25 February 2006

You're too kind

Mr. Stapler is incapable of sympathy. It isn't that he isn't a nice person. It's just like a language that he does not speak .

For instance: my back hurts like hell. It does, every once in a while. Especially when I sit on my butt for a week with no exercise at all, like this past week when I had The Miserable Cold.

I was supposed to go to his house tonight, 40 miles away - a long long drive with back pain.

I whined to him: "I just feel so old."

His response: "Well, you have to start taking better care of yourself when you get old."

Not "Oh, honey, I'm sorry your back hurts, and you're not that old, you are the sweet young rosebud of my dreams." Nope. Just advice mixed with what really seems like a bunch of insults rolled into one: you don't take care of yourself, you're stupid for not taking care of yourself, and you are pretty damn old.

I don't think he means it that way. Maybe.

Online Shopping

There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than a clueless white suburban girl like me has ever dreamed of.

Behold: The Pimp Cup

23 February 2006

Circling the drain

Can one person make a difference? Hell yeah. I noticed it today.

It wasn't the presence of one person that made the difference - it was the absence. My co-worker, who shall henceforth be known as "The Festering Pool of Negativity" transferred out of our department and suddenlyn things are soooo much better.

She has been gone a few weeks but today it really hit me - this place is different. No one is at anyone's throat. No one is gossiping about each other. No one is backstabbing. We are all talking. We don't mind spending time together. Work doesn't suck the way it used to.

It's weird, because I actually kind of like The Festering Pool. I don't mind having lunch with her. We both have a sarcastic, bordering-on-mean sense of humor. But I think where I do it for effect, she lives and breathes the meanness. And day in, day out, 40 hours a week, it is just too hard to work with someone like The Festering Pool.

When she transferred out, she was soooo happy. The new department was so different, so superior, she couldn't believe how long she had lasted in our Pit of Hell. She was so glad to be gone.

But you can guess what happened after a little while in her new department, can't you? Somehow it took on the characteristics of The Festering Pool and became her very own. Apparently now it sucks over there, too.

As they say, no matter where you go, there you are.

22 February 2006

Rocket Science in Action

Gosh, I just love religious fanatics, don't you?


In addition to the Zithromax (so that good cats ask for it by name) I got the okay from the Doc in the Box to use Afrin.

Afrin! If you are one of those people who is blessed with normal sinus function, you don't know the lure of Lady Afrin. Because if you have a chronically messed-up schnozz, as do I, Afrin makes you feel normal.

A squirt up the ol' snotbox (as my dad calls it, poet that he is) and suddenly your sinuses are so clear you can smell the Tide at the laundromat three blocks away. It is a true miracle, a blessed amazing thing. It is like having an all-new nose.

But like all things that are too good to be true, it is.

Because if you use it too long Afrin begins to turn on you, and then your savior becomes your master - you end up in a never ending cycle of terrible snotbox congestion.

"Three days," intoned the pharmacist, glaring at me over the counter. He knew a potential addict when he saw one.

My old boyfriend Mojo's mom had a serious long-term Afrin addiction. I mean for years. She may still have it - it isn't something you want to bring up in polite conversation.

Back when there was only four-hour Afrin, she would wake up in the middle of the night to do her hits. If she made it four hours and ten minutes before she did her hit, she would feel proud of herself. She had an Afrin bottle within reach at all times.

So I am enjoying my three days of Perfect Snotbox Clarity. Then I go back to my normal semi-plugged self.

Some things are just too good to be of this world. I wonder if there is Afrin in heaven, where the Flying Spaghetti Monster lives? I hope so.

21 February 2006

Don't shoot me. Or do. It doesn't matter at this point.

Caution: What you are about to read may be the most boring blog post ever written.

Still sick. I had an evening-long ordeal of going to the doc in a box. The first place I went was a fesering germ factory of sad little coughing babies. There were six people there ahead of me and I was there for over an hour. During that time, they did not call ONE patient. I never found out if they actually SAW people or not, because I gave up.

I went and got Pho, the magical Vietnamese soup that may be the best thing on earth. I was actually hoping it might instantly cure me of all ills. If you do not know Pho, go find some. Honestly. It will change your life.

My sister sent me a link to a blog a couple weeks ago where she thought the writer was so lame because she left her purse at the gas station and then she went on and on about it on her blog.

Guess what, Laura? I'm lame too, but in your honor I will just say "at the Vietnamese place." I had a good long laugh with the Vietnamese restaurant ladies about how lame I am. They found my lameness delightful. I pretended to, to get my purse back, all the while thinking "Can I get OUT of here now?"

Found another doctor, blah blah blah, got the prescription, went to the pharmacy have it filled. But of course the doctor's office staff hadn't given me my insurance card back. Minor panic, return trip to the doc office. Another point in an evening that was threatening to stretch into eternity.

Have I mentioned the traffic ticket yet? Oh yeah. I wanted to say "Officer, I don't really care if I didn't fully stop before turning right. MY HEAD IS SPLITTING OPEN!!" But of course I couldn't say that. Because I have laryngitis and can barely make myself understood, that's why. The universe siphons another $150 bucks or so from me that I apparently I don't need.

That's all. I'm done. Hot shower. Zithromax. Bed.

20 February 2006

But there's good news

My state of continued incapacitatedness leaves me many hours to find amusing items on the internet, which I will now share with you.

Did The Intellectual Comedy Salon like the new Pink Panther movie? You can judge for yourself:
If you were considering spending $75 to take the family to "The Pink Panther" and eat some popcorn this weekend, euthanize the cat instead. It's probably cheaper, and there will be more laughs.

Uh, in a word, no. Only venture over there if you aren't easily offended. He is kind of a sick bastard, but that is right up my twisty alley.

Have you seen the Urban Ninja movie over at You Tube? He is amazing, but don't let your teenagers watch, lest you spend the next few years in the emergency room. There are enough wacky and bizarre videos over there to keep you busy for hours.

If you're feeling down, hop over to Cute Overload for your fill of kitty, bunny and puppy pictures with a few babies thrown in for good measure. Best in small doses. Who knew there was so much cuteness out there?

More randomness: Craig's List, that bastion of free and low-priced internet classifieds, publishes an intermittent Best of Craig's List, some of which is pretty funny. It helps to be familiar with Craig's List to start with, because many of the posts are rants about how screwed up other people's posts are.

Crooks and Liars is the place to go to get your daily dose of head-shaking at American politics and punditry. The blog title explains it all perfectly. If it were called "Honorable Politicians and Honest Pundits," they would have zero content.

Day Four. Now with no voice.

Sorry to be a bore, but I am still sick.

I took it real easy this weekend but made the mistake of going out to breakfast with my old friend Kyle yesterday and talking for 3 hours. I couldn't NOT do it - he lives across the state and we hadn't seen each other for 3 years. But it cost me my voice.

Then last night Mr. Stapler came over and we walked the dog for about an hour and I talked as best I could. We went to dinner (I am apparently destined to never eat at home) in a noisy place and I ended up just gesturing a lot.

I slept for 12 hours. This morning my friend Martha called and all I could squeak out was "hhhhhheeeelllOOOOOO?" and aspirate a few other syllables.

So don't call. It will just go to voice mail.
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