanut butter. Hence, an eleven day stretch of peanut butter flavored everything was about as amusing as rubbing battery acid on my arm. But oh, the delicious salmon! Flaky and seasoned, it was! I especially enjoyed that seasoning when I contracted the stomach flu at 3am and vomited up fish, spinach, bread and diet coke until 5am, when I switched to straight stomach bile for another ten hours. I would have tried to drown myself in the bathtub but I didn’t have a stopper.
Four days later I took The Demonspawn to the vet for some routine shots and a little declawing action, because my sofa is new and I happen to quite like the arms covered in intact, rather than shredded, fabric. But the vet killed Llama (undeniably my favorite) with an overdose of Valium. I was sad.
The next day I went in for a procedure involving a radio transmitter being implanted in my esophagus (by the aliens) and a catheter through my nose. Unfortunately I was one of the .2% of people who react badly to the implantation. When I say badly I mean that stabbing myself in the chest with a fork was a viable option for over five days. Christmas was a blast. Also, I have an insanely high tolerance for Valium.
The day after Christmas my mother drug me to the animal shelter because she needed to adopt a friend for her current cat, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson used to have a friend named Sherlock but Sherlock got runned over by a reindeer. There was another cat in the house named Cleo who maintained his superior cat-distance for over eight years, refusing to give in to Dr. Watson’s friendly gestures. Then Cleo died of some strange ear-slash-eye-slash-mouth infection but he was eighteen so it’s not like we were surprised. Very long lead in to the fact that my mother was looking for a new kitty friend for Watson and the animal shelter seemed like a good place to start. Save the animals from Certain Death!
She narrowed it down to two sweet ones, one orange and fat and another one small and gray. With Certain Death looming over their heads I decided to take the small gray one, naming her Josephine. She went immediately to the vet for declawing and spaying because I thought if someone was going to kill another one of my cats, they might as well do it before I got all attached. But two days later she started sneezing. Then strange liquid coughs that made her tiny chest heave with effort. I took her to the emergency vet and was told to squirt antibiotics down her throat twice a day. No need to worry, they say. Cats get this all the time.
The Sunday of New Year’s Eve was a no-go. I misread a new bottle of pills, assuming when it said Take With Food it meant that any food was acceptable. What it meant to say was Take With Five Course Meal Or Severe Nausea And Vomiting Will Occur. Also, Attempting To Operate Machinery While Vomiting Can Lead To Messiness. I rang in the new year with re-runs of CSI and a bottle of Pepto.
By Thursday I was kissing Josephine on the nose and tearing up in front of my Kervorkian vet as she sent her off to kitty cat heaven. No need to worry, indeed.
That afternoon I took myself out for a late lunch and early beer. My boss works with a lot of women and recognizes mental instability when it’s crying in front of him. During lunch my right arm started to feel weird, kind of like it was asleep but without the tingle. As the day progressed I became more and more jittery and everything from my eyeballs to my toenails felt like they were stuck in limbo. I wanted my finger to press Channel Up on the remote, but my finger was cranky and slow to respond.
By lunchtime the next day I was miserable. I hadn’t slept a single minute and I was feeling like Michael J. Fox but without Rush Limbaugh to make fun of me. I called my specialist doctor and talked to his nurse, who told me to turn the car around and head to the nearest pharmacy for some Benadryl. Apparently if you don’t act fast these side effects can last for a very long time, as in weeks or months. Fearing the worst I took three times the normal dose and waited for relief. Three hours later I was still wide-eyed and crazy. It took many more Benadryls and many more hours before I felt human again. It was a wicked fun experience, one I’d pay people to never experience again.
I think it would be kind of dryly amusing to end this with a “And I stubbed my fucking toe this morning” but I’m not about to encourage anything else, plus I’d be lying. I want no more dead pets, no more strange pains, no more exhausting stomach viruses and no more alien transmitters in my esophagus. Which is why I spent all day Saturday inside apartment, refusing to even unlock the front door. My big accomplishment for the day was taking a shower and watching John Grisham movies on TNT.
**After rereading this I see no pattern. Obviously I have just pissed somebody off.
I’m not a resolution maker because January 1st is exactly the same as any other day of the year. It just happens to be when some yo-yo way back in the day decided to restart the 12-month calendar. It could be the month of Gilgamesh for all I care; I just like to put on a pretty dress now and then. Make kiss a boy at midnight. Toss back some overly-sweet champagne.
But this year I’ve decided that I’m done. Bad luck is supposed to come in threes, and this shit is getting old. I’d better be getting something really nice for my birthday. Like a hot, gainfully employed man with the ability to form grammatically correct sentences. Or I could win the lottery. I’d be fine with that, too.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Around We Go
Right this very second there’s an abominably fat red-breasted Robin sitting on a dismally gray tree branch directly outside my window. She or he or it, whatever you’d like to call it, has been there for a good ten minutes. We’ve been having a staring contest of sorts, all while I figure out exactly how pathetic and melodramatic I’d like to sound. And I think, or I hope, that we’ve come to the conclusion that there’s really no cover up for my patheticness, but there’s a distinct possibility I could tone down the melodramatic blathering. Our agreement was sealed with a flutter of his tail feathers and the drop of his multicolored poop on my neighbor’s lawn furniture.
Two mornings ago I took my new cat Josephine to the vet for the third time. She’d been coughing and wheezing and these are just not things that cats should do. They should sleep in the sun and curl gently on your lap. Eat tasty morsels of lunch meat that get “accidentally” dropped on the kitchen floor. Shed ridiculous amounts of fur so the cat-mom has a reason to run the vacuum every Saturday. And sometimes on Wednesday, if she’s feeling productive.
But this time was serious. Even I, with a lack a stethoscope, could hear the fluid rattling gently in her lungs with each labored breath. My stomach was in knots during the drive over because this cat had already become my favorite. She liked to cuddle and roll on her back for a nice tummy rub. She liked to crawl on my side while I watched late night television, turning in circles until she found just the right combination of soft belly and hip to make a bed.
You see where this is going, I’m sure. I wouldn't have this dramatic of a lead-in without some terribly sad ending.
The vet drew blood, took x-rays, ran tests. When she called me back to the examination room, she had the kind of look you see on the faces of actors during weekly viewings of ER or Grey’s Anatomy. The look that says I have bad news, but I’m going to take twenty minutes of your time to get to it, not counting commercials.
She explained the blood work, snapped x-ray films up on the wall and flicked off the lights. “See here?” she said. “Nothing but fluid.” My options, Josephine’s options, rather, were slim. She would never get better, not permanently. So it was drugs to combat the pain, or the option for which Dr. Kervorkian is sitting in a jail cell.
“It’s very quick, no pain, only sleep,” she said.
Josephine was brought back into the exam room wrapped in a towel. They’d already sedated her. I gave her a final kiss on the nose and told her I was sorry and I hoped she forgave me. I had no right to play God, but here I was, signing away the life of a living, breathing thing. I told her she’d been the perfect cat, the perfect companion and I was so very, very sorry. So unbelievably sorry.
I cried when they shaved her arm, I cried when they found a vein for the needle, I cried when the hand I’d left resting on her belly no longer rose with her breath.
Two mornings ago I took my new cat Josephine to the vet for the third time. She’d been coughing and wheezing and these are just not things that cats should do. They should sleep in the sun and curl gently on your lap. Eat tasty morsels of lunch meat that get “accidentally” dropped on the kitchen floor. Shed ridiculous amounts of fur so the cat-mom has a reason to run the vacuum every Saturday. And sometimes on Wednesday, if she’s feeling productive.
But this time was serious. Even I, with a lack a stethoscope, could hear the fluid rattling gently in her lungs with each labored breath. My stomach was in knots during the drive over because this cat had already become my favorite. She liked to cuddle and roll on her back for a nice tummy rub. She liked to crawl on my side while I watched late night television, turning in circles until she found just the right combination of soft belly and hip to make a bed.
You see where this is going, I’m sure. I wouldn't have this dramatic of a lead-in without some terribly sad ending.
The vet drew blood, took x-rays, ran tests. When she called me back to the examination room, she had the kind of look you see on the faces of actors during weekly viewings of ER or Grey’s Anatomy. The look that says I have bad news, but I’m going to take twenty minutes of your time to get to it, not counting commercials.
She explained the blood work, snapped x-ray films up on the wall and flicked off the lights. “See here?” she said. “Nothing but fluid.” My options, Josephine’s options, rather, were slim. She would never get better, not permanently. So it was drugs to combat the pain, or the option for which Dr. Kervorkian is sitting in a jail cell.
“It’s very quick, no pain, only sleep,” she said.
Josephine was brought back into the exam room wrapped in a towel. They’d already sedated her. I gave her a final kiss on the nose and told her I was sorry and I hoped she forgave me. I had no right to play God, but here I was, signing away the life of a living, breathing thing. I told her she’d been the perfect cat, the perfect companion and I was so very, very sorry. So unbelievably sorry.
I cried when they shaved her arm, I cried when they found a vein for the needle, I cried when the hand I’d left resting on her belly no longer rose with her breath.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Calgon Done Took Me Away
Theoretically, my New Years could have been very exciting. I’d purchased a dress, a stunning one actually. New shoes. Pretty jewelry. And then Kasi called me at 8:15am to tell me she’d contracted the dreaded Stomach Death which, as I personally know, involves at least 15 hours of compulsive vomiting and many hours of delicate conversation with your stomach. It’s very easy to misread Stomach. Sometimes he may say that he’d like some jell-o when in fact he wants nothing at all to do with jell-o. Stomach just meant that at some future point in time he’d like jell-o, but definitely not NOW, what the hell were you thinking putting that down your gullet?
And then I went and misread the portion on the back of my new medicine bottle that says, in stern block letters, Take With Food. In my defense, I did take it with food. A small can of mandarin oranges. Because this, my friends, is definitely food. Tasty and delicious food. Not so tasty on the way back up, because they kind of form one giant gloopy mandarin orange that threatens to clog your nasal cavity. Do not pretend you don’t have nose vomit because I know you do. Just accept it and move on.
As such, I was in no mood for an evening of festivities and neither was Kasi. So I spent the Eve watching reruns of CSI (the original Las Vegas one, not the one with the abominably creepy David Caruso) until 4am because they kept showing these To Be Continued episodes. Naturally, I had to make sure that Nick made it out of the glass box alive and that Grissom would somehow incorporate his expansive bug knowledge into the plotline.
In other news, I have named my new kitty Josephine. Not Gidget or Sugar Monkey or even Bobo, as suggested by the Arabian Dumbass. Josephine is sweetness personified. Like pancakes in a cuddly furry form. However, she and her upper respiratory infection are also money personified. Two emergency vet visits = depleted checking account.
If anyone has any money making schemes they’d like to suggest, I’m totally game.
And I’d like to move here. Should anyone know of a way to make money while writing mindless drivel on the internet without the following of dooce, please let me know. I could use a cottage lifestyle in Spain.
And then I went and misread the portion on the back of my new medicine bottle that says, in stern block letters, Take With Food. In my defense, I did take it with food. A small can of mandarin oranges. Because this, my friends, is definitely food. Tasty and delicious food. Not so tasty on the way back up, because they kind of form one giant gloopy mandarin orange that threatens to clog your nasal cavity. Do not pretend you don’t have nose vomit because I know you do. Just accept it and move on.
As such, I was in no mood for an evening of festivities and neither was Kasi. So I spent the Eve watching reruns of CSI (the original Las Vegas one, not the one with the abominably creepy David Caruso) until 4am because they kept showing these To Be Continued episodes. Naturally, I had to make sure that Nick made it out of the glass box alive and that Grissom would somehow incorporate his expansive bug knowledge into the plotline.
In other news, I have named my new kitty Josephine. Not Gidget or Sugar Monkey or even Bobo, as suggested by the Arabian Dumbass. Josephine is sweetness personified. Like pancakes in a cuddly furry form. However, she and her upper respiratory infection are also money personified. Two emergency vet visits = depleted checking account.
If anyone has any money making schemes they’d like to suggest, I’m totally game.
And I’d like to move here. Should anyone know of a way to make money while writing mindless drivel on the internet without the following of dooce, please let me know. I could use a cottage lifestyle in Spain.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Druglord
I probably should have saved the shitty valium title for today’s pathetic diatribe but hey, whatever. I could be my very own title Nazi but I’m choosing to let this morning’s morphine injection rule my thoughts. Which means everything is followed with a ‘meh, whatever’ and then a disgusting giggle or dopey smile.
If you’re me, and you’re not, obviously, because I’m me, then you hate when people start conversations with sentences like “When I was on morphine this morning….” because that means you’re obligated to mentally sigh and say “Oh my! Why were you on morphine this morning?” It’s like people so desperately want to divulge their personal business but they don’t want to come across as the grandmotherly-type who talks about her bowel movements. So they dangle the carrot and wait for you to bite, and you do, but not because you want to. You bite because society has dictated certain behaviors as acceptable and you’re too much of a pussy to stand up to The Man.
The morphine came from a gallbladder test this morning, only I wasn’t aware there was a chance that morphine could be involved. So when my gallbladder proved mighty elusive and cantankerous, the nurse in pink scrubs came in with a shot of morphine to move things along. This information would have proved useful previous to the morphine insertion. If for nothing else, it would have saved me the mild embarrassment of rambling nonsensically about kitty cat heaven and my inexplicable dislike of peanut butter. And Amanda would have been much more prepared when I called her from the nuclear medicine lab to come get me, because as I was talking to her I was imagining that my voice sounded much like butterflies. Like that scene from The Green Mile where the guy spews forth all manner of creepy computer generated bugs. Only way less creepy, because butterflies are sweet and gentle. Unless you read books by Laurell K. Hamilton, and then the butterflies are mean little fairies who nibble off bits of flesh.
Back to the whole point of this, which is valium. Valium is useless. I’ve gotten higher pumping gas than swallowing four of those orange tablets in a six hour period. Ugh, and now I’m realizing that I never explained the reason for the spasming esophagus and the need for valium. I only alluded to contacting aliens via a radio transmitter, and this is not near enough explanation for someone as verbose as me.
The radio transmitter was implanted, not by aliens, but by my doctor. Who may or may not be working with the aliens. They’re supposed to sedate you while they slide the camera down your throat, cut off pieces of flesh for biopsies and then staple gun this eraser-sized contraption to your esophagus. Only as I’ve previously learned, I have the world’s highest tolerance for valium and demerol. So after my second injection and pleading, tear-filled eyes aimed at the doctor, he slid the camera out of my throat and patted me on the cheek, saying he was very sorry but he just couldn’t give me any more. My blood pressure was too low, so be a good girl and this will all be over in a second. Most of the time when women hear this phrase they end up pregnant. I got a pissed off esophagus. Same thing.
Normally this procedure is completely painless. You wear a pager on your right hip to receive the (alien) transmissions about ph levels for 48 hours. The transmitter falls off five days later and gets eaten by stomach acid. Or something. I also had a catheter inserted into my right nostril with a tiny ph-measuring bulb that hung by my tonsils. Not really that comfortable, but not painful, either. And it was definitely attractive having a plastic tube taped to the side of my cheek. I’m surprised the people at work didn’t have sex with me right then and there.
But obviously I’m a human reject, which means I spent last Wednesday night cranky and miserable. Upon calling the doctor the next day, he was only mildly sympathetic, stating that he had suspected I would be uncomfortable. While most people breeze right on through these tests, my symptoms indicated an extremely sensitive upper GI area. *insert technical doctor jargon here* As such, I was probably in quite a bit of pain.
I’m not sure what’s gotten into people lately, but there have been several times in the past few weeks where I’ve had mental screaming matches with myself about how very useful certain information would have been previous to these events.
To compensate, Senor Doctor called in large bottle of valium at my local Walgreens. Super, I think. I will take the valium and go into a lovely pain-free trance-like state. But four pills and six hours later found me sitting on my couch, wishing death upon the entire world. Still in pain, still cranky and slightly homicidal.
As such, my holiday season was spent popping valium. Lots and lots of valium. It takes four pills at a time to make me relaxed, and another two if I feel like sleeping.
The alien transmitter fell out late Tuesday evening. I feel much better now. Also, I have a new cat. Her name is Sugar Monkey. Or maybe Gidget.
If you’re me, and you’re not, obviously, because I’m me, then you hate when people start conversations with sentences like “When I was on morphine this morning….” because that means you’re obligated to mentally sigh and say “Oh my! Why were you on morphine this morning?” It’s like people so desperately want to divulge their personal business but they don’t want to come across as the grandmotherly-type who talks about her bowel movements. So they dangle the carrot and wait for you to bite, and you do, but not because you want to. You bite because society has dictated certain behaviors as acceptable and you’re too much of a pussy to stand up to The Man.
The morphine came from a gallbladder test this morning, only I wasn’t aware there was a chance that morphine could be involved. So when my gallbladder proved mighty elusive and cantankerous, the nurse in pink scrubs came in with a shot of morphine to move things along. This information would have proved useful previous to the morphine insertion. If for nothing else, it would have saved me the mild embarrassment of rambling nonsensically about kitty cat heaven and my inexplicable dislike of peanut butter. And Amanda would have been much more prepared when I called her from the nuclear medicine lab to come get me, because as I was talking to her I was imagining that my voice sounded much like butterflies. Like that scene from The Green Mile where the guy spews forth all manner of creepy computer generated bugs. Only way less creepy, because butterflies are sweet and gentle. Unless you read books by Laurell K. Hamilton, and then the butterflies are mean little fairies who nibble off bits of flesh.
Back to the whole point of this, which is valium. Valium is useless. I’ve gotten higher pumping gas than swallowing four of those orange tablets in a six hour period. Ugh, and now I’m realizing that I never explained the reason for the spasming esophagus and the need for valium. I only alluded to contacting aliens via a radio transmitter, and this is not near enough explanation for someone as verbose as me.
The radio transmitter was implanted, not by aliens, but by my doctor. Who may or may not be working with the aliens. They’re supposed to sedate you while they slide the camera down your throat, cut off pieces of flesh for biopsies and then staple gun this eraser-sized contraption to your esophagus. Only as I’ve previously learned, I have the world’s highest tolerance for valium and demerol. So after my second injection and pleading, tear-filled eyes aimed at the doctor, he slid the camera out of my throat and patted me on the cheek, saying he was very sorry but he just couldn’t give me any more. My blood pressure was too low, so be a good girl and this will all be over in a second. Most of the time when women hear this phrase they end up pregnant. I got a pissed off esophagus. Same thing.
Normally this procedure is completely painless. You wear a pager on your right hip to receive the (alien) transmissions about ph levels for 48 hours. The transmitter falls off five days later and gets eaten by stomach acid. Or something. I also had a catheter inserted into my right nostril with a tiny ph-measuring bulb that hung by my tonsils. Not really that comfortable, but not painful, either. And it was definitely attractive having a plastic tube taped to the side of my cheek. I’m surprised the people at work didn’t have sex with me right then and there.
But obviously I’m a human reject, which means I spent last Wednesday night cranky and miserable. Upon calling the doctor the next day, he was only mildly sympathetic, stating that he had suspected I would be uncomfortable. While most people breeze right on through these tests, my symptoms indicated an extremely sensitive upper GI area. *insert technical doctor jargon here* As such, I was probably in quite a bit of pain.
I’m not sure what’s gotten into people lately, but there have been several times in the past few weeks where I’ve had mental screaming matches with myself about how very useful certain information would have been previous to these events.
To compensate, Senor Doctor called in large bottle of valium at my local Walgreens. Super, I think. I will take the valium and go into a lovely pain-free trance-like state. But four pills and six hours later found me sitting on my couch, wishing death upon the entire world. Still in pain, still cranky and slightly homicidal.
As such, my holiday season was spent popping valium. Lots and lots of valium. It takes four pills at a time to make me relaxed, and another two if I feel like sleeping.
The alien transmitter fell out late Tuesday evening. I feel much better now. Also, I have a new cat. Her name is Sugar Monkey. Or maybe Gidget.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Dear Santa: Your elves have shitty valium.
I thought about describing my pill-popping Christmas by going into great detail about my mental disintegration after the vet “accidentally” killed Llama (with valium, no less). I would describe the ever-increasing emotional hysteria, culminating in an office meltdown of epic proportions. Then on to the brief but stern admonishment from my boss regarding throwing sharp projectile objects in spaces that might be occupied by other humans. My story would end when a sympathetic coworker popped open a bottle of valium and force fed three orange pills down my throat, which left me comatose and slightly drooly. After which I was fired for my unsatisfactory conduct.**
But then I realized not everyone finds me amusing. Plus, this is the holiday season, and whether you sing that crazy dradle song or the one about a baby in a poop-filled barn, most deities hate liars, especially blatant ones. And while I definitely cried, okay, sobbed, on the phone with my mother after the vet called with his bad news, I wouldn’t describe my emotional state as unstable. Pissed off would be far more realistic. And maybe just a little sad. Oh, and guilty. See below:
By the time I finally managed to call the vet back, it was late afternoon. I’d spent my morning within the bowels of a hospital eating eggs laced with nuclear matter and reclining under what appeared to be a giant black drum. While it’s inordinately uncomfortable for me to lie perfectly still for any length of time, this was by far the most enjoyable portion of my day. Possibly because I hadn’t been able to eat anything since 9pm the night before and I’m not one of those kids who forget to eat. Forget my keys, maybe. Eating, never. As such, those nuclear eggs were like manna from heaven.
The only moderately cool thing from that whole ordeal was watching the little nuclear bits hang out in my stomach. They kind of resembled very busy microscopic ants with a tendency to stay in a giant dotty cluster. I’m using the word ‘cool’ very loosely, because while it was neat in that ‘look at my innards!’ kind of way, I’ll be the first to admit that I have very irrational semi-fears about things. Mostly they involve aliens, alien babies and bird noises. My greatest fear would have me standing next to a long-armed alien while I birthed his alien spawn from my stomach, all while they communicated via bird noises. So it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise that while watching the little nuclear bits move around in my abdominal cavity, the Crazy part of my brain was all “You know that’s how they breed, don’t you? The eggs are merely a vehicle for their alien spawn. Look at them on the screen- invading every molecule of your body. You’re going to be the Mary for the bug-eyed alien race.”
The non-crazy part of my brain, the one that deals frequently with my overactive and slightly paranoid imagination, responded by sighing in resignation. “You’re going to write about this on the internet, aren’t you? This is not how you get boys to make out with you.”
However, I’m going to blame low blood sugar on the brief (but stunning) coup by Crazy Brain. I’m quite aware that nuclear matter does not equal alien babies and should the previous admission diminish anyone’s desire to make out with me, I’m deeply sorry.
Following my nuclear morning, I was sent to another hospital building for a CAT scan. This wasn’t nearly as amusing as the egg test, mainly because I had to drink a gallon of pink Crystal Light infused with some unidentifiable substance. I was not to drink it too quickly, however, because it would make me nauseated. I nodded my head in acknowledgement when the nurse told me this, then informed her that everything makes me nauseated so this should be wicked exciting.
The scan itself wasn’t anything to write home about, with the exception of whatever drug was injected into the vein in my right arm. After the technician left the room, her voice came over the intercom and told me that I would probably feel like I was wetting myself and that my pelvis would feel abnormally warm. Personally, I feel that this is the sort of information that should be shared before the drug injection. But hey, who’s judging?
Now that I’ve run through my six hours of hospital visiting, you can understand why it took me five and a half hours to return the message left by my vet. I thought it was just a normal update on the declawing and shot-giving for The Demonspawn. Maybe letting me know that they were resting comfortably, ready for pickup after 5pm. Unbeknownst to me, Llama was definitely resting comfortably. In a fucking body bag. He’d died when the nurse had injected the kitty cat valium into his hind leg. Dropped dead right on the table, the vet said. I got to hear about that ‘dropping dead’ part about eight or nine times, which is exactly the mental image you want of your pet. Right next to the one of an ice-encrusted ball of fluff inside the confines of a plastic ziploc bag. Because I’d taken so long to return his call, he said, they’d had to put him in the freezer. To halt decomposition. Again, THANKS FOR THAT MENTAL IMAGE, ASSHOLE.
So I drove across town to pick up Lily, because one pet death was really all I could handle. Had I ingested more than Crystal Light and nuclear eggs that day, I probably would have had the energy to disembowel the vet like I envisioned on my drive over. But hunger and sadness hand rendered me weak, and instead I just held Lily’s furry little body to my chest and cried silently all the way home. Feeling like a horrible cat-mother for sending them off for an unnecessary procedure, just to save my new couch from frenzied clawing. Feeling horrible and heartless for shoving a normally docile Llama into his cat carrier, clawing and hissing all the way. Feeling even guiltier for thinking, over and over, you had to kill my favorite one, didn’t you?
Oh, and before you think I was kidding about the elves making shitty valium, I’m totally not. Tomorrow I promise to tell you how I made contact with the aliens via the radio transmitter implanted in my esophagus. And no, I’m not kidding. At least about the radio transmitter. The alien part is up for interpretation.
** Just so we're clear, I'm not terminated. Nor did I have a hissy fit and throw objects at humans. I did let a tear or twelve slip out when everyone at work stopped by to hug me, and it was all very Terms of Endearment-y.
But then I realized not everyone finds me amusing. Plus, this is the holiday season, and whether you sing that crazy dradle song or the one about a baby in a poop-filled barn, most deities hate liars, especially blatant ones. And while I definitely cried, okay, sobbed, on the phone with my mother after the vet called with his bad news, I wouldn’t describe my emotional state as unstable. Pissed off would be far more realistic. And maybe just a little sad. Oh, and guilty. See below:
By the time I finally managed to call the vet back, it was late afternoon. I’d spent my morning within the bowels of a hospital eating eggs laced with nuclear matter and reclining under what appeared to be a giant black drum. While it’s inordinately uncomfortable for me to lie perfectly still for any length of time, this was by far the most enjoyable portion of my day. Possibly because I hadn’t been able to eat anything since 9pm the night before and I’m not one of those kids who forget to eat. Forget my keys, maybe. Eating, never. As such, those nuclear eggs were like manna from heaven.
The only moderately cool thing from that whole ordeal was watching the little nuclear bits hang out in my stomach. They kind of resembled very busy microscopic ants with a tendency to stay in a giant dotty cluster. I’m using the word ‘cool’ very loosely, because while it was neat in that ‘look at my innards!’ kind of way, I’ll be the first to admit that I have very irrational semi-fears about things. Mostly they involve aliens, alien babies and bird noises. My greatest fear would have me standing next to a long-armed alien while I birthed his alien spawn from my stomach, all while they communicated via bird noises. So it shouldn’t have come as any great surprise that while watching the little nuclear bits move around in my abdominal cavity, the Crazy part of my brain was all “You know that’s how they breed, don’t you? The eggs are merely a vehicle for their alien spawn. Look at them on the screen- invading every molecule of your body. You’re going to be the Mary for the bug-eyed alien race.”
The non-crazy part of my brain, the one that deals frequently with my overactive and slightly paranoid imagination, responded by sighing in resignation. “You’re going to write about this on the internet, aren’t you? This is not how you get boys to make out with you.”
However, I’m going to blame low blood sugar on the brief (but stunning) coup by Crazy Brain. I’m quite aware that nuclear matter does not equal alien babies and should the previous admission diminish anyone’s desire to make out with me, I’m deeply sorry.
Following my nuclear morning, I was sent to another hospital building for a CAT scan. This wasn’t nearly as amusing as the egg test, mainly because I had to drink a gallon of pink Crystal Light infused with some unidentifiable substance. I was not to drink it too quickly, however, because it would make me nauseated. I nodded my head in acknowledgement when the nurse told me this, then informed her that everything makes me nauseated so this should be wicked exciting.
The scan itself wasn’t anything to write home about, with the exception of whatever drug was injected into the vein in my right arm. After the technician left the room, her voice came over the intercom and told me that I would probably feel like I was wetting myself and that my pelvis would feel abnormally warm. Personally, I feel that this is the sort of information that should be shared before the drug injection. But hey, who’s judging?
Now that I’ve run through my six hours of hospital visiting, you can understand why it took me five and a half hours to return the message left by my vet. I thought it was just a normal update on the declawing and shot-giving for The Demonspawn. Maybe letting me know that they were resting comfortably, ready for pickup after 5pm. Unbeknownst to me, Llama was definitely resting comfortably. In a fucking body bag. He’d died when the nurse had injected the kitty cat valium into his hind leg. Dropped dead right on the table, the vet said. I got to hear about that ‘dropping dead’ part about eight or nine times, which is exactly the mental image you want of your pet. Right next to the one of an ice-encrusted ball of fluff inside the confines of a plastic ziploc bag. Because I’d taken so long to return his call, he said, they’d had to put him in the freezer. To halt decomposition. Again, THANKS FOR THAT MENTAL IMAGE, ASSHOLE.
So I drove across town to pick up Lily, because one pet death was really all I could handle. Had I ingested more than Crystal Light and nuclear eggs that day, I probably would have had the energy to disembowel the vet like I envisioned on my drive over. But hunger and sadness hand rendered me weak, and instead I just held Lily’s furry little body to my chest and cried silently all the way home. Feeling like a horrible cat-mother for sending them off for an unnecessary procedure, just to save my new couch from frenzied clawing. Feeling horrible and heartless for shoving a normally docile Llama into his cat carrier, clawing and hissing all the way. Feeling even guiltier for thinking, over and over, you had to kill my favorite one, didn’t you?
Oh, and before you think I was kidding about the elves making shitty valium, I’m totally not. Tomorrow I promise to tell you how I made contact with the aliens via the radio transmitter implanted in my esophagus. And no, I’m not kidding. At least about the radio transmitter. The alien part is up for interpretation.
** Just so we're clear, I'm not terminated. Nor did I have a hissy fit and throw objects at humans. I did let a tear or twelve slip out when everyone at work stopped by to hug me, and it was all very Terms of Endearment-y.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Where I continue to overshare
I had every intention of keeping my mouth shut about future health malfunctions because I finally reread a week’s worth of entries and realized that I was one whiny bitch. My throat hurts, I feel bad, my body is achy, my toe has a cramp, wah wah wah. It’s like someone opened the floodgates and instead of just calling my mother every night to complain, I had to open my laptop as well. Super.
But then Friday morning I woke up with the Stomach Death and I realized I was totally going to have to word vomit my experience into the bowels of the internet again, just like I vomited up a week’s worth of dietary intake straight into my toilet.
It started at three o’clock, a time when the majority of the greater Little Rock area was fast asleep in their dry comfortable beds. When I woke up, my entire body was covered with the kind of sweat that says “I just robbed a convenience store and sprinted for two miles to escape the police, pardon me while I pass out in your front lawn from exhaustion.” Obviously something was wrong, but I’m a stubborn one. I had a vested interest in keeping twenty dollars worth of pan-seared salmon below the Mason-Dixon line.
Four Tums (useless fruit-flavored crap) and an hour later, I was begrudgingly sliding out of bed, only to be hit with a wave of nausea so intense my legs almost gave out. The blood vessels around my eyes, the ones that always burst unattractively after a bout of vomiting, were already preparing themselves by puffing up in excitement.
And so my fifteen hour love affair with the porcelain goddess began. By seven-thirty I was confident I had expunged not only the pan-seared salmon and a gallon and a half of stomach bile, but possibly a kidney as well. I made a pathetic attempt at lightheartedness when I called and left a message for my boss, not realizing until the last second that the stomach acid had damn near ripped my vocal chords in two and I sounded like an eighty-five-year-old man with a four pack-a-day habit. Which meant the verbiage about dying alone in my apartment with two hungry cats who would eventually gnaw off my face sounded unnervingly real. And I was only half joking.
When eight o’clock rolled around, the early morning sweat attack had dried to little crystallized spikes all over my body. Obviously I was dying. Best to speed it up by drowning myself in the tub, where at least I could die warm. Only I’d forgotten to purchase a drain stopper during each previous grocery excursion, which meant I’d have to figure out how to drown myself in the shower. But this required standing, and countless hours of compulsive vomiting had rid me of any coordinated leg movements. So I flipped on the shower nozzle and waited for the hot water to hit my hand before rolling myself over the edge, red trackpants and all.
Unfortunately, my hot water heater is a useless, malignant oozing sore on the face of humanity. It provides about nine minutes of shower-worthy water before abruptly giving out. There are probably ways I could fix this, but I’d lay money on it being older than the invention of fruitcake and I have a strict no-fondling rule for persons and objects greater than twenty years my senior.
And though there was nothing left to give up, no semblance of liquid left in my body, The Goddess and I continued to have a face-to-face relationship until mid-afternoon. I’d covered the floor in soft fluffy towels, where I reclined in wait of the next dry heave, the next organ-loosening contraction, the next near-death experience.
By late afternoon I had the following conversation with my stomach- here is the transcript:
Me: Hi, Stomach. This is me, Robin. First, I want to say I completely and utterly to submit to the rule you have over my body. If I have slighted you in the past, I do humbly beg your forgiveness.
Stomach: As it should be.
Me: Obviously Amanda contaminated us with a virulent strain of Vomiticus, which forced you to expunge last evening’s choice of dinner- the aforementioned dinner shall remain nameless as I have come to the conclusion that the mere thought of it sends you on a well-deserved jihad against my esophagus.
Stomach: You are observant, my child.
Me: I wonder if I might run a few things by you- feel you out, so to speak.
Stomach: Please, go right ahead. I’ll be sure to inform you if I am displeased.
Me: Thank you, Stomach. You are most gracious. I was wondering how you feel about crackers?
Stomach: I believe this would be a hasty decision. Imagine what non-lubricated cracker bits will do to your esophagus on their way back up.
Me: Your opinion is duly noted. What say you about juice?
Stomach: What kind of juice are you suggesting?
Me: We have grape in the fri--
Stomach: DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A CLEAR LIQUID TO YOU?
Me: Um, no sir.
Stomach: Then perhaps you had best stay away from it.
Me: A pear, then? They’re awfully juicy. Very soft.
Stomach: That’s a negative, ghostrider.
Me: Where did you learn such colloquialisms?
Stomach: Please stay focused.
Me: My apologies. *pause* There are popsicles in the freezer. Cool and soothing....
Stomach: After the juice debacle, I’m afraid to ask what flavor.
Me: Well, they’re creamy coconut but you usually ADORE creamy coconut.
Stomach: Are you high?
Me: No, just sore.
Stomach: Stupid, then?
Me: So the coconut is a no-go. *long pause, cringing* How about some Sprite?
Stomach: Hmmm. Possibly. Maybe you should take a sip?
Me: Is this a trick? Because I did not like the previous revolt and-
Stomach: Do not anger me, missy. I will do as I see fit and you will like it. Do you understand me?
Me: Yes, Stomach. I understand you. So you’d accept a small cup of Sprite? Could I trade two sips of liquid for one cracker nibble?
Stomach: *thinking, thinking* Yes, provided the cracker nibble is extremely well chewed.
Me: *mentally shaking hands* Deal. Two sips for every cracker nibble. I will not disappoint you, Stomach.
Stomach: Let’s hope.
But then Friday morning I woke up with the Stomach Death and I realized I was totally going to have to word vomit my experience into the bowels of the internet again, just like I vomited up a week’s worth of dietary intake straight into my toilet.
It started at three o’clock, a time when the majority of the greater Little Rock area was fast asleep in their dry comfortable beds. When I woke up, my entire body was covered with the kind of sweat that says “I just robbed a convenience store and sprinted for two miles to escape the police, pardon me while I pass out in your front lawn from exhaustion.” Obviously something was wrong, but I’m a stubborn one. I had a vested interest in keeping twenty dollars worth of pan-seared salmon below the Mason-Dixon line.
Four Tums (useless fruit-flavored crap) and an hour later, I was begrudgingly sliding out of bed, only to be hit with a wave of nausea so intense my legs almost gave out. The blood vessels around my eyes, the ones that always burst unattractively after a bout of vomiting, were already preparing themselves by puffing up in excitement.
And so my fifteen hour love affair with the porcelain goddess began. By seven-thirty I was confident I had expunged not only the pan-seared salmon and a gallon and a half of stomach bile, but possibly a kidney as well. I made a pathetic attempt at lightheartedness when I called and left a message for my boss, not realizing until the last second that the stomach acid had damn near ripped my vocal chords in two and I sounded like an eighty-five-year-old man with a four pack-a-day habit. Which meant the verbiage about dying alone in my apartment with two hungry cats who would eventually gnaw off my face sounded unnervingly real. And I was only half joking.
When eight o’clock rolled around, the early morning sweat attack had dried to little crystallized spikes all over my body. Obviously I was dying. Best to speed it up by drowning myself in the tub, where at least I could die warm. Only I’d forgotten to purchase a drain stopper during each previous grocery excursion, which meant I’d have to figure out how to drown myself in the shower. But this required standing, and countless hours of compulsive vomiting had rid me of any coordinated leg movements. So I flipped on the shower nozzle and waited for the hot water to hit my hand before rolling myself over the edge, red trackpants and all.
Unfortunately, my hot water heater is a useless, malignant oozing sore on the face of humanity. It provides about nine minutes of shower-worthy water before abruptly giving out. There are probably ways I could fix this, but I’d lay money on it being older than the invention of fruitcake and I have a strict no-fondling rule for persons and objects greater than twenty years my senior.
And though there was nothing left to give up, no semblance of liquid left in my body, The Goddess and I continued to have a face-to-face relationship until mid-afternoon. I’d covered the floor in soft fluffy towels, where I reclined in wait of the next dry heave, the next organ-loosening contraction, the next near-death experience.
By late afternoon I had the following conversation with my stomach- here is the transcript:
Me: Hi, Stomach. This is me, Robin. First, I want to say I completely and utterly to submit to the rule you have over my body. If I have slighted you in the past, I do humbly beg your forgiveness.
Stomach: As it should be.
Me: Obviously Amanda contaminated us with a virulent strain of Vomiticus, which forced you to expunge last evening’s choice of dinner- the aforementioned dinner shall remain nameless as I have come to the conclusion that the mere thought of it sends you on a well-deserved jihad against my esophagus.
Stomach: You are observant, my child.
Me: I wonder if I might run a few things by you- feel you out, so to speak.
Stomach: Please, go right ahead. I’ll be sure to inform you if I am displeased.
Me: Thank you, Stomach. You are most gracious. I was wondering how you feel about crackers?
Stomach: I believe this would be a hasty decision. Imagine what non-lubricated cracker bits will do to your esophagus on their way back up.
Me: Your opinion is duly noted. What say you about juice?
Stomach: What kind of juice are you suggesting?
Me: We have grape in the fri--
Stomach: DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A CLEAR LIQUID TO YOU?
Me: Um, no sir.
Stomach: Then perhaps you had best stay away from it.
Me: A pear, then? They’re awfully juicy. Very soft.
Stomach: That’s a negative, ghostrider.
Me: Where did you learn such colloquialisms?
Stomach: Please stay focused.
Me: My apologies. *pause* There are popsicles in the freezer. Cool and soothing....
Stomach: After the juice debacle, I’m afraid to ask what flavor.
Me: Well, they’re creamy coconut but you usually ADORE creamy coconut.
Stomach: Are you high?
Me: No, just sore.
Stomach: Stupid, then?
Me: So the coconut is a no-go. *long pause, cringing* How about some Sprite?
Stomach: Hmmm. Possibly. Maybe you should take a sip?
Me: Is this a trick? Because I did not like the previous revolt and-
Stomach: Do not anger me, missy. I will do as I see fit and you will like it. Do you understand me?
Me: Yes, Stomach. I understand you. So you’d accept a small cup of Sprite? Could I trade two sips of liquid for one cracker nibble?
Stomach: *thinking, thinking* Yes, provided the cracker nibble is extremely well chewed.
Me: *mentally shaking hands* Deal. Two sips for every cracker nibble. I will not disappoint you, Stomach.
Stomach: Let’s hope.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The Agony
On the way back from lunch, Nancy shot her arm across the span of the car to turn down the “puppy killing” music that Kimberly had selected to help combat our post-lunch slump. She then turned her perfectly coiffed blonde head towards the three of us in the rear and fanned her face in mock excitement, exclaiming that up here on the left is where Robin and I were attacked by the bee!
She was right. And as far as I’m concerned, it should be hallowed ground protected by pink forcefields and vicious attack kittens because it’s not everyday that you pop your Embarrassment Cherry in front of the entire lunch-going population of West Little Rock.
It started at Mimi’s, a relatively new addition to the generic restaurant chains that sprout up in under fourteen days. These family oriented establishments come complete with a uniformed and seasoned crop of servers just dying to read you the specials, smile firmly in place, because working at Mimi’s is totally going to increase their tip revenue and waiting tables at On the Border is just so passé.
Throughout lunch I kept finding the crispy remains of flies on our table in places that had been decidedly fly-free only moments before. Like the heavens confused fly carcasses for manna and dropped them liberally upon unsuspecting restaurant patrons. And then halfway through the meal I saw something small, black and winged fly just past my eyelash. I have no idea where it landed but judging by its trajectory, the French onion soup one table over might have received an unexpected visitor.
For whatever reason, the six or seven dead flies I was personally witness to didn’t affect my gross-out factor. Because, I suppose, they were dead. If they’d been buzzing around my face, this would have been an entirely different story. Obviously whatever was supposed to kill them was killing them, however unfortunate their crinkled little black bodies looked beside the bread basket.
Nancy and I had taken my Honda to lunch, mainly because we like putting as many vehicles on the roads during lunch hour as humanly possible. Also, global warming is just a scam and it’s not like we really need the rain forest, anyway. On the way back we cranked up the air conditioner because September in Arkansas is akin to placing your delicate, naked body upon a hard reflective surface at high noon on the equator. Only it’s more humid here.
About a quarter of the way back to the office, Nancy inexplicably stopped mid-sentence and I turned my head, confused, just in time to watch her blue eyes go from normal mascared size to the kind of eyes you see on dead people. Specifically, dead people who have just been confronted with an alien race that intends to drown you in festering alien pus while sharpening their razor sharp teeth on your tailbone.
The only thing she could get out was a breathless squeak of unadulterated fear. She pulled her suddenly frozen hand from her lap and pointed at the side of my head, finally managing to form her mouth around the words that nobody trapped in a moving vehicle with air-tight windows wants to hear: BEE.
As Nancy finally gained her breath and forced a scream out of her windpipe, I lost every ounce of my sanity and swerved to the right, narrowly missing a silver Toyota. When I realized that a twelve inch tall curb significantly prevented me from ramping into the median, I swerved again, this time to the right. I imagine that the people behind me nonchalantly let off their gas pedals because look what we’ve got here, another corporate junkie coming off a liquid lunch. Surprise.
I turned a space just barely big enough to fit a tuna can into my impromptu parking spot and jumped out of the car, not caring that my door was open and the chances of it being ripped off were pretty high. Also, there’s that whole human body versus oncoming traffic thing but that’s just not what crosses one’s mind when confronted with a vicious bee in one’s hair.
At first I ran to the front of the car, hoping to dislodge it and send it on its merry way. But Nancy immediately and shrilly confirmed that it was most definitely still stuck in my hair and if I didn’t hurry it was definitely going to eat my face off. So I ran to the passenger side and threw my head towards my knees, assuming the quick flurry of activity would rid me of my unwanted hair accoutrement.
Here’s where it gets even more amusing: After twenty seconds of head-flipped-over screaming and indescribable panic, I finally convinced Nancy (via more screaming and panic) that she had to help me and she had to help me right that very second. So she sucked up her courage and got out of the passenger seat, scrunching her nose and averting her face, hands pawing at my hair in the manner of a girl-fight circa 1975 Connecticut. I say Connecticut because hello, I spent the majority of my high school years in a place (Mississippi) where girl-fights meant somebody’s weave was getting ripped out and the sign of a seasoned fighter was a string of self inflicted box-cutter scars on the forearm. Those bitches did not play.
I finally flipped my mass of hair back over, only to be met with Nancy’s horrified eyes. The bee, it was still there. Which just launched more screaming and general ass-hattery.
Three hair flips later and Nancy deemed my tresses bee-free. After a moment of hysterically tinged laughter, I got back in the driver’s seat and drove us back to the office, where we diligently reenacted our embarrassing and irrational display.
Also? That bee? It was already dead.
She was right. And as far as I’m concerned, it should be hallowed ground protected by pink forcefields and vicious attack kittens because it’s not everyday that you pop your Embarrassment Cherry in front of the entire lunch-going population of West Little Rock.
It started at Mimi’s, a relatively new addition to the generic restaurant chains that sprout up in under fourteen days. These family oriented establishments come complete with a uniformed and seasoned crop of servers just dying to read you the specials, smile firmly in place, because working at Mimi’s is totally going to increase their tip revenue and waiting tables at On the Border is just so passé.
Throughout lunch I kept finding the crispy remains of flies on our table in places that had been decidedly fly-free only moments before. Like the heavens confused fly carcasses for manna and dropped them liberally upon unsuspecting restaurant patrons. And then halfway through the meal I saw something small, black and winged fly just past my eyelash. I have no idea where it landed but judging by its trajectory, the French onion soup one table over might have received an unexpected visitor.
For whatever reason, the six or seven dead flies I was personally witness to didn’t affect my gross-out factor. Because, I suppose, they were dead. If they’d been buzzing around my face, this would have been an entirely different story. Obviously whatever was supposed to kill them was killing them, however unfortunate their crinkled little black bodies looked beside the bread basket.
Nancy and I had taken my Honda to lunch, mainly because we like putting as many vehicles on the roads during lunch hour as humanly possible. Also, global warming is just a scam and it’s not like we really need the rain forest, anyway. On the way back we cranked up the air conditioner because September in Arkansas is akin to placing your delicate, naked body upon a hard reflective surface at high noon on the equator. Only it’s more humid here.
About a quarter of the way back to the office, Nancy inexplicably stopped mid-sentence and I turned my head, confused, just in time to watch her blue eyes go from normal mascared size to the kind of eyes you see on dead people. Specifically, dead people who have just been confronted with an alien race that intends to drown you in festering alien pus while sharpening their razor sharp teeth on your tailbone.
The only thing she could get out was a breathless squeak of unadulterated fear. She pulled her suddenly frozen hand from her lap and pointed at the side of my head, finally managing to form her mouth around the words that nobody trapped in a moving vehicle with air-tight windows wants to hear: BEE.
As Nancy finally gained her breath and forced a scream out of her windpipe, I lost every ounce of my sanity and swerved to the right, narrowly missing a silver Toyota. When I realized that a twelve inch tall curb significantly prevented me from ramping into the median, I swerved again, this time to the right. I imagine that the people behind me nonchalantly let off their gas pedals because look what we’ve got here, another corporate junkie coming off a liquid lunch. Surprise.
I turned a space just barely big enough to fit a tuna can into my impromptu parking spot and jumped out of the car, not caring that my door was open and the chances of it being ripped off were pretty high. Also, there’s that whole human body versus oncoming traffic thing but that’s just not what crosses one’s mind when confronted with a vicious bee in one’s hair.
At first I ran to the front of the car, hoping to dislodge it and send it on its merry way. But Nancy immediately and shrilly confirmed that it was most definitely still stuck in my hair and if I didn’t hurry it was definitely going to eat my face off. So I ran to the passenger side and threw my head towards my knees, assuming the quick flurry of activity would rid me of my unwanted hair accoutrement.
Here’s where it gets even more amusing: After twenty seconds of head-flipped-over screaming and indescribable panic, I finally convinced Nancy (via more screaming and panic) that she had to help me and she had to help me right that very second. So she sucked up her courage and got out of the passenger seat, scrunching her nose and averting her face, hands pawing at my hair in the manner of a girl-fight circa 1975 Connecticut. I say Connecticut because hello, I spent the majority of my high school years in a place (Mississippi) where girl-fights meant somebody’s weave was getting ripped out and the sign of a seasoned fighter was a string of self inflicted box-cutter scars on the forearm. Those bitches did not play.
I finally flipped my mass of hair back over, only to be met with Nancy’s horrified eyes. The bee, it was still there. Which just launched more screaming and general ass-hattery.
Three hair flips later and Nancy deemed my tresses bee-free. After a moment of hysterically tinged laughter, I got back in the driver’s seat and drove us back to the office, where we diligently reenacted our embarrassing and irrational display.
Also? That bee? It was already dead.
Monday, December 11, 2006
What? More snot?
Let’s be honest- at this point I almost have no choice but to morph this blog from a spewing of mindless drivel to a spewing of health related dysfunctions, including examples of my patheticness when sickly. This is not to say I’m over being sick, because I’m not. We have officially kicked off week two in Robin’s Misery Campaign and what better way to make my proposed format transition than by notifying everyone that from this point forward, I will talk incessantly about bowel movements, mucus balls, eye goop, bloody snot and vomiting.
Only I hate talking about bowel movements, this is just where I draw the line. They shouldn’t be discussed with anyone outside of the healthcare profession or that one friend who talks openly about dropping the kids off at the pool. The friend who will openly and unashamedly tell you that now is definitely not the best time to visit the ladies because she’s about to go in there and coat the pipes. We all have this friend so it does you no good to deny it.
It’s just I’ve spent a lifetime of listening to my grandmother describe color and texture and frequency and suppository insertion and pain of poop removal. Add onto that another lifetime of listening to my mother bitch about how she has to smile and nod with concern or appreciation during these stories, and it’s like being tag teamed by herds of angry rhinoceros and gassy warthogs. The rhinoceros are pissed because they’ve had their delicate ears assailed with stories of poop carnage and the warthogs are oblivious to the fact that a) eating the crunchy caterpillars gives them lower intestinal difficulties and b) the rhino’s aren’t really that keen on hearing about the rectal expelling of the caterpillars.
Obviously I need to come up with better analogies. The point being that I’m not going to talk about poop. My poop, your poop or your girlfriend’s poop. I will, however, talk about cat poop. Because that shit stinks and it’s especially foul when it gets stuck in the kitty cat butt-fur. Besides, my whole goal in life is to grow up to be the cantankerous lady next door who smells faintly of cat litter. It’s just an added bonus if I get to smell like cat litter tainted with poop. It’s like asking god to strike a trifling whore with a case of chlamydia and instead he gives her a kid plus thirty pounds of stretch-marked baby weight.
Only I hate talking about bowel movements, this is just where I draw the line. They shouldn’t be discussed with anyone outside of the healthcare profession or that one friend who talks openly about dropping the kids off at the pool. The friend who will openly and unashamedly tell you that now is definitely not the best time to visit the ladies because she’s about to go in there and coat the pipes. We all have this friend so it does you no good to deny it.
It’s just I’ve spent a lifetime of listening to my grandmother describe color and texture and frequency and suppository insertion and pain of poop removal. Add onto that another lifetime of listening to my mother bitch about how she has to smile and nod with concern or appreciation during these stories, and it’s like being tag teamed by herds of angry rhinoceros and gassy warthogs. The rhinoceros are pissed because they’ve had their delicate ears assailed with stories of poop carnage and the warthogs are oblivious to the fact that a) eating the crunchy caterpillars gives them lower intestinal difficulties and b) the rhino’s aren’t really that keen on hearing about the rectal expelling of the caterpillars.
Obviously I need to come up with better analogies. The point being that I’m not going to talk about poop. My poop, your poop or your girlfriend’s poop. I will, however, talk about cat poop. Because that shit stinks and it’s especially foul when it gets stuck in the kitty cat butt-fur. Besides, my whole goal in life is to grow up to be the cantankerous lady next door who smells faintly of cat litter. It’s just an added bonus if I get to smell like cat litter tainted with poop. It’s like asking god to strike a trifling whore with a case of chlamydia and instead he gives her a kid plus thirty pounds of stretch-marked baby weight.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Chuck Norris, come kick this mucus in the ass!
This past week has been an in-depth study in the inadequacies of hydrocodone and the sheer ineptitude of medical professionals. Barring the mono incident during my junior year in college, this is by far the most miserable I have ever been. And when I say miserable, I mean so miserable that the act of swallowing my own spit actually keeps me awake at night. The sheer pain involved in contracting my throat makes me want to tear the heads off helpless gerbils. Though obviously I can’t do much more than make paste-o-gerbil in my oral cavity. Like pate’, only not.
I made it into wok for a solid hour yesterday when I decided the world would definitely be a better place if I would take my cantankerous ass home to bed. Many hours of sleeping later and I was equally as cranky as when I left work. And my throat still felt like a breeding ground for unhappy scorpions.
This morning I made deals with myself: I did not have to wash my hair but I did have to shower. I did not have to shave my legs but I did have to brush my teeth. I did not have to dress in a professional manner but I did have to put on a bra. This made these accomplishments easier to stomach, simply because I had exempted myself from the more laborious tasks. Also, it’s winter. Who cares if I miss one day of leg shaving, anyway?
Once at work I realized what an awful, terrible thing it is to be cooped up in one’s apartment for many, many days in a row. It was abundantly clear to me upon sitting at my clean, clutter-free desk that my apartment had gone from meeting the definitions of those words to being an apartment that might actually collapse under the weight of stacks of leftover sherbert bowls and popsicle wrappers and half-eaten pasta frozen dinners. Much like cleaning the yogurt remnants from my three-day-old scarf, I apparently couldn’t be bothered with little things like putting the crusty dishes in the sink or picking discarded blankets off the floor.
And even though the thought of my living space sitting in such a mound of cluttered filth would normally send me straight home for cleaning, nothing short of a building fire and the smoldering remains of my belongings could illicit a greater reaction than ‘meh.’ And even now, thinking about the smoldering couch and charred shoes, my first thought is “that’s why you have renter’s insurance” followed immediately by “meh.”
I made it into wok for a solid hour yesterday when I decided the world would definitely be a better place if I would take my cantankerous ass home to bed. Many hours of sleeping later and I was equally as cranky as when I left work. And my throat still felt like a breeding ground for unhappy scorpions.
This morning I made deals with myself: I did not have to wash my hair but I did have to shower. I did not have to shave my legs but I did have to brush my teeth. I did not have to dress in a professional manner but I did have to put on a bra. This made these accomplishments easier to stomach, simply because I had exempted myself from the more laborious tasks. Also, it’s winter. Who cares if I miss one day of leg shaving, anyway?
Once at work I realized what an awful, terrible thing it is to be cooped up in one’s apartment for many, many days in a row. It was abundantly clear to me upon sitting at my clean, clutter-free desk that my apartment had gone from meeting the definitions of those words to being an apartment that might actually collapse under the weight of stacks of leftover sherbert bowls and popsicle wrappers and half-eaten pasta frozen dinners. Much like cleaning the yogurt remnants from my three-day-old scarf, I apparently couldn’t be bothered with little things like putting the crusty dishes in the sink or picking discarded blankets off the floor.
And even though the thought of my living space sitting in such a mound of cluttered filth would normally send me straight home for cleaning, nothing short of a building fire and the smoldering remains of my belongings could illicit a greater reaction than ‘meh.’ And even now, thinking about the smoldering couch and charred shoes, my first thought is “that’s why you have renter’s insurance” followed immediately by “meh.”
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Misery also loves The Real World
Much like yesterday, I spent the majority of my time today in heinous fits of misery. I rotated from the couch to the bed and from the bed to the couch roughly every four hours. Not because I really wanted to, but because I once watched a Primetime report about nursing homes and the horror that is an oozing bedsore. Obviously my bedsore risk rates fairly low, seeing as how I've only been confined to my apartment for three days. I never claimed to be totally rational.
I wish I could enjoy what is effectively a four day weekend but it's amazing how old forcing down popsicles and yogurt can get, especially when one's throat feels like someone set your esophageal area to the pureed setting. I also tend to doze off at the oddest of times, normally snapping to attention when my body has text messaged my sleeping self with 'Hey bitch. U have snot rnng dwn ur face and ur throte needs sum h20. Thnx!! xoxo.'
And then there are the really confusing moments, like when you wake up to two over-zealous Real World sluts performing a vicious oral examination when the last thing you remember is watching a polar bear documentary on Animal Planet. Just in case you're wondering, that's a whole twenty channels worth of flippage or some very coordinated channel selection, all while heavily sedated.
Tomorrow I'm going to make a concerned attempt to make it in to work. This requires that many things be accomplished before 7:30am, specifically, a shower. I'm not sure how that's going to work seeing as how I've had the same black scarf around my neck since Sunday at 2pm. That's going on fifty-five hours of crustification, including the mounting yogurt stains achieved by attempting to feed myself in a semi-prone position. I couldn't be bothered to do more than wipe half-heartedly at them, seeing as how I was conserving my energy for the next time I was going to have to get up and pee.
I wish I could enjoy what is effectively a four day weekend but it's amazing how old forcing down popsicles and yogurt can get, especially when one's throat feels like someone set your esophageal area to the pureed setting. I also tend to doze off at the oddest of times, normally snapping to attention when my body has text messaged my sleeping self with 'Hey bitch. U have snot rnng dwn ur face and ur throte needs sum h20. Thnx!! xoxo.'
And then there are the really confusing moments, like when you wake up to two over-zealous Real World sluts performing a vicious oral examination when the last thing you remember is watching a polar bear documentary on Animal Planet. Just in case you're wondering, that's a whole twenty channels worth of flippage or some very coordinated channel selection, all while heavily sedated.
Tomorrow I'm going to make a concerned attempt to make it in to work. This requires that many things be accomplished before 7:30am, specifically, a shower. I'm not sure how that's going to work seeing as how I've had the same black scarf around my neck since Sunday at 2pm. That's going on fifty-five hours of crustification, including the mounting yogurt stains achieved by attempting to feed myself in a semi-prone position. I couldn't be bothered to do more than wipe half-heartedly at them, seeing as how I was conserving my energy for the next time I was going to have to get up and pee.
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