I’m a control freak. Who isn’t right? I have tried to convince myself otherwise, but it’s no use. I LIKE the power of being in control. I want to believe I can be spontaneous and go with the flow. You know what I’m referring to - step up to the plate of life and take that curve ball, roll with the punches, let yourself go…
But there are certain moments in life where I can’t. I’m only human.
That all-too-familiar-out-of-control feeling washed over me this morning. I awoke to a state of domestic chaos: clean laundry sitting in a basket for five days, my hair products randomly splayed over the bathroom counter, and empty alcohol containers dotting every room of the 1,000 square foot box I call my home. I felt overwhelmed, out of balance, and was in a state of gut-wrenching nausea.
Not even strutting around my apartment in a favorite pair of heels could provide me with relief from the squeamish feeling. I was to the point of writhing on floor loco and pulling my hair out. I was on the verge of madness and teetering on the brink of insanity.
So I did what any person would do. I broke down and succumbed to my addiction. I put on a pair of my favorite jeans, a 20 year old faded GAP sweatshirt, and did the only thing I knew would make me feel level again…
I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. My hair resembled a starling’s nest of snarls that was going to take 20 minutes of effort to untangle. Even as a lover of the game of golf, I was oblivious to the Open championship droning over the TV in the other room. The only thing that felt right was meshing two pieces of vinyl together in the most beautiful of melodies.
I turned the headphone volume up to the point where my ears itched with impending hearing loss. Bass was pumping through my veins as I made love to the decks. A smile slowly spread across my face, and I knew EXACTLY what I needed to hear. I proceeded to remove my headphones and dig feverishly through a stack of vinyl. I was on a mission, a mission to find my anthem. I was in search of a record which came into my possession long ago, which will remain coveted for the rest of my life, and will never be returned to its rightful owner.
Jocelyn Brown. Oh yes, I DO believe that I can find a way…
I lifted the record out of the stack and turned it over in my hands. This was it. This was just what I needed. This WAS my auditory form of Xanax and security blanket. I KNEW this perfectly round 12” object was what I needed to relieve my state of unrest.
I pulled the disc from its jacket and placed it on the turntable. I knew relief was only moments away…
I placed the headphones comfortably over my ears and lifted the needle gently on to the spinning record. The track’s baseline kicked in instantly. I melted in state of sheer liberation as I began to physically move with the beat of the music. I felt balance being restored to my person as Jocelyn’s voice began to infiltrate my ears. I passionately lip-synced the lyrics and threw my arms forward pointing to the intangible obstacles of life that lie in front of me.
“You can’t sleep at night, thinking about the problems you face. And the friends you thought you could count on, they just get in your way. So when you wake up in the morning, all you gotta do is say to yourself, “Today will be the day I make it. ‘Cause I don’t need anyone else.”
“If you believe, you’ll find a way…”
Empowered, I removed the headphones refreshed to be running on a full tank of sanity. I brushed my teeth, untangled my mane and made short order of the laundry. I strapped on my favorite pair of heels and headed out the door to tackle the world. As I pulled the door closed and stood in the hallway of my building, I had a moment of reflection: If we stop and think about it, there are points in ALL of our lives where we feel out of control. The secret is having the power to believe there is a way to restore your own balance.
I’m grateful that I believe in mine.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Ever Been Pissed the F*ck Off???
I don’t normally drive into work, but yesterday I had to. I had the most pressing appointment. I had to meet with my aesthetician.
What is an aesthetician? Well, if you don’t know then perhaps you should use your Wiki skills and find out; because I refuse to go into all that with you at this juncture.
I left well before my appointment time; approximately 40 minutes. Don’t even try and doubt me, I’ve done this before. As a fabulous Diva who is aware of aesthetic upkeep, I attend without fail every six weeks. It’s the most religious I have ever been since I was forced to go to church every Sunday during childhood.
Unfortunately the city of Madison decided that now was a good time to tear University Avenue the fuck up; it’s THE major thoroughfare that leads you into the west-side from downtown. At the present moment,University Avenue is comparable to the former Yugoslavia in the 1990's.
I had maneuver carefully through the aforementioned war zone littered with orange barrels which were strategically placed like land mines. Oh, but wait... I also proceeded to hit every fucking red light on University Avenue. I can’t recall how many there were, but what I CAN tell you is that I became so enraged that at the intersection of one University Avenue and Allen Boulevard, I became unglued.
It was the most guttural scream I have been able to muster in a good many years. I was ready for a fight, pugnacious, belligerent, and pissed-the-fuck-off. I had a bad case of the road rage. Right then and there, what I wanted to do was punch somebody square in the fuck’n face; but there was no face in the passenger seat next to me to punch. Fuck.
And so I screamed…
I’m sure someone heard my angry bellow at least five miles away. It was loud and with such force it made me cough as hard as taking my first gravity bong hit in my formative years.
“WHY IN-THE-FUCK AM I HITTING ALL OF THESE RED FUCKING LIGHTS?!?!?!?!”
I banged my fists upon the Acura’s steering wheel. I threw my entire body weight forward screaming my war cry. This was not fair. This was not fair I tell you. I gave the ‘what-the-fuck-hand’ at least ten times and cursed all those who had chosen not to go 20 miles an hour over the speed limit. I was ready to throw on the parking break, jump out of my ride and fuck up the soccer mom who was driving the Dodge mini-van behind me.
But I didn’t. I kept my composure. Well, sort of. Even though it took me 35 fucking minutes to travel seven, I repeat, seven fucking miles to my appointment.
Whatever.
Shit fucking happens.
Thanks for listening.
What is an aesthetician? Well, if you don’t know then perhaps you should use your Wiki skills and find out; because I refuse to go into all that with you at this juncture.
I left well before my appointment time; approximately 40 minutes. Don’t even try and doubt me, I’ve done this before. As a fabulous Diva who is aware of aesthetic upkeep, I attend without fail every six weeks. It’s the most religious I have ever been since I was forced to go to church every Sunday during childhood.
Unfortunately the city of Madison decided that now was a good time to tear University Avenue the fuck up; it’s THE major thoroughfare that leads you into the west-side from downtown. At the present moment,University Avenue is comparable to the former Yugoslavia in the 1990's.
I had maneuver carefully through the aforementioned war zone littered with orange barrels which were strategically placed like land mines. Oh, but wait... I also proceeded to hit every fucking red light on University Avenue. I can’t recall how many there were, but what I CAN tell you is that I became so enraged that at the intersection of one University Avenue and Allen Boulevard, I became unglued.
It was the most guttural scream I have been able to muster in a good many years. I was ready for a fight, pugnacious, belligerent, and pissed-the-fuck-off. I had a bad case of the road rage. Right then and there, what I wanted to do was punch somebody square in the fuck’n face; but there was no face in the passenger seat next to me to punch. Fuck.
And so I screamed…
I’m sure someone heard my angry bellow at least five miles away. It was loud and with such force it made me cough as hard as taking my first gravity bong hit in my formative years.
“WHY IN-THE-FUCK AM I HITTING ALL OF THESE RED FUCKING LIGHTS?!?!?!?!”
I banged my fists upon the Acura’s steering wheel. I threw my entire body weight forward screaming my war cry. This was not fair. This was not fair I tell you. I gave the ‘what-the-fuck-hand’ at least ten times and cursed all those who had chosen not to go 20 miles an hour over the speed limit. I was ready to throw on the parking break, jump out of my ride and fuck up the soccer mom who was driving the Dodge mini-van behind me.
But I didn’t. I kept my composure. Well, sort of. Even though it took me 35 fucking minutes to travel seven, I repeat, seven fucking miles to my appointment.
Whatever.
Shit fucking happens.
Thanks for listening.
Summer Love and Simple Pleasures 7/13/09
Life is full of simple pleasures; a good laugh, sleeping in on a Sunday morning, lazing in a hammock, clean sheets, orgasms, chocolate, giving the bird to the ass hole driver that just cut you off…
And a four shot cappuccino when you have a hellacious hangover.
I awoke this past Wednesday morning as I do every Wednesday morning in the summer months; hung-the-fuck-over from drinking too much beer the night before while hacking a little white ball over perfectly manicured pastures. I know better. I’m a far cry from the days of old where I could drink men three times my size under the table. Sad, I know… And yet every week I return to the course with that dreamy look in my eye for the Capital and its tasty varieties of brewed barley and hops.
My rapport with the Capital has all the earmarks of a bad relationship; a destructive dance where I keep repeating the same vicious patterns of behavior. I know I need to break the cycle, but I can’t. I can’t tear myself away from the thirst-quenching, head-fogging, delicious summer swill. To feel the aluminum in my hand, the condensation sweating down its perfect cylinder and the calming effect it has on my presence as I bask in the glory of a summer afternoon…
Ah yes, to be so head-over-heels in love with a simple pleasure that in the end gives me immense pain and does NOT respect me in the morning.
When I wake on Wednesday mornings in the summer months I curse myself for giving into my Capital lover and its deceitful ways. I make a pact to change, that I will never, ever go back to the Capital. It has hurt me for the last time and I have indeed learned my lesson. I’m longing for a different lover in the early light of a summer Wednesday. It is a hero; one that will pick me up and provide comfort in my time of need. A sweet lover that wraps its warm arms around me, picks me up and will grant me clarity to carry on with my plight.
Ah yes, my four shot cappuccino, you provide such a simple pleasure and possess the qualities comparable to that of a great lover. I yearn for you doused heavily with sugary sweetness and your frothy 2% foam. I need you; you are my rebound to the night of debauchery with the Capital. I shall take the cappuccino and shall damn the Capital from my life forever…
However, I must apologize in advance my cappuccino, for the Capital will come calling again. The Capital will hunt me down, make me weak at the knees, and seductively call my name until I succumb to its precarious ways. The Capital has the qualities of the dangerous lover and drives me wild with excitement. I cannot say no to the Capital; its magnetic power exploits my vulnerabilities that forces me denounce all of my common sense…
I love you cappuccino, and I will need to call on you again in the near future, but my love for the Capital will always trump you as the simplest of my summer pleasures.
And a four shot cappuccino when you have a hellacious hangover.
I awoke this past Wednesday morning as I do every Wednesday morning in the summer months; hung-the-fuck-over from drinking too much beer the night before while hacking a little white ball over perfectly manicured pastures. I know better. I’m a far cry from the days of old where I could drink men three times my size under the table. Sad, I know… And yet every week I return to the course with that dreamy look in my eye for the Capital and its tasty varieties of brewed barley and hops.
My rapport with the Capital has all the earmarks of a bad relationship; a destructive dance where I keep repeating the same vicious patterns of behavior. I know I need to break the cycle, but I can’t. I can’t tear myself away from the thirst-quenching, head-fogging, delicious summer swill. To feel the aluminum in my hand, the condensation sweating down its perfect cylinder and the calming effect it has on my presence as I bask in the glory of a summer afternoon…
Ah yes, to be so head-over-heels in love with a simple pleasure that in the end gives me immense pain and does NOT respect me in the morning.
When I wake on Wednesday mornings in the summer months I curse myself for giving into my Capital lover and its deceitful ways. I make a pact to change, that I will never, ever go back to the Capital. It has hurt me for the last time and I have indeed learned my lesson. I’m longing for a different lover in the early light of a summer Wednesday. It is a hero; one that will pick me up and provide comfort in my time of need. A sweet lover that wraps its warm arms around me, picks me up and will grant me clarity to carry on with my plight.
Ah yes, my four shot cappuccino, you provide such a simple pleasure and possess the qualities comparable to that of a great lover. I yearn for you doused heavily with sugary sweetness and your frothy 2% foam. I need you; you are my rebound to the night of debauchery with the Capital. I shall take the cappuccino and shall damn the Capital from my life forever…
However, I must apologize in advance my cappuccino, for the Capital will come calling again. The Capital will hunt me down, make me weak at the knees, and seductively call my name until I succumb to its precarious ways. The Capital has the qualities of the dangerous lover and drives me wild with excitement. I cannot say no to the Capital; its magnetic power exploits my vulnerabilities that forces me denounce all of my common sense…
I love you cappuccino, and I will need to call on you again in the near future, but my love for the Capital will always trump you as the simplest of my summer pleasures.
Boogers and Layoffs 5/28/2009
I’ve been lying in wait for new blog topics for a brief stint, on the prowl for blog worthy material. I’ve been hungry for the chance to hear the soothing sounds of my fingers typing, to experience the euphoria of placing my thoughts into typewritten text, to share with you my take on life.
Don’t get me wrong; I’ve stumbled across great substance in the past few weeks. I’ve had many adventures; I went home to see my family, spent some time with good Madisonians, partook in plenty of interesting conversations… One with a crazy fool hopped up on caffeine and chew standing over University Avenue on a pedestrian bridge. I’ve almost licked rehabbing a broken ankle and certifiably returned to the golf course. Yes. You could say I have a plethora of starting points from which to compose a great blog.
But my style of blogging has evolved to a point where I am in a constant state of trying to marry totally random topics together.
For example; boogers and layoffs.
Boogers. Oh yes. The bat in the cave, the flapper, the avalanche, the dry ones, the snotty/sticky/wet ones, and even those little nuggets of gold on which we try to strike it rich when no one is looking.
Boogers are random and will strike out of nowhere. You could be doing anything; washing your car, riding the bus, attending a staff meeting at work, ass parked on the couch watching the idiot box, having wild sadomasochistic animal sex in the basement of a stranger’s home. Boogers can and will catch you off your guard, blindside you and take you at a moment’s notice. Boogers do not discriminate; they are an equal opportunity bodily annoyance.
Boogers have the ability, certainly, to be untimely; especially when faced with a situation where you can’t immediately put an end to your personal booger madness. While talking to a co-worker you suddenly notice that all-too-familiar tickle in your right nostril. Fuck. At this very moment you become well aware of the booger’s presence. In an instant you are no longer interested in what Sally has to say about the filth in the office refrigerator. You revert back to your basic needs, you’re looking out for number one, you’re hoping that this will be one of those situations in which your brain decides to pitch in… and will eat that booger for you. You sure as hell don’t want Sally’s office gossip Du Jour to turn into the dried wad of mucus that decided to park itself on your top lip during this conversation.
You become dreadfully uncomfortable and begin to twitch and squirm as if someone has handed you the pink slip with your impending date of termination. You try not to panic, you try to play it cool, Sally CANNOT come to the realization that you are teetering on the verge of flushing your self-confidence down your personal toilet.
My morning at Vilas Hall was like any other morning. I made a pot of coffee, checked my email, and prioritized a hefty to-do list. And then, just like that booger, I was given the most untimely of news. My last day of employment will be the fourth of January next year. When I was told of the impending date I tried not to panic. I put on my best Oscar winning performance and hoped to hell that the academy didn’t notice. I was leering over my personal toilet with the taste of vomit in my mouth.
I felt caught off guard, blindsided, and could not imagine a more inopportune time to be faced with unemployment. I sure as fuck didn’t care at that moment about installing the new version of Microsoft Office on an employee’s PC; I reverted to thinking about how I was going to put a roof over my head in seven short months.
Although the news was dire, I am hopeful that this employment booger, which has only just reared it’s crusty self at the top of my professional nostril, will be saved by my wealth of knowledge, experience and talents that I have to offer to any potential employer. I’d rather have my fellow colleagues be discussing the up and coming office potluck, not the fact that the IT Diva of Vilas Hall is in search of a job.
Don’t get me wrong; I’ve stumbled across great substance in the past few weeks. I’ve had many adventures; I went home to see my family, spent some time with good Madisonians, partook in plenty of interesting conversations… One with a crazy fool hopped up on caffeine and chew standing over University Avenue on a pedestrian bridge. I’ve almost licked rehabbing a broken ankle and certifiably returned to the golf course. Yes. You could say I have a plethora of starting points from which to compose a great blog.
But my style of blogging has evolved to a point where I am in a constant state of trying to marry totally random topics together.
For example; boogers and layoffs.
Boogers. Oh yes. The bat in the cave, the flapper, the avalanche, the dry ones, the snotty/sticky/wet ones, and even those little nuggets of gold on which we try to strike it rich when no one is looking.
Boogers are random and will strike out of nowhere. You could be doing anything; washing your car, riding the bus, attending a staff meeting at work, ass parked on the couch watching the idiot box, having wild sadomasochistic animal sex in the basement of a stranger’s home. Boogers can and will catch you off your guard, blindside you and take you at a moment’s notice. Boogers do not discriminate; they are an equal opportunity bodily annoyance.
Boogers have the ability, certainly, to be untimely; especially when faced with a situation where you can’t immediately put an end to your personal booger madness. While talking to a co-worker you suddenly notice that all-too-familiar tickle in your right nostril. Fuck. At this very moment you become well aware of the booger’s presence. In an instant you are no longer interested in what Sally has to say about the filth in the office refrigerator. You revert back to your basic needs, you’re looking out for number one, you’re hoping that this will be one of those situations in which your brain decides to pitch in… and will eat that booger for you. You sure as hell don’t want Sally’s office gossip Du Jour to turn into the dried wad of mucus that decided to park itself on your top lip during this conversation.
You become dreadfully uncomfortable and begin to twitch and squirm as if someone has handed you the pink slip with your impending date of termination. You try not to panic, you try to play it cool, Sally CANNOT come to the realization that you are teetering on the verge of flushing your self-confidence down your personal toilet.
My morning at Vilas Hall was like any other morning. I made a pot of coffee, checked my email, and prioritized a hefty to-do list. And then, just like that booger, I was given the most untimely of news. My last day of employment will be the fourth of January next year. When I was told of the impending date I tried not to panic. I put on my best Oscar winning performance and hoped to hell that the academy didn’t notice. I was leering over my personal toilet with the taste of vomit in my mouth.
I felt caught off guard, blindsided, and could not imagine a more inopportune time to be faced with unemployment. I sure as fuck didn’t care at that moment about installing the new version of Microsoft Office on an employee’s PC; I reverted to thinking about how I was going to put a roof over my head in seven short months.
Although the news was dire, I am hopeful that this employment booger, which has only just reared it’s crusty self at the top of my professional nostril, will be saved by my wealth of knowledge, experience and talents that I have to offer to any potential employer. I’d rather have my fellow colleagues be discussing the up and coming office potluck, not the fact that the IT Diva of Vilas Hall is in search of a job.
No Filter 4/30/09
It’s that time of year again; where the undergrads on campus are beginning to bore their annoying ways under my epidermis and my seasonal allergies have caused my proboscis to continually drip like a leaky faucet.
I decided that perhaps it was time to refill my Rx since the only other way to stop the drippy nose syndrome was to shove Kleenex up my nostrils. Luckily, there is a Walgreens within hobbling distance of my office where I could acquire the precious serum needed to live a normal life during allergy season. And no, the Kleenex solution is NOT an option.
I picked up the tele and phoned in the Rx. Sweet. I was given the affirmative that it would indeed be ready in 15 short minutes. Coincidentally this would be the same amount of time it would take me to drag myself and my Darth Vader leg across the courtyard to the University Square druggist.
The pharmacy at this particular Walgreens is set up a little different than what I am used to. Instead of the cheaply lit fluorescents with one separate window for drop-off and one for pick-up, this space is brightly lit with what seems to be natural lighting and contains several alcoves that remind me of teller windows at a bank. The space behind the counter was vacant, not a soul to be found.
I stand four feet away from the counter, dead center of the many drug-dealing bays. I'm ready to pounce upon the first human that arrives to assist me; but wait, I turn to my right and notice that there is an approaching undergrad. Not a split second later a young woman appears out of the sea of pills behind the counter inquiring to us both, “May I help you?”
Immediately, time slows to a crawl, exactly like in those showdown or impending doom scenes from a movie.The undergrad takes half a step towards the counter and I turn to face her front on with the “what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-I-was-here-first” sneer plastered across my mug. In an instant the undergrad and I were no longer standing in the University Square Walgreens, we were transported to another place and time. I was expecting tumble weeds, dust and the Wild West showdown whistle to chime in at any second…
The undergrad opens her mouth and words spill out nauseatingly like the stench of rotten animal carcass from a garbage can. That uppity, Gen-Y, self-righteous, my-parents-are-footing-the-bill tone with the East-Coasty accent, “Were you waiting?” She wore an annoyed look as though she never had to want or wait for anything in her privileged life.
I decided that perhaps, in this instance, I will let the devil win out. The devil who perches upon my shoulder and whispers nasty, caddy, scathing remarks into my ear. The nasty, caddy, scathing remarks that I am forced to filter several times a day.
Instead of playing the Midwestern game of passive/aggressive behavior, i.e. I’ll say nothing and bitch about it later; I drew my guns, gave her the up and down and retorted in a dead-pan fashion, “No, they pay me $20 an hour to stand here and look pretty.”
I then started toward the counter, head held high in triumph, to take my rightful place in the two person line. But the devil wasn’t finished and the filter was still in the off position…A step and a half later, I turned my head and glanced back at the undergrad with the look of pure evil in my eyes. In a Gen-X, I’ve-been-working-for-the-man-since-before-you-were-born, sticky-sweet, stinging dagger reactive way I added, “Oh, I’m sorry, that was rather snarky of me now, wasn’t it???”
I hope she was able to smell my Jasmine and Lavender shampoo as I snapped my head back around; my long locks flying through the air barely missing the look of utter dismay on her nineteen year old face.
I paid for my drugs and hobbled back to work, coming to the conclusion that obviously it’s that time of year. The time of year where those of us who work year round on campus are anxious for the majority undergrads to leave for the four month summer hiatus. Yours truly is feeling the itch, and is also grateful that the drippy nose syndrome is on the wane.
I decided that perhaps it was time to refill my Rx since the only other way to stop the drippy nose syndrome was to shove Kleenex up my nostrils. Luckily, there is a Walgreens within hobbling distance of my office where I could acquire the precious serum needed to live a normal life during allergy season. And no, the Kleenex solution is NOT an option.
I picked up the tele and phoned in the Rx. Sweet. I was given the affirmative that it would indeed be ready in 15 short minutes. Coincidentally this would be the same amount of time it would take me to drag myself and my Darth Vader leg across the courtyard to the University Square druggist.
The pharmacy at this particular Walgreens is set up a little different than what I am used to. Instead of the cheaply lit fluorescents with one separate window for drop-off and one for pick-up, this space is brightly lit with what seems to be natural lighting and contains several alcoves that remind me of teller windows at a bank. The space behind the counter was vacant, not a soul to be found.
I stand four feet away from the counter, dead center of the many drug-dealing bays. I'm ready to pounce upon the first human that arrives to assist me; but wait, I turn to my right and notice that there is an approaching undergrad. Not a split second later a young woman appears out of the sea of pills behind the counter inquiring to us both, “May I help you?”
Immediately, time slows to a crawl, exactly like in those showdown or impending doom scenes from a movie.The undergrad takes half a step towards the counter and I turn to face her front on with the “what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-I-was-here-first” sneer plastered across my mug. In an instant the undergrad and I were no longer standing in the University Square Walgreens, we were transported to another place and time. I was expecting tumble weeds, dust and the Wild West showdown whistle to chime in at any second…
The undergrad opens her mouth and words spill out nauseatingly like the stench of rotten animal carcass from a garbage can. That uppity, Gen-Y, self-righteous, my-parents-are-footing-the-bill tone with the East-Coasty accent, “Were you waiting?” She wore an annoyed look as though she never had to want or wait for anything in her privileged life.
I decided that perhaps, in this instance, I will let the devil win out. The devil who perches upon my shoulder and whispers nasty, caddy, scathing remarks into my ear. The nasty, caddy, scathing remarks that I am forced to filter several times a day.
Instead of playing the Midwestern game of passive/aggressive behavior, i.e. I’ll say nothing and bitch about it later; I drew my guns, gave her the up and down and retorted in a dead-pan fashion, “No, they pay me $20 an hour to stand here and look pretty.”
I then started toward the counter, head held high in triumph, to take my rightful place in the two person line. But the devil wasn’t finished and the filter was still in the off position…A step and a half later, I turned my head and glanced back at the undergrad with the look of pure evil in my eyes. In a Gen-X, I’ve-been-working-for-the-man-since-before-you-were-born, sticky-sweet, stinging dagger reactive way I added, “Oh, I’m sorry, that was rather snarky of me now, wasn’t it???”
I hope she was able to smell my Jasmine and Lavender shampoo as I snapped my head back around; my long locks flying through the air barely missing the look of utter dismay on her nineteen year old face.
I paid for my drugs and hobbled back to work, coming to the conclusion that obviously it’s that time of year. The time of year where those of us who work year round on campus are anxious for the majority undergrads to leave for the four month summer hiatus. Yours truly is feeling the itch, and is also grateful that the drippy nose syndrome is on the wane.
Rehab Numero Uno 4/28/09
This past Monday I made my virgin visit to what other injured folks have referred to as the “Physical Terrorist”. No, no; they are inherently not malicious individuals and their intensions are for the best. Their goal is to see one fully rehabilitate from any injury and I fully believe that PT personnel do have your best interests in mind.
I have a plethora of exercises to perform in order to get my leg back to full working status. According to the Orthopedic surgeon, the two plates, three pins and six screws that lie beneath the shallow surface of the skin of my ankle are now being absorbed by my fibula. I’m ready to rebuild the leg that I call Rome.
As a side note on the hardware/fibby; I derived great pleasure a few days ago when I told my two sisters and mother that I would hold them at gun point the next time we rendezvoused… I would make them touch the screw sitting at a 30 degree angle that you can clearly see the outline just above the ankle bone. To which they replied, “EWWWWW, GROSSSSSSSSS!!!! I’LL PUKE!!!”
Of course, I laughed hysterically.
I did give up the scooter, however, the nicknames have stuck. That’s quite alright. I’ll just chalk these up as terms of endearment. The rehab process is more arduous than riding around upon my aluminum steed. It’s painful, it’s sore, it at times feels as if there is a group of indigenous peoples from a foreign land poking red-hot needles into the bottom of my foot during a right of passage ceremony. As long as I get my leg back, I guess I’ll join the ranks of those who follow the, “No pain, no gain,” mentality.
Walking for a week I figured it was time to try my hands (and leg) at the manual transmission. I was ready. I was psyched. The leg was ready. John and I were at the local grocery mart; I didn’t care about food. I cared about driving the car home. The groceries were loaded. I got in the driver’s seat; I clicked the seat forward to my bodily specifications. I took a deep breath. I can do this. I can drive this car. I can drive this car NOW.
Hell yes. I made sure the parking brake was on. I put the shifter in neutral. I placed my hands at ten and two. I looked forward through the windshield with determination; I would conquer this task as though it were a computer with a run-of-the-mill Trojan virus at work. I was ready.
I couldn’t even depress the clutch into the floor half way. I was devastated. I felt deflated like that balloon that you tried to hold onto during your sixth birthday and the helium leaked out and sunk to the floor within a day and a half. I almost broke down but I didn’t. I said aloud, “Fuck” and with a bowed head retreated to the passenger seat; where I have been since the fourth of February.
If I can say, at this moment, I was thinking something so rudimentary.
“This is fucking stupid.”
And it was. I knew I wasn’t ready. My left calf muscle is still the meat the vultures wouldn’t pick if the nuclear holocaust were to happen.
But I am determined. I will be ready soon. I will find you. You will see me at a stop light and I will look over to you with the, ‘Do you want to drag’ snarl. I will blow you off the line like a NASCAR driver under the influence pure adrenalin racing for the win. You will fear me. You will.
I have a plethora of exercises to perform in order to get my leg back to full working status. According to the Orthopedic surgeon, the two plates, three pins and six screws that lie beneath the shallow surface of the skin of my ankle are now being absorbed by my fibula. I’m ready to rebuild the leg that I call Rome.
As a side note on the hardware/fibby; I derived great pleasure a few days ago when I told my two sisters and mother that I would hold them at gun point the next time we rendezvoused… I would make them touch the screw sitting at a 30 degree angle that you can clearly see the outline just above the ankle bone. To which they replied, “EWWWWW, GROSSSSSSSSS!!!! I’LL PUKE!!!”
Of course, I laughed hysterically.
I did give up the scooter, however, the nicknames have stuck. That’s quite alright. I’ll just chalk these up as terms of endearment. The rehab process is more arduous than riding around upon my aluminum steed. It’s painful, it’s sore, it at times feels as if there is a group of indigenous peoples from a foreign land poking red-hot needles into the bottom of my foot during a right of passage ceremony. As long as I get my leg back, I guess I’ll join the ranks of those who follow the, “No pain, no gain,” mentality.
Walking for a week I figured it was time to try my hands (and leg) at the manual transmission. I was ready. I was psyched. The leg was ready. John and I were at the local grocery mart; I didn’t care about food. I cared about driving the car home. The groceries were loaded. I got in the driver’s seat; I clicked the seat forward to my bodily specifications. I took a deep breath. I can do this. I can drive this car. I can drive this car NOW.
Hell yes. I made sure the parking brake was on. I put the shifter in neutral. I placed my hands at ten and two. I looked forward through the windshield with determination; I would conquer this task as though it were a computer with a run-of-the-mill Trojan virus at work. I was ready.
I couldn’t even depress the clutch into the floor half way. I was devastated. I felt deflated like that balloon that you tried to hold onto during your sixth birthday and the helium leaked out and sunk to the floor within a day and a half. I almost broke down but I didn’t. I said aloud, “Fuck” and with a bowed head retreated to the passenger seat; where I have been since the fourth of February.
If I can say, at this moment, I was thinking something so rudimentary.
“This is fucking stupid.”
And it was. I knew I wasn’t ready. My left calf muscle is still the meat the vultures wouldn’t pick if the nuclear holocaust were to happen.
But I am determined. I will be ready soon. I will find you. You will see me at a stop light and I will look over to you with the, ‘Do you want to drag’ snarl. I will blow you off the line like a NASCAR driver under the influence pure adrenalin racing for the win. You will fear me. You will.
FPOS
Ahhhh, the Onion. The use of profanity in this little clip is rampant... If you enjoy satire and swearing as much as I, I highly recommend spending the 2 minutes and 23 seconds to view this little ditty.
http://www.theonion.com/content/video/sony_releases_new_stupid_piece_of
http://www.theonion.com/content/video/sony_releases_new_stupid_piece_of
The All Consuming Broken Fibula 3/29/09
You know, if someone were to tell me that I would be permanently disabled for the rest of my life I would swallow the big pill and get on with it.
But I haven’t. I still lie and wait until my next appointment with the bone fucker on 4/20. Funny huh? Four-fucking-twenty. The same fucking number as my safety deposit box at the bank and a holiday celebrated by stoners the world over.
Three more weeks before I find out my sentence with the sadistic PT personnel and the outlook on my recovery. Am I angry? No. I’m fucking livid. And yes, I am whining about it. I know there are people out there who are in worse shape than I, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m sure they’ve bitched and moaned their share too.
Am I swearing a lot in this blog? Yeah, I fucking know Einstein.
Just because I am in the mood to vent and blow off some steam before I blow a gasket; here is some shit that I can no longer do/or have foregone until further notice. Primarily because the slum lord of my city neglects to keep the walkways and parking lots safe during the winter months.
Numero Uno: I can’t fucking drive. I have partly done this to myself because I’m a snotty bitch about only driving cars with manual transmissions. Therefore, I ride the bus. And that comes with its own set of problems including ass holes who can’t keep their hands off my fucking orthopedic device; otherwise known in the medical community as a Rolleraid.
Two: It takes me at least an hour to shower and primp to look decent enough to leave my apartment where it used to only take half the time. It takes 15 minutes alone to put a fucking pair of pants on. I was lucky or unlucky depending on how you view the situation that I was given a removable boot cast. But I still have to wrap the fucker in trash bags order to shower. Take the boot cast off and then put the boot cast back on after the left leg has been donned with pants. It comes with an impressive set of 6 Velcro straps and only comes in black which has proven to be a wardrobe challenge when choosing footwear…
Three: The fucking nicknames. The one I hate the most is ‘Scooter Girl’. It sounds like a goddamn Marvel Comic Book hero. Why don’t you dress me in a fucking cape and send me out on the streets with my one good leg to be a vigilante and fight crime all over the city of Madison..... Gimp isn’t my favorite either.
Four: Golf league, pool league, a second degree, and a Vargas style pin-up photo shoot that I had to cancel. Sure I guess I could still do the photo shoot if you hide the atrophied chicken leg. Although there are probably some circles out there who like weird shit like that. At least I’ll get my tuition back from the university…
So now I fucking wait. I won’t be happy if I hear news that I still have to ride my scooter into the sunset for another six months. We’ll see. I’m no longer idealistic about the situation; I was originally told six weeks. I hope that this will be the last of the blogs about my fucking broken leg… I’m sick of being consumed by a medical condition that hampers my fabulousity.
But I haven’t. I still lie and wait until my next appointment with the bone fucker on 4/20. Funny huh? Four-fucking-twenty. The same fucking number as my safety deposit box at the bank and a holiday celebrated by stoners the world over.
Three more weeks before I find out my sentence with the sadistic PT personnel and the outlook on my recovery. Am I angry? No. I’m fucking livid. And yes, I am whining about it. I know there are people out there who are in worse shape than I, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m sure they’ve bitched and moaned their share too.
Am I swearing a lot in this blog? Yeah, I fucking know Einstein.
Just because I am in the mood to vent and blow off some steam before I blow a gasket; here is some shit that I can no longer do/or have foregone until further notice. Primarily because the slum lord of my city neglects to keep the walkways and parking lots safe during the winter months.
Numero Uno: I can’t fucking drive. I have partly done this to myself because I’m a snotty bitch about only driving cars with manual transmissions. Therefore, I ride the bus. And that comes with its own set of problems including ass holes who can’t keep their hands off my fucking orthopedic device; otherwise known in the medical community as a Rolleraid.
Two: It takes me at least an hour to shower and primp to look decent enough to leave my apartment where it used to only take half the time. It takes 15 minutes alone to put a fucking pair of pants on. I was lucky or unlucky depending on how you view the situation that I was given a removable boot cast. But I still have to wrap the fucker in trash bags order to shower. Take the boot cast off and then put the boot cast back on after the left leg has been donned with pants. It comes with an impressive set of 6 Velcro straps and only comes in black which has proven to be a wardrobe challenge when choosing footwear…
Three: The fucking nicknames. The one I hate the most is ‘Scooter Girl’. It sounds like a goddamn Marvel Comic Book hero. Why don’t you dress me in a fucking cape and send me out on the streets with my one good leg to be a vigilante and fight crime all over the city of Madison..... Gimp isn’t my favorite either.
Four: Golf league, pool league, a second degree, and a Vargas style pin-up photo shoot that I had to cancel. Sure I guess I could still do the photo shoot if you hide the atrophied chicken leg. Although there are probably some circles out there who like weird shit like that. At least I’ll get my tuition back from the university…
So now I fucking wait. I won’t be happy if I hear news that I still have to ride my scooter into the sunset for another six months. We’ll see. I’m no longer idealistic about the situation; I was originally told six weeks. I hope that this will be the last of the blogs about my fucking broken leg… I’m sick of being consumed by a medical condition that hampers my fabulousity.
Humble Pie, Crochet and The Sopranos 3/12/09
Humble pie. I was wondering when I was going to be served a piece. Well the whole fucking pie in its entirety was shoved down my throat on the fourth of February. This was the fateful day I had my 'slip and fall'; resulting in a webber b fracture of my fibula. Since then I've learned what's it's like to fall under the category of 'disabled'.
I opted for the surgery which has given me the power to set off metal detectors. I can't wait; it's something I've always wanted. Really... I will add that my stay in the hospital allowed me to experience some heavy duty pain killers. While having the bone set in the ER (which was the most intense pain I have ever felt in my entire being) the nurse was kind enough to continuously pump dilauded into my IV. I've become accustomed to the pain killer lifestyle; I'm still on a regular diet of oxycodone and Diet Coke to manage the pain.
The recovery process has so far been long and arduous. I wouldn't rank breaking one's leg high on my list of things to do before you die.
I was fortunate enough to acquire a device with the trademark name of 'RollerAid'. It's a self-powered scooter that ranks high above crutches. It hauls some serious ass when on linoleum flooring. My popularity has soared in public places as curious individuals stare and ask questions.
Recently, while on the phone with my mother, she asked me if my sense of humor escaped with the marrow upon bone breakage. It must have. The darker side of this injury has also caused me to tire easily, be sharp with my tounge, and want take those who use the handicap stall at my workplace to the dugout for a swift kick in the ass. Not failing to mention that my left leg has atrophied to that of a chicken's.
On a final note, although there are a multitude of negatives associated with my condition, I have found happiness in the craft of crochet and the six seasons of the Sopranos. These two items have been holding my sanity from tumbling over the cliff into going postal. I guess my dreams of trying out for the roller derby league here in Madison will be postponed for another year...
I opted for the surgery which has given me the power to set off metal detectors. I can't wait; it's something I've always wanted. Really... I will add that my stay in the hospital allowed me to experience some heavy duty pain killers. While having the bone set in the ER (which was the most intense pain I have ever felt in my entire being) the nurse was kind enough to continuously pump dilauded into my IV. I've become accustomed to the pain killer lifestyle; I'm still on a regular diet of oxycodone and Diet Coke to manage the pain.
The recovery process has so far been long and arduous. I wouldn't rank breaking one's leg high on my list of things to do before you die.
I was fortunate enough to acquire a device with the trademark name of 'RollerAid'. It's a self-powered scooter that ranks high above crutches. It hauls some serious ass when on linoleum flooring. My popularity has soared in public places as curious individuals stare and ask questions.
Recently, while on the phone with my mother, she asked me if my sense of humor escaped with the marrow upon bone breakage. It must have. The darker side of this injury has also caused me to tire easily, be sharp with my tounge, and want take those who use the handicap stall at my workplace to the dugout for a swift kick in the ass. Not failing to mention that my left leg has atrophied to that of a chicken's.
On a final note, although there are a multitude of negatives associated with my condition, I have found happiness in the craft of crochet and the six seasons of the Sopranos. These two items have been holding my sanity from tumbling over the cliff into going postal. I guess my dreams of trying out for the roller derby league here in Madison will be postponed for another year...
Voting, Undergrad Fashion and Dirty Food
Voting…If I had a dollar for each time someone has asked me today, "Did you vote?" I would have, as Tony Soprano's character stated in one episode, "A private jet on standby." Will I exercise my civic duty? Does a bear shit in the woods? Do Christians love Jesus? Are orgasms pleasurable?I think you know the answer to these questions.
Undergrad Fashion…In my attempts to become a better person, I've been trying to fight the urge to be judgmental and critical. However, I am only human and therefore, I must vent my frustration about the lack of fashion on the UW campus. Number One: I've worked on the campus since the fall of 2006. Leggings, Ugg boots, and Northface sleeping bags coats are dead. Let's move on lemmings.Number Two: On the subject of leggings… THEY ARE NOT PANTS. Number Three: Who the fuck made slippers a new fashion trend among these young people??? Keep them at home under your bed.Number Four: If I may reference an episode of Sex in the City where Samantha witnesses a woman in a track suit carrying a Birkin (a very expensive) handbag… I am appalled when I see young women in violation of the above (un)mentionables carrying a fucking purse that is worth more than what I bring home in a month. So you dress like you crawled out of bed and you think that carrying an expensive accessory is going to make up for this? I don't fucking think so. Get a clue, do yourself a favor, and buy some decent clothes.
Dirty Food…Finally, I need to confess that the following list of 'foods' I find downright repulsive and unpalatable. HOWEVER, I will eat them if available and have no restraint upon the quantity consumed. I'm sure you have this list as well…*Nacho Cheese Doritos – This spurred my confession; there was an open bag in the break room.*Oreo Cookies*McDonald's Cheese Burgers*Ruffles Potato Chips*Peanut Butter Twix*GardettosClosing thoughts… Global warming is frightening but I will accept the benefits (it's November 4th and 68 degrees). It's about 90% certain I will be getting a bigger office. I used profanity four times in this blog…
Undergrad Fashion…In my attempts to become a better person, I've been trying to fight the urge to be judgmental and critical. However, I am only human and therefore, I must vent my frustration about the lack of fashion on the UW campus. Number One: I've worked on the campus since the fall of 2006. Leggings, Ugg boots, and Northface sleeping bags coats are dead. Let's move on lemmings.Number Two: On the subject of leggings… THEY ARE NOT PANTS. Number Three: Who the fuck made slippers a new fashion trend among these young people??? Keep them at home under your bed.Number Four: If I may reference an episode of Sex in the City where Samantha witnesses a woman in a track suit carrying a Birkin (a very expensive) handbag… I am appalled when I see young women in violation of the above (un)mentionables carrying a fucking purse that is worth more than what I bring home in a month. So you dress like you crawled out of bed and you think that carrying an expensive accessory is going to make up for this? I don't fucking think so. Get a clue, do yourself a favor, and buy some decent clothes.
Dirty Food…Finally, I need to confess that the following list of 'foods' I find downright repulsive and unpalatable. HOWEVER, I will eat them if available and have no restraint upon the quantity consumed. I'm sure you have this list as well…*Nacho Cheese Doritos – This spurred my confession; there was an open bag in the break room.*Oreo Cookies*McDonald's Cheese Burgers*Ruffles Potato Chips*Peanut Butter Twix*GardettosClosing thoughts… Global warming is frightening but I will accept the benefits (it's November 4th and 68 degrees). It's about 90% certain I will be getting a bigger office. I used profanity four times in this blog…
The Office Coffee Pot, Packaging and Phone Calls
The Office Coffee Pot
It seems there has been a boycott in regards to making coffee in the break room at my place of employment. Does this directly affect me? Well, no, it does not. However, the fallout from this boycott has caused me some strife in the past couple of weeks or so.
When I first began my stint of employment, a co-worker and I made the decision to create our own 'coffee club'. The arrangement was perfect; a coffee pot housed in my co-worker's office and the alternating responsibility of replenishing the supply. The coffee has the same consistency of 10W-30 motor oil with both parties drinking exactly 6 cups of the vital fluid from the 12 cup decanter each morning.
Occasionally we will have the random coffee panhandler; another employee looking for just one cup of coffee to jumpstart their morning. Fine. I'm all about performing charity work here and there, but honestly the coffee boycott has caused me to become a bit more pugnacious than my normal disposition.
As of late, when I hear, "Where'd you get the coffee?" Or "Can I get a cup of coffee?" My first reaction is to pull out the ol' country club stamp of denial, "I'm frightfully sorry, but no, we are not taking on any new members at this time." Other initial tongue biting retorts also include:
"If you were not already aware, there IS a Starbucks down on State Street. Perhaps you should take five minutes and walk your caffeine-addicted ass down there."
Or
"Have you ever considered switching to instant?"
Or, my favorite…
"This is my fucking coffee. Keep your grubby mitts off and go make your own, loser."
But no. There is some grace to my character, which thereby allows the panhandler to bogart a mug of the precious sludge. Although, I will humbly admit, if the boycott lasts much longer, I will be forced into changing my response; more than likely the one referring to, "my fucking coffee," as noted above.
Update: This morning when I ventured to the break room to rinse yesterday's sludge from my Wonder Woman coffee mug, I noticed a fresh pot of coffee on the warmer. If I may, I'd like to take this moment to express my undying gratitude to the anonymous person who took the five minutes to brew a pot of coffee. Donkey chains.
Problems with Packaging
As a person who is a bit on the egocentric side, I will often take pride in activities where I excel. Such activities include, but are not limited to: sewing, chewing the fat, consumption of caffeinated and alcoholic beverages, and self-discipline. There are other activities, however, that I am not good at. Specifically, tackling packaging on consumer goods. This is one characteristic of my person that I have succumbed to accepting and even embracing about myself; which is not often the case.
I am notorious for ruining the packaging on perishable goods. If there is a bag involved, I am unable to open it the correct way by simply pulling the adhesive top of the bag gently apart. No. What ultimately will happen is the bag will rip most of the way down the side – and not even on the seam. Mmmmmmm! The cereal will be stale in a matter of days.
Boxes? Forget it. For me there is no such thing as, "To open, slide finger under flap and loosen gently." The top ALWAYS tears thereby leaving the box in a state of disrepair and no longer able to perform its function. It's a real treat when you try to keep a twelve pack of coke/beer cans in the 'fridge pack' after decimating one end of the box. Quite honestly, I do not believe in the whole, "Press here and tear along perforation to open." The only time I can semi-successfully open a box is when, of course, I open it at the wrong end.
Don't think that I would resort to scissors or another apparatus to assist in my packaging endeavors - that would be entirely too easy.
The Lengthy Phone Call
Do you ever get stuck on the phone with a person whose entire mission is to prolong the phone call for as long as humanly possible? I'm lucky because this does not happen to me all too often; but on the rare occasion that it does, what is the best method of handling the situation?
Of course, there is always the 'little white lie' method. For example:
"I need to let you go, there is someone at the door."
Or
"I have another call coming in. Can I call you back later?"
Or
"I am required to attend a staff meeting in approximately two minutes. I'm going to have to let you go."
One could also resort to something outlandish such as:
"I am 30 seconds away from having explosive diarrhea. I have to let you go."
Or
"What's that smell? Shit, I have a gas leak! Gotta go!"
Or
"There is a mob of naked people pressing their ass cheeks against my sliding glass door and it doesn't look pretty. I need to take care of this situation stat!"
In all reality, you would prefer to take care of the lengthy phone call by sheer honesty. I know I would. Wouldn't it be grand if you could merely say:
"You know what? I'm sick of being on the listening end of your one sided bull shit conversation. See ya."
Or
"I'd rather be cleaning up my cat's vomit. What you have to say is of no interest to me. Bye."
Or
"You talk too fucking much and your ability to communicate leads me to believe you ate way too many lead-based paint chips as a child. This conversation is over." (Click).
Closing thoughts… On a serious and regrettably sad note, I lost a good friend to cancer last week. Deborah was one of the most magnanimous people I have ever met in my life. Always willing to listen, give heartfelt advice, laugh at my crude sense of humor, and marvel at my air guitar/cartwheel ability when no one was looking, I will miss her always. She has inspired me to be a better person, laugh often, display gratitude and to live each day of my life to my fullest potential.
It seems there has been a boycott in regards to making coffee in the break room at my place of employment. Does this directly affect me? Well, no, it does not. However, the fallout from this boycott has caused me some strife in the past couple of weeks or so.
When I first began my stint of employment, a co-worker and I made the decision to create our own 'coffee club'. The arrangement was perfect; a coffee pot housed in my co-worker's office and the alternating responsibility of replenishing the supply. The coffee has the same consistency of 10W-30 motor oil with both parties drinking exactly 6 cups of the vital fluid from the 12 cup decanter each morning.
Occasionally we will have the random coffee panhandler; another employee looking for just one cup of coffee to jumpstart their morning. Fine. I'm all about performing charity work here and there, but honestly the coffee boycott has caused me to become a bit more pugnacious than my normal disposition.
As of late, when I hear, "Where'd you get the coffee?" Or "Can I get a cup of coffee?" My first reaction is to pull out the ol' country club stamp of denial, "I'm frightfully sorry, but no, we are not taking on any new members at this time." Other initial tongue biting retorts also include:
"If you were not already aware, there IS a Starbucks down on State Street. Perhaps you should take five minutes and walk your caffeine-addicted ass down there."
Or
"Have you ever considered switching to instant?"
Or, my favorite…
"This is my fucking coffee. Keep your grubby mitts off and go make your own, loser."
But no. There is some grace to my character, which thereby allows the panhandler to bogart a mug of the precious sludge. Although, I will humbly admit, if the boycott lasts much longer, I will be forced into changing my response; more than likely the one referring to, "my fucking coffee," as noted above.
Update: This morning when I ventured to the break room to rinse yesterday's sludge from my Wonder Woman coffee mug, I noticed a fresh pot of coffee on the warmer. If I may, I'd like to take this moment to express my undying gratitude to the anonymous person who took the five minutes to brew a pot of coffee. Donkey chains.
Problems with Packaging
As a person who is a bit on the egocentric side, I will often take pride in activities where I excel. Such activities include, but are not limited to: sewing, chewing the fat, consumption of caffeinated and alcoholic beverages, and self-discipline. There are other activities, however, that I am not good at. Specifically, tackling packaging on consumer goods. This is one characteristic of my person that I have succumbed to accepting and even embracing about myself; which is not often the case.
I am notorious for ruining the packaging on perishable goods. If there is a bag involved, I am unable to open it the correct way by simply pulling the adhesive top of the bag gently apart. No. What ultimately will happen is the bag will rip most of the way down the side – and not even on the seam. Mmmmmmm! The cereal will be stale in a matter of days.
Boxes? Forget it. For me there is no such thing as, "To open, slide finger under flap and loosen gently." The top ALWAYS tears thereby leaving the box in a state of disrepair and no longer able to perform its function. It's a real treat when you try to keep a twelve pack of coke/beer cans in the 'fridge pack' after decimating one end of the box. Quite honestly, I do not believe in the whole, "Press here and tear along perforation to open." The only time I can semi-successfully open a box is when, of course, I open it at the wrong end.
Don't think that I would resort to scissors or another apparatus to assist in my packaging endeavors - that would be entirely too easy.
The Lengthy Phone Call
Do you ever get stuck on the phone with a person whose entire mission is to prolong the phone call for as long as humanly possible? I'm lucky because this does not happen to me all too often; but on the rare occasion that it does, what is the best method of handling the situation?
Of course, there is always the 'little white lie' method. For example:
"I need to let you go, there is someone at the door."
Or
"I have another call coming in. Can I call you back later?"
Or
"I am required to attend a staff meeting in approximately two minutes. I'm going to have to let you go."
One could also resort to something outlandish such as:
"I am 30 seconds away from having explosive diarrhea. I have to let you go."
Or
"What's that smell? Shit, I have a gas leak! Gotta go!"
Or
"There is a mob of naked people pressing their ass cheeks against my sliding glass door and it doesn't look pretty. I need to take care of this situation stat!"
In all reality, you would prefer to take care of the lengthy phone call by sheer honesty. I know I would. Wouldn't it be grand if you could merely say:
"You know what? I'm sick of being on the listening end of your one sided bull shit conversation. See ya."
Or
"I'd rather be cleaning up my cat's vomit. What you have to say is of no interest to me. Bye."
Or
"You talk too fucking much and your ability to communicate leads me to believe you ate way too many lead-based paint chips as a child. This conversation is over." (Click).
Closing thoughts… On a serious and regrettably sad note, I lost a good friend to cancer last week. Deborah was one of the most magnanimous people I have ever met in my life. Always willing to listen, give heartfelt advice, laugh at my crude sense of humor, and marvel at my air guitar/cartwheel ability when no one was looking, I will miss her always. She has inspired me to be a better person, laugh often, display gratitude and to live each day of my life to my fullest potential.
Ink, Low Flow and the Flaming Bag of Dogshit 6/26/08
INK
For most of you who don the ink, you know that you cannot have just one tattoo. It is true what 'they' say; tattoos are about as addictive as crack. I can attest to this well known fact – I now have three. I received my third tattoo a couple of weeks ago at Steve's, a highly touted local establishment. Contrary to my other two, this piece of permanent art was given roughly three years of constant analysis over the 'what' and 'where' components. My first two ideas were discarded to which I am relieved; I'll get to that in a moment. The third was perfect; a strawberry poison dart frog on the right shoulder. (For those blog readers who are unaware, I have two other frogs - a lovely poison frog on my right ankle and red eye tree frog on the left side of my chest). I'd like to discuss some trends in tattoos in the past decade or so. As aforementioned I'm glad I thought about/changed my mind in regards to my third. I was going to go with a lotus/koi combination for a while, but I'm relieved I didn't. Everybody and their brother seems to have (or are planning to acquire) some sort of Japanese style tattoo. This to me signals a trend… Not that I am launching some negative diatribe on these individuals, but I have a sneaking suspicion that these tattoos will become dated, similar to the following:
*Razor/barbwire armbands – nothing says it's the 90's like one.
*For women; the daisy or the butterfly on the ankle.
*The tattoo around the navel; terrible idea for placement. I'd be curious to see some of those now… Well, maybe not.
*Chinese letters/symbols – you thought it stood for 'Love and Happiness' but really it's translation means Kung Pao Shrimp.
LOW FLOW
Late last week we received a note from our slumlord that our apartment would be given an, "Energy efficient assessment." Fine. Whatever. This was typical. The management usually decides to enter our apartment every three months or so for something or other. Flash forward to Wednesday morning. As per usual I stumble out of bed late because I had all too good of a time at golf league the night before. There stands John, looking seriously annoyed. Hmmmm, I wondered, did he wake up late too?
Disko: "What's up?"
John: "Low flow."
Disko: "Huh?"
John: "LOW FLOW."
Disko: "What the hell does that mean?"
John: "You know, the Seinfeld episode… They changed our shower head to a more 'energy efficient' one."
Disko: "WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!"
Sure enough, chalk up yet another instance where the series Seinfeld hits it dead on. Let me interject by saying that our old shower head's performance was, in fact, phenomenal. I could take a shower and wash my hair in record time. The pressure was so great that it would blast all of the dead skin cells off my body after standing in the stream for no more than three seconds. No other shower head that I have experienced can live up to its legacy; it was perfect.
The new shower head in comparison is like a fine mist you would expect in the Pacific Northwest mid-December. To bathe under this trickle takes at least three times as long as it's predecessor. Tell me, is this at all energy efficient? In my humble opinion, I don't fucking think so.
A FLAMING BAG OF DOGSHIT AT THE OFFICE
Roughly three weeks ago I needed to hook up a KVM switch between two computers in my office when my boss sauntered in. He had the same exact look on his face as when he needed to talk to me about wearing an over abundance of scented lotion. My first reaction was, "What the hell? I switched over to an unscented variety."
Sure enough, he needed to talk to me about something sensitive. I asked if we could discuss the matter in my office. He sat down and with a nervous laugh dropped one of the biggest flaming bags of dogshit on my desk…
I would have to give up my office and share an office with Peter, who also had his own office. I sat for a minute, in a state of pure shock. Give up my office? This was one of the biggest reasons I tolerated my job. WTF?!? Upper management wants to put interns in my office; what a low blow to someone who provides a quintessential service to our organization. Needless to say, Peter wasn't too thrilled either.
At first, we were told that this needed to happen by mid-July. Ok, at least I have some time… Then it was by July 1st, and the next day we were told that by the end of the week Peter and I would be rooming together. I did not go down without a fight; I tried arguing my case with all of the powers at be. But alas, my arguments were in vain. I now share an office. To which I can honestly report the square footage is less than that of the handicap stall in the women's bathroom. The space I have for chair mobility is a mere five feet by three feet; I'm not blowing smoke on this one either.
Fine. I'll put out this flaming bag of dogshit. I'm still employed and it could be worse. I could be stuck in a space that's smaller than one of the regular stalls in the women's restroom…
FINAL THOUGHTS
If I were one of the smurfs, it hands-down would be Vanity... Do you remember when pagers were 'cool'??? For any of you who whose curiosity was bubbling over…. I FINALLY received notification that I was accepted into the Textile and Apparel Design Program at UW. I start classes this fall, and yes, I will continue to work full time.
For most of you who don the ink, you know that you cannot have just one tattoo. It is true what 'they' say; tattoos are about as addictive as crack. I can attest to this well known fact – I now have three. I received my third tattoo a couple of weeks ago at Steve's, a highly touted local establishment. Contrary to my other two, this piece of permanent art was given roughly three years of constant analysis over the 'what' and 'where' components. My first two ideas were discarded to which I am relieved; I'll get to that in a moment. The third was perfect; a strawberry poison dart frog on the right shoulder. (For those blog readers who are unaware, I have two other frogs - a lovely poison frog on my right ankle and red eye tree frog on the left side of my chest). I'd like to discuss some trends in tattoos in the past decade or so. As aforementioned I'm glad I thought about/changed my mind in regards to my third. I was going to go with a lotus/koi combination for a while, but I'm relieved I didn't. Everybody and their brother seems to have (or are planning to acquire) some sort of Japanese style tattoo. This to me signals a trend… Not that I am launching some negative diatribe on these individuals, but I have a sneaking suspicion that these tattoos will become dated, similar to the following:
*Razor/barbwire armbands – nothing says it's the 90's like one.
*For women; the daisy or the butterfly on the ankle.
*The tattoo around the navel; terrible idea for placement. I'd be curious to see some of those now… Well, maybe not.
*Chinese letters/symbols – you thought it stood for 'Love and Happiness' but really it's translation means Kung Pao Shrimp.
LOW FLOW
Late last week we received a note from our slumlord that our apartment would be given an, "Energy efficient assessment." Fine. Whatever. This was typical. The management usually decides to enter our apartment every three months or so for something or other. Flash forward to Wednesday morning. As per usual I stumble out of bed late because I had all too good of a time at golf league the night before. There stands John, looking seriously annoyed. Hmmmm, I wondered, did he wake up late too?
Disko: "What's up?"
John: "Low flow."
Disko: "Huh?"
John: "LOW FLOW."
Disko: "What the hell does that mean?"
John: "You know, the Seinfeld episode… They changed our shower head to a more 'energy efficient' one."
Disko: "WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!"
Sure enough, chalk up yet another instance where the series Seinfeld hits it dead on. Let me interject by saying that our old shower head's performance was, in fact, phenomenal. I could take a shower and wash my hair in record time. The pressure was so great that it would blast all of the dead skin cells off my body after standing in the stream for no more than three seconds. No other shower head that I have experienced can live up to its legacy; it was perfect.
The new shower head in comparison is like a fine mist you would expect in the Pacific Northwest mid-December. To bathe under this trickle takes at least three times as long as it's predecessor. Tell me, is this at all energy efficient? In my humble opinion, I don't fucking think so.
A FLAMING BAG OF DOGSHIT AT THE OFFICE
Roughly three weeks ago I needed to hook up a KVM switch between two computers in my office when my boss sauntered in. He had the same exact look on his face as when he needed to talk to me about wearing an over abundance of scented lotion. My first reaction was, "What the hell? I switched over to an unscented variety."
Sure enough, he needed to talk to me about something sensitive. I asked if we could discuss the matter in my office. He sat down and with a nervous laugh dropped one of the biggest flaming bags of dogshit on my desk…
I would have to give up my office and share an office with Peter, who also had his own office. I sat for a minute, in a state of pure shock. Give up my office? This was one of the biggest reasons I tolerated my job. WTF?!? Upper management wants to put interns in my office; what a low blow to someone who provides a quintessential service to our organization. Needless to say, Peter wasn't too thrilled either.
At first, we were told that this needed to happen by mid-July. Ok, at least I have some time… Then it was by July 1st, and the next day we were told that by the end of the week Peter and I would be rooming together. I did not go down without a fight; I tried arguing my case with all of the powers at be. But alas, my arguments were in vain. I now share an office. To which I can honestly report the square footage is less than that of the handicap stall in the women's bathroom. The space I have for chair mobility is a mere five feet by three feet; I'm not blowing smoke on this one either.
Fine. I'll put out this flaming bag of dogshit. I'm still employed and it could be worse. I could be stuck in a space that's smaller than one of the regular stalls in the women's restroom…
FINAL THOUGHTS
If I were one of the smurfs, it hands-down would be Vanity... Do you remember when pagers were 'cool'??? For any of you who whose curiosity was bubbling over…. I FINALLY received notification that I was accepted into the Textile and Apparel Design Program at UW. I start classes this fall, and yes, I will continue to work full time.
Office Sugar Pushers 5/2/08
Some of my blog readers may be aware of the fact I used to be employed at the Michigan Public Service Commission for many years. Basically, my job duties at the MPSC were the same in nature in comparison the job duties I perform at the current time for Wisconsin Public Radio/Television (essentially, I fix your computer if it doesn't work). In both positions, I had/have free reign about the building. This has allowed/allows me to sharpen my networking prowess; and to feed my sugar addiction.
If you work in an office, you are aware of those who maintain a dish of sugar on their desk. For quite some time I have been one of them. However, while working at the MPSC I did not; I was a college student with limited funds. For seven years, I was habitual about making my rounds through the labyrinth of cubes at the Public Service Commission in search of my fix. Rarely, I replenished the supply of my pushers… Therefore, I now keep a 'sugar dish' on my desk to bring balance back to the force.
This brings me to the real meat and potatoes of my colloquium on the office 'sugar dish'. You and I both know that there certain rules and observances that apply if you decide to exploit one's candy on a regular basis. The following are mine…
*When stopping for your fix, remember your obligation to chat with the person for a couple of minutes. It's a turn off if you don't; no one wants to feel used for their commodities unless you're a stripper or prostitute.
*Don't become a systematic abuser. This can be interpreted as standing at the 'sugar dish' and consuming more than your share. One or two pieces of candy are considered the norm. Any more than this number will automatically deem you a glutton.
*Unless your status is above that of simply 'co-worker', it's bad form to commandeer sugar if the person is not at their desk.
*Show your gratitude. Every so often drop the George Castanza penny-pinch attitude and spend the $3 on a bag of candy. Or, if you so choose, you can do other certain small favors for your pusher. For example; I had one person gift me a plethora of headbands – a staple accessory in my wardrobe.
*Finally, refrain from looks of disgust or disappointment. If the dish is empty, well then maybe YOU should fill it. If you don't like what's being offered, then get the hell out of my office. I have work to do.
If you work in an office, you are aware of those who maintain a dish of sugar on their desk. For quite some time I have been one of them. However, while working at the MPSC I did not; I was a college student with limited funds. For seven years, I was habitual about making my rounds through the labyrinth of cubes at the Public Service Commission in search of my fix. Rarely, I replenished the supply of my pushers… Therefore, I now keep a 'sugar dish' on my desk to bring balance back to the force.
This brings me to the real meat and potatoes of my colloquium on the office 'sugar dish'. You and I both know that there certain rules and observances that apply if you decide to exploit one's candy on a regular basis. The following are mine…
*When stopping for your fix, remember your obligation to chat with the person for a couple of minutes. It's a turn off if you don't; no one wants to feel used for their commodities unless you're a stripper or prostitute.
*Don't become a systematic abuser. This can be interpreted as standing at the 'sugar dish' and consuming more than your share. One or two pieces of candy are considered the norm. Any more than this number will automatically deem you a glutton.
*Unless your status is above that of simply 'co-worker', it's bad form to commandeer sugar if the person is not at their desk.
*Show your gratitude. Every so often drop the George Castanza penny-pinch attitude and spend the $3 on a bag of candy. Or, if you so choose, you can do other certain small favors for your pusher. For example; I had one person gift me a plethora of headbands – a staple accessory in my wardrobe.
*Finally, refrain from looks of disgust or disappointment. If the dish is empty, well then maybe YOU should fill it. If you don't like what's being offered, then get the hell out of my office. I have work to do.
Profanity 4/29/08
I relish in the fact that I use a great deal of profanity in my daily discourse. There is a large part of my character that is rebellious in nature; therefore, I enjoy pushing the envelope in the realm of shock value. However, since I do live and work in a city that prides itself in 'Political Correctness' I have been trying to curb my use of the profane.This in itself is a problem, and has actually caused me a great deal of strife. Bottom line; I have a fondness for these 'dirty' words and I pride myself on being just a wee bit on the gritty side. We are taught to embrace diversity, no? This applies to cultural differences; as I have been informed while serving on a search and screen committee. Well, shouldn't my way of speaking be tolerated because it can be directly correlated with my blue collar upbringing?
The answer is NO. Which is too fucking bad.
The answer is NO. Which is too fucking bad.
Proverbs, Blogs and Personal Questions 4/9/2008
You know the old saying, "You can pick your friends but you can’t pick your family."? I was pondering the implications of this proverb the other day, after I heard a voice outside my office door. Obviously, in my case, and in the case of most people one is unable to pick their co-workers either. Hence, the wheels in my brain began to turn as I thought about other intangibles/tangibles that could be slated under this proverbial umbrella… For example:
Pick-able: Your nose (of course), your seat (at the movies and on your person), teeth, the toilet paper in your bathroom, and scabs (gross).
Unpick-able: Others’ reactions to your actions, the toilet paper in your friend’s bathroom, and mud butt.
I would like to address the reading of blogs. I have seen/heard word of people who post under their blog heading, "Who really reads these things?" To answer this ’hotly’ debated question, YES, there are individuals out there who do read blogs (whoa, what a concept). It’s kind of like asking, "Do you need food to sustain life?" Personally, there is a small portion of my day devoted to checking and reading the blogs of my friends on myspace. If you blog it, I will read it. ’Nuf said.
Finally, I want to briefly divulge some interesting personal information that is usually only addressed in those ’Get to Know Your Friends’ forwards. I usually make a half-assed attempt to fill these out and schlep them back to the original sender; but who really cares if I prefer chocolate over vanilla or coffee over cappuccino? Let’s get real here. How about something a tad on attention-grabbing side, for example; what about the question, "What’s a random thing you do when no one is looking?" Or, "How much would someone have to pay you in order for you to streak through a park naked?"
I bring this to light because yours truly was on the verge of being busted this morning in reference to my first question. I usually listen to some crazy, bass-laden DJ mix on my iPod while I’m making my way from the bus stop to the 7th floor of Vilas Hall. Between these two points is a lift on the elevator which takes roughly 30 seconds of the journey; and often, I fly solo. So what do I do? As soon as the elevator doors close, I commence into a series of dance moves that more than likely resembles a cross between those of Elaine Benes and Napoleon Dynamite.
This morning was no different, except for the fact that once I was in my own private dance club the elevator doors started to open and who was standing there but none other than the Big Kahuna of the office. My face must’ve been the color of black cherry kool-aid because he flashed me a smirk and asked what I was listening to. At least he wasn’t privy to my ’hot’ dance moves; shit, I don’t even want to surmise what flavor of kool-aid my face would’ve turned then. Close call…
To answer the second question, I have no idea. It’s just a question I pulled out of my ass while I was typing. Although I would be curious as to what my friends would say if I asked them about streaking through the park naked. I’m sure some of them would do it for the pure thrill on a dare. How about you?
Final thoughts… Crap, I forgot to mention the UWDDS story (I’ll save that for a later blog)!!! I’m glad I found the culprit behind the Zippo lighter… Does anyone still eat Fruity Pebbles???
Pick-able: Your nose (of course), your seat (at the movies and on your person), teeth, the toilet paper in your bathroom, and scabs (gross).
Unpick-able: Others’ reactions to your actions, the toilet paper in your friend’s bathroom, and mud butt.
I would like to address the reading of blogs. I have seen/heard word of people who post under their blog heading, "Who really reads these things?" To answer this ’hotly’ debated question, YES, there are individuals out there who do read blogs (whoa, what a concept). It’s kind of like asking, "Do you need food to sustain life?" Personally, there is a small portion of my day devoted to checking and reading the blogs of my friends on myspace. If you blog it, I will read it. ’Nuf said.
Finally, I want to briefly divulge some interesting personal information that is usually only addressed in those ’Get to Know Your Friends’ forwards. I usually make a half-assed attempt to fill these out and schlep them back to the original sender; but who really cares if I prefer chocolate over vanilla or coffee over cappuccino? Let’s get real here. How about something a tad on attention-grabbing side, for example; what about the question, "What’s a random thing you do when no one is looking?" Or, "How much would someone have to pay you in order for you to streak through a park naked?"
I bring this to light because yours truly was on the verge of being busted this morning in reference to my first question. I usually listen to some crazy, bass-laden DJ mix on my iPod while I’m making my way from the bus stop to the 7th floor of Vilas Hall. Between these two points is a lift on the elevator which takes roughly 30 seconds of the journey; and often, I fly solo. So what do I do? As soon as the elevator doors close, I commence into a series of dance moves that more than likely resembles a cross between those of Elaine Benes and Napoleon Dynamite.
This morning was no different, except for the fact that once I was in my own private dance club the elevator doors started to open and who was standing there but none other than the Big Kahuna of the office. My face must’ve been the color of black cherry kool-aid because he flashed me a smirk and asked what I was listening to. At least he wasn’t privy to my ’hot’ dance moves; shit, I don’t even want to surmise what flavor of kool-aid my face would’ve turned then. Close call…
To answer the second question, I have no idea. It’s just a question I pulled out of my ass while I was typing. Although I would be curious as to what my friends would say if I asked them about streaking through the park naked. I’m sure some of them would do it for the pure thrill on a dare. How about you?
Final thoughts… Crap, I forgot to mention the UWDDS story (I’ll save that for a later blog)!!! I’m glad I found the culprit behind the Zippo lighter… Does anyone still eat Fruity Pebbles???
Tight Rolling: Worst Fashion Trend EVER 4/3/2008
Earlier today, my friend Angie and I were having a discussion at the front desk about fashion trends, some hideous and some not, from our youth.
Here’s an abbreviated list of what we came up with:
Oversized shirts
Acid washed jeans
Layered socks
Name brand jeans – Z. Cavericci, Girboud, and Guess
Of course, whenever I talk to someone in my age group about these items, I cannot help myself… I had to tight roll my pants. Yeah, that’s right, in the lobby of my workplace I went ahead and "pegged" my pants.
Angie and I sat there laughing as to how ridiculous this looked. BUT, I do recall down right refusing to leave the house unless my pants were pegged -AND you know that if you are between the age of 30 and 35 you did too. As Angie and I were laughing uncontrollably, one of the student employees walked by. I had to apologize profusely for how incredibly outlandish I must have appeared. The only response I received was an odd look.
I laughed all the way back to my office, "I can’t BELIEVE I used to wear my pants like that!!!" As I sat down in my chair the phone rang. It was Angie.
Disko: "Good afternoon, how may I help you."
Angie: "Hey, it’s Angie."
Disko: "What’s up?"
Angie: "Do you know how old Jamie (the student employee) is?"
Disko: "Isn’t she like 21 or 22?"
Angie: "Yeah. She was like four years old when that was hot. She doesn’t remember it and thought you were showing it off as a new trend."
Disko: "Shit. I feel old!"
Directly after this phone call, I of course googled "Tightrolling". This is what I found. If you lived through this particular short stint of bad fashion, you will know, and you will laugh. Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJLpyL3LUbw
For those of you who haven’t lived this nightmare don’t even attempt to bring it back. It needs to remain six feet under just like severely tapered jeans and MC Hammer Pants.
Here’s an abbreviated list of what we came up with:
Oversized shirts
Acid washed jeans
Layered socks
Name brand jeans – Z. Cavericci, Girboud, and Guess
Of course, whenever I talk to someone in my age group about these items, I cannot help myself… I had to tight roll my pants. Yeah, that’s right, in the lobby of my workplace I went ahead and "pegged" my pants.
Angie and I sat there laughing as to how ridiculous this looked. BUT, I do recall down right refusing to leave the house unless my pants were pegged -AND you know that if you are between the age of 30 and 35 you did too. As Angie and I were laughing uncontrollably, one of the student employees walked by. I had to apologize profusely for how incredibly outlandish I must have appeared. The only response I received was an odd look.
I laughed all the way back to my office, "I can’t BELIEVE I used to wear my pants like that!!!" As I sat down in my chair the phone rang. It was Angie.
Disko: "Good afternoon, how may I help you."
Angie: "Hey, it’s Angie."
Disko: "What’s up?"
Angie: "Do you know how old Jamie (the student employee) is?"
Disko: "Isn’t she like 21 or 22?"
Angie: "Yeah. She was like four years old when that was hot. She doesn’t remember it and thought you were showing it off as a new trend."
Disko: "Shit. I feel old!"
Directly after this phone call, I of course googled "Tightrolling". This is what I found. If you lived through this particular short stint of bad fashion, you will know, and you will laugh. Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJLpyL3LUbw
For those of you who haven’t lived this nightmare don’t even attempt to bring it back. It needs to remain six feet under just like severely tapered jeans and MC Hammer Pants.
On Homer and Beer 4/1/2008
Last night I had a Homer Simpson moment. One of my best friends is due in a week and I have been working feverishly to finish the blanket for her daughter. I became quite frustrated with trying to attach the satin binding to the edges of the blanket. For those of you who are unaware of the properties of satin binding, let’s just say that if even dare look at it wrong it will unravel. Hence, my attempts to finish the corners of the blanket were giving me worse pains then Mi Cocina’s Mexican fare.I decided that I should stop and walk away. This was the best possible choice. Then I opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. Ah yes, the power of beer. If you guessed that after my frosty, discretionary beverage I finished the blanket you would be correct. The binding became putty in my hands and I was able to mold and sew the corners with ease. Again, I will reiterate, the power of beer. Homer would have been proud.
Miller Time, Smoking and Email 3/31/2008
Over the weekend I went ahead and toured the Miller Brewery. I’ve toured breweries before and they’re pretty much all the same – tour the plant, learn how beer is made and packaged, and of course, the free samples (the best part in my opinion… Well, perhaps this case is an exception). The Miller Brewery was no different, however, I’ve never before viewed a ’movie’ clip that was as laden with product propaganda as the one the guides forced us to watch for Miller. I should’ve counted how many times the phrase "Miller Time" was repeated; as I’m sure if you turned this into a drinking game you’d be smashed within 10 minutes, puke, or both.
On Smoking.
I went outside today to partake in my ’dirty’ habit of smoking. Some of you may say to yourself, "I thought she quit." Well, I relapsed. While I was outside, I was thinking about the people that I work with who complain about the smokers who ride the elevator. They say things like, "Oh my god, it stinks, there must have been a smoker in here." I, being the conscious smoker that I am, do not ride the elevator after sucking down a tobacco product. I always use the stairs for fear some non-smoker would have to smell my after smoke. I also take the extra step to stop on 6th to wash my hands afterward before returning to the 7th floor. Because smoking is, that’s right, dirty.
After some serious pondering, I thought to myself, "Why in the hell do I do this????" The bottom line I’m guessing is that I don’t want to piss people off or make them uncomfortable. This is wrong. People piss me off and make me uncomfortable everyday. Shouldn’t I return the favor – adding my 2 cents of malicious behavior to the world???? I should because there are dirtier habits than smoking and I loathe the fact that smoking has been labeled ’dirty’.
It all happened so fast too. Overnight smoking became BAD. Ok, ok. I know. Smoking is not at all like eating your broccoli or taking a daily multivitamin. It does cause cancer and yes, I will admit that when I wasn’t smoking I thought the smell was pretty rancid. But come on people! Just because someone smokes does not make them an awful person and it by no means gives you the automatic right to harass them.
This is where I would pay big money for a sixth sense so that every time I was harassed I could come back with my own set of daggers. For example;
"Thanks for getting behind the wheel the other night after sucking down 3 martini’s at the bar ass hole!"
OR
"Thanks for perpetuating domestic violence by beating the shit out of your wife and kids, you bastard!"
OR
"Please, I’m begging you, take off that repulsive sweater! It’s hurting my eyes!"
Fine. So number three really doesn’t apply at all to the topic at hand, but I wanted to say it anyway…
Thoughts about email.
Remember when it was ’cool’ to have a gmail account because you had to be invited? Now everyone has gmail. If you don’t have a gmail account, you’re lacking a certain level of trend savvy. I’m sure there are those individuals out there who would frown upon a yahoo account, "Oh my god, a yahoo account? Becky, that’s about as outdated as linebacker shoulder pads in a blazer. Wake up and get yourself a gmail account before I slap you!"
If you’re like me, you have several email addresses because you’ve accumulated them over the years. I have a total of six email addresses; 3 for work, one for UW, a yahoo and gmail. I used to have a hotmail account but I let that lapse. Now I’m sure whoever reads my blog can top that number; "Well, I have EIGHT email addresses." You know what, quite honestly, I don’t really give a f*ck. I just needed one final blog topic and email came to mind.
Final thoughts… I hate blanket binding, John Irving is a pretty good author, and, as per usual I need another Diet Coke…
On Smoking.
I went outside today to partake in my ’dirty’ habit of smoking. Some of you may say to yourself, "I thought she quit." Well, I relapsed. While I was outside, I was thinking about the people that I work with who complain about the smokers who ride the elevator. They say things like, "Oh my god, it stinks, there must have been a smoker in here." I, being the conscious smoker that I am, do not ride the elevator after sucking down a tobacco product. I always use the stairs for fear some non-smoker would have to smell my after smoke. I also take the extra step to stop on 6th to wash my hands afterward before returning to the 7th floor. Because smoking is, that’s right, dirty.
After some serious pondering, I thought to myself, "Why in the hell do I do this????" The bottom line I’m guessing is that I don’t want to piss people off or make them uncomfortable. This is wrong. People piss me off and make me uncomfortable everyday. Shouldn’t I return the favor – adding my 2 cents of malicious behavior to the world???? I should because there are dirtier habits than smoking and I loathe the fact that smoking has been labeled ’dirty’.
It all happened so fast too. Overnight smoking became BAD. Ok, ok. I know. Smoking is not at all like eating your broccoli or taking a daily multivitamin. It does cause cancer and yes, I will admit that when I wasn’t smoking I thought the smell was pretty rancid. But come on people! Just because someone smokes does not make them an awful person and it by no means gives you the automatic right to harass them.
This is where I would pay big money for a sixth sense so that every time I was harassed I could come back with my own set of daggers. For example;
"Thanks for getting behind the wheel the other night after sucking down 3 martini’s at the bar ass hole!"
OR
"Thanks for perpetuating domestic violence by beating the shit out of your wife and kids, you bastard!"
OR
"Please, I’m begging you, take off that repulsive sweater! It’s hurting my eyes!"
Fine. So number three really doesn’t apply at all to the topic at hand, but I wanted to say it anyway…
Thoughts about email.
Remember when it was ’cool’ to have a gmail account because you had to be invited? Now everyone has gmail. If you don’t have a gmail account, you’re lacking a certain level of trend savvy. I’m sure there are those individuals out there who would frown upon a yahoo account, "Oh my god, a yahoo account? Becky, that’s about as outdated as linebacker shoulder pads in a blazer. Wake up and get yourself a gmail account before I slap you!"
If you’re like me, you have several email addresses because you’ve accumulated them over the years. I have a total of six email addresses; 3 for work, one for UW, a yahoo and gmail. I used to have a hotmail account but I let that lapse. Now I’m sure whoever reads my blog can top that number; "Well, I have EIGHT email addresses." You know what, quite honestly, I don’t really give a f*ck. I just needed one final blog topic and email came to mind.
Final thoughts… I hate blanket binding, John Irving is a pretty good author, and, as per usual I need another Diet Coke…
Personal Space and Parking Tickets 3/19/2008
Personal space. We all have one; the invisible force field that surrounds us that separates the comfortable/uncomfortable proximity of another individual. Obviously, the area of one’s personal space ebbs and flows with that of circumstance and individual(s) – I personally like to keep people an arms length away. I don’t know about you, but when someone trespasses into my space, my first reaction is to take a step back. Usually this will do the trick, however...
There are those people who will indeed test the limits. You know, when you step back and then they take a step toward you. The next thing you know you’re engaged in a strange dance that reminds you of a mating ritual you watched long ago on Animal Kingdom. This happened to me last week at the Clinique counter of the local Macy’s Department Store. The woman who was at the counter proceeded to enact the dance of personal space; which then sparked the flight or fight response in my brain.
My first reaction was to fight, but after dancing with this woman around the entirety of the cosmetic island and the temperature in my body rising with clamminess in my hands, I realized it was time to flee. Sorry lady, no commission, I will not buy your overpriced fare.
Of course in hindsight, I wish I would’ve said something to her.
For example:
"You’re in my personal space."
OR
"I’m feeling uncomfortable with your close proximity."
OR
"Get the $^@& outta my mug lady! Step back before I cram this lipstick down your throat!"
In a numerous number of instances I long to voice something along the lines of option three. I should have, I’ll never see her again, there’s always the Clinique counter at the Boston Store…
Unwarranted parking tickets. Ludicrous. The University has the biggest dirty-crock-of-shit policy on appealing a citation.
The setup: Drive to campus, pay for a parking permit, park, and stick the permit in the rear window as stated on the permit itself.
Of course, what ends up happening? The permit falls out of the back window. Why? Two reasons. One; the adhesive is has less sticking power than that of a post-it note in high humidity and two; I drive a hatchback. Anyone with an IQ of a second grader could deduce that the one/two combination is not going to boast a high success rate.
I’m sure that by now you have come to the conclusion that yes, a parking ticket was issued. Wouldn’t you think that the rational way to resolve this issue would be to go to the parking office, explain the situation, and have the citation removed from the system right then and there????? After all, the permit was paid for, it just happened to fall out of the window. No harm, no foul.
WRONG. The policy states that "A cash bond (in the amount of the citation) or payment must be submitted with the Citation Appeal. Appeals will not be accepted without payment." I had to pay the $30 and now I have to wait for four weeks to get it back. This makes no sense to me.
Enough of the negative; on the positive side I am looking forward to my one hour massage tomorrow. I’m cashing in on a two for one deal by being in the right place at the right time. Thanks LG.
The weather is FINALLY turning around – being in the 40’s and all I’m about ready to bust out the Bermudas and the golf clubs.
Closing thoughts… Damn, still another hour until 5…Did I really swill three Diet Cokes this afternoon??? Has it really been five years???
There are those people who will indeed test the limits. You know, when you step back and then they take a step toward you. The next thing you know you’re engaged in a strange dance that reminds you of a mating ritual you watched long ago on Animal Kingdom. This happened to me last week at the Clinique counter of the local Macy’s Department Store. The woman who was at the counter proceeded to enact the dance of personal space; which then sparked the flight or fight response in my brain.
My first reaction was to fight, but after dancing with this woman around the entirety of the cosmetic island and the temperature in my body rising with clamminess in my hands, I realized it was time to flee. Sorry lady, no commission, I will not buy your overpriced fare.
Of course in hindsight, I wish I would’ve said something to her.
For example:
"You’re in my personal space."
OR
"I’m feeling uncomfortable with your close proximity."
OR
"Get the $^@& outta my mug lady! Step back before I cram this lipstick down your throat!"
In a numerous number of instances I long to voice something along the lines of option three. I should have, I’ll never see her again, there’s always the Clinique counter at the Boston Store…
Unwarranted parking tickets. Ludicrous. The University has the biggest dirty-crock-of-shit policy on appealing a citation.
The setup: Drive to campus, pay for a parking permit, park, and stick the permit in the rear window as stated on the permit itself.
Of course, what ends up happening? The permit falls out of the back window. Why? Two reasons. One; the adhesive is has less sticking power than that of a post-it note in high humidity and two; I drive a hatchback. Anyone with an IQ of a second grader could deduce that the one/two combination is not going to boast a high success rate.
I’m sure that by now you have come to the conclusion that yes, a parking ticket was issued. Wouldn’t you think that the rational way to resolve this issue would be to go to the parking office, explain the situation, and have the citation removed from the system right then and there????? After all, the permit was paid for, it just happened to fall out of the window. No harm, no foul.
WRONG. The policy states that "A cash bond (in the amount of the citation) or payment must be submitted with the Citation Appeal. Appeals will not be accepted without payment." I had to pay the $30 and now I have to wait for four weeks to get it back. This makes no sense to me.
Enough of the negative; on the positive side I am looking forward to my one hour massage tomorrow. I’m cashing in on a two for one deal by being in the right place at the right time. Thanks LG.
The weather is FINALLY turning around – being in the 40’s and all I’m about ready to bust out the Bermudas and the golf clubs.
Closing thoughts… Damn, still another hour until 5…Did I really swill three Diet Cokes this afternoon??? Has it really been five years???
Casting Random Weekend Call Rants 3/7/2008
I posted a blog earlier in the week, however, after some serious pondering I decided that it would be advantageous if I removed it from the lineup. It was a little too, shall we say, 1995's 'Jagged Little Pill' by Alanis on steriods…
As mentioned in a previous blog, I ventured down to the Monona Terrace on a Saturday morning for an open casting call for extras in the upcoming movie 'Public Enemies'. Well wouldn't you know yours truly got a call back yesterday! I will have the privilege of hanging out on a movie set here in the near future. The best part of this whole deal is going to wardrobe; falling in the same category as my future academic endeavors. Sweet.
Today when I took the janky-ass elevators down to the third floor to visit my favorite media librarian, we became engrossed in a conversation about pet peeves. One that I have failed to mention that HAS to be atop my list involves people stopping by without calling. Now, I will admit that I don't have this problem any longer since I live in Madison, but it did happen quite often when I lived in Michigan. The only person I ever gave a pass to was my sister, and, wouldn't you know, she always called. The others I wanted to kick in the back of the pants.
On the subject of kicking someone's ass, (which was the content of the aforementioned blog since removed) I lament I was not around when slapping one across the face was fashionable. Sometimes I think a bitch slap would do everyone; on both sides of the impalement, a little bit of good. Such an instance happened to me yesterday. A will-remain-nameless individual made a rude remark about my fabulous vertical striped pants. This person has, on countless occasions, annoyed me to the brink of binge eating from the vending machine. Needless to say I imagined bitch slapping this person across the face for the pants comment and then again across the other side for having no fashion sense themselves… I don't think a person has the right to talk when the sweater they were donning was pulled from my grandmother's closet about 7 years ago. I could still smell the moth balls…
Switching to a more positive note, I will be visiting some old cronies from Milwaukee this weekend. I'm sure that gathering in itself will provide several blog installments; especially considering the excuse – think batteries crossed with Tupperware.
Closing thoughts – I LOATHE meetings. Why did AW have to mention Vicodin this morning??? My desk is in disarray… I need another Diet Coke.
As mentioned in a previous blog, I ventured down to the Monona Terrace on a Saturday morning for an open casting call for extras in the upcoming movie 'Public Enemies'. Well wouldn't you know yours truly got a call back yesterday! I will have the privilege of hanging out on a movie set here in the near future. The best part of this whole deal is going to wardrobe; falling in the same category as my future academic endeavors. Sweet.
Today when I took the janky-ass elevators down to the third floor to visit my favorite media librarian, we became engrossed in a conversation about pet peeves. One that I have failed to mention that HAS to be atop my list involves people stopping by without calling. Now, I will admit that I don't have this problem any longer since I live in Madison, but it did happen quite often when I lived in Michigan. The only person I ever gave a pass to was my sister, and, wouldn't you know, she always called. The others I wanted to kick in the back of the pants.
On the subject of kicking someone's ass, (which was the content of the aforementioned blog since removed) I lament I was not around when slapping one across the face was fashionable. Sometimes I think a bitch slap would do everyone; on both sides of the impalement, a little bit of good. Such an instance happened to me yesterday. A will-remain-nameless individual made a rude remark about my fabulous vertical striped pants. This person has, on countless occasions, annoyed me to the brink of binge eating from the vending machine. Needless to say I imagined bitch slapping this person across the face for the pants comment and then again across the other side for having no fashion sense themselves… I don't think a person has the right to talk when the sweater they were donning was pulled from my grandmother's closet about 7 years ago. I could still smell the moth balls…
Switching to a more positive note, I will be visiting some old cronies from Milwaukee this weekend. I'm sure that gathering in itself will provide several blog installments; especially considering the excuse – think batteries crossed with Tupperware.
Closing thoughts – I LOATHE meetings. Why did AW have to mention Vicodin this morning??? My desk is in disarray… I need another Diet Coke.
Hi-Lites 2/19/2008
The doldrums of winter have affected me to the point where, yes, I wore a shirt today which was a color straight out of a pack of Hi-Lite highlighters – YELLOW. Yes, yellow. I didn't care, whatever.
The shirt must have had a direct correlation on the events that followed me throughout the day. Certainly, I will admit that on a scale of one to ten, I'd give it a 9.5. I'm all about appreciating the little things in life; I acquired some great trinkets, had a short jaw session with a political figure, and laughed with some first-rate co-workers/friends.
My job is advantageous in the fact that I am able to venture throughout my building, therefore, daily stops with great conversationalists are a must. With my preferred breakfast of champions, a strong cup of coffee, I first stop by the front desk. As of recently, Angie is at the helm. I can't say that she reminds me of anyone that I have ever met because she isn't. A genuine article with a flair for style and a vocabulary that competes with that of an English Ph.D. major, her dry sense of humor creeps up on me late at night after a couple of brews and I find myself laughing out loud. This morning, Angie has decided that the color of nail polish she just purchased is not quite right for her. Thus, yours truly has inherited it. Score 1. Dig it. Still standing at the front desk, not two minutes later, Nola walks by with an awesome frog pin on her lapel. Of course, I do not hesitate to comment. Oh, and score 2, the frog pin is now on my camel colored wool coat. Bitch'n.
Around the noon hour, I passed a store on State Street that at all times has flashy tights in the window. I noticed right away there was a store closing sign displayed on the front door. Now mind you, I am a connoisseur of flashy tights and this store has the lot. I picked up a pair for a decent value – score 3. Upon returning to Vilas Hall, I felt the need to share my find with Angie (who, as aforementioned, has a flair for style). We then began to discuss the scarf I picked up at a local second hand store over the weekend. A pleasant surprise – score 4; Angie was almost certain it was handmade and contained roughly $50 worth of yarn. Yeah, I paid only $2 – that's a George Constanza for you. I then walked back to my office and low and behold the hot pink dry erase board I ordered for my office door had arrived – score 5.
I fancy myself as a person with a high level of sass, and delight in any situation where another party will play along. I had this happen on several occasions today (as with most days); however, today I was able to have a brief conversation with Governor of Wisconsin where I was able to display my prowess. I went down to the third floor to visit my favorite Media Librarian Ann (another one of my daily stops). As I passed the satellite uplink room I noticed a very tall gentleman in a suit. The dialog, as much as I can recall, is as follows:
Disko: "You look official."
Suit: "Well yeah, I am. How official do you want me to be?"
At this point the man pulls a badge from his breast pocket and flashes it in my direction.
Disko: "What's the scoop?"
Suit: "The Governor is giving a satellite feed to MSNBC in the uplink room."
Disko: "No kidding! How long is he going to be? I've never seen the Gov in the flesh."
Suit: "Not much longer. I think he's got it about wrapped up."
For the next couple of minutes the suit and I exchanged pleasantries about our current employment. I would wager that it was an enjoyable exchange for both parties. Then the Governor opens the door and walks out. Now here is where my timing was crucial. I could either A. Be professional, introduce myself and shake his hand, B. Grill him on the content of the uplink and the current State of the State, or C. Pretend like I've known him for about 7 years and we've just happened to run into each other in passing. You would be correct if you wagered C.
Disko: "Hey! What's up? How are you doing?"
Governor: "Good, how are you?"
Disko: "Fantastic. Did the uplink go well?"
Governor: "Yes. I think it went well."
Disko: "Great, great. Have a good one."
At this point I believe he said, "You too." And I dare to say that there was a look of bewilderment on his face. I continued on my quest to the Media Library to see Ann with a sly smile; although it may seem like small potatoes, this was the highlight of my day.
Lastly, I did promise Leah Nell that I would mention her sleeping bag coat in my blog. It seems as if everyone around campus wears one. One day I was just itching to inquire about this style of jacket and, it just so happens that I ran into her while she was wearing one. Hence, we had a three minute discussion in the hallway about how warm the bag keeps you. Needless to say, it was so cold in Madison today, so she wore her sleeping bag continuously all afternoon. I don't blame her. I personally keep the heat in my office at a balmy 72 degrees, therefore, I fully understand the need to maintain warmth.
The shirt must have had a direct correlation on the events that followed me throughout the day. Certainly, I will admit that on a scale of one to ten, I'd give it a 9.5. I'm all about appreciating the little things in life; I acquired some great trinkets, had a short jaw session with a political figure, and laughed with some first-rate co-workers/friends.
My job is advantageous in the fact that I am able to venture throughout my building, therefore, daily stops with great conversationalists are a must. With my preferred breakfast of champions, a strong cup of coffee, I first stop by the front desk. As of recently, Angie is at the helm. I can't say that she reminds me of anyone that I have ever met because she isn't. A genuine article with a flair for style and a vocabulary that competes with that of an English Ph.D. major, her dry sense of humor creeps up on me late at night after a couple of brews and I find myself laughing out loud. This morning, Angie has decided that the color of nail polish she just purchased is not quite right for her. Thus, yours truly has inherited it. Score 1. Dig it. Still standing at the front desk, not two minutes later, Nola walks by with an awesome frog pin on her lapel. Of course, I do not hesitate to comment. Oh, and score 2, the frog pin is now on my camel colored wool coat. Bitch'n.
Around the noon hour, I passed a store on State Street that at all times has flashy tights in the window. I noticed right away there was a store closing sign displayed on the front door. Now mind you, I am a connoisseur of flashy tights and this store has the lot. I picked up a pair for a decent value – score 3. Upon returning to Vilas Hall, I felt the need to share my find with Angie (who, as aforementioned, has a flair for style). We then began to discuss the scarf I picked up at a local second hand store over the weekend. A pleasant surprise – score 4; Angie was almost certain it was handmade and contained roughly $50 worth of yarn. Yeah, I paid only $2 – that's a George Constanza for you. I then walked back to my office and low and behold the hot pink dry erase board I ordered for my office door had arrived – score 5.
I fancy myself as a person with a high level of sass, and delight in any situation where another party will play along. I had this happen on several occasions today (as with most days); however, today I was able to have a brief conversation with Governor of Wisconsin where I was able to display my prowess. I went down to the third floor to visit my favorite Media Librarian Ann (another one of my daily stops). As I passed the satellite uplink room I noticed a very tall gentleman in a suit. The dialog, as much as I can recall, is as follows:
Disko: "You look official."
Suit: "Well yeah, I am. How official do you want me to be?"
At this point the man pulls a badge from his breast pocket and flashes it in my direction.
Disko: "What's the scoop?"
Suit: "The Governor is giving a satellite feed to MSNBC in the uplink room."
Disko: "No kidding! How long is he going to be? I've never seen the Gov in the flesh."
Suit: "Not much longer. I think he's got it about wrapped up."
For the next couple of minutes the suit and I exchanged pleasantries about our current employment. I would wager that it was an enjoyable exchange for both parties. Then the Governor opens the door and walks out. Now here is where my timing was crucial. I could either A. Be professional, introduce myself and shake his hand, B. Grill him on the content of the uplink and the current State of the State, or C. Pretend like I've known him for about 7 years and we've just happened to run into each other in passing. You would be correct if you wagered C.
Disko: "Hey! What's up? How are you doing?"
Governor: "Good, how are you?"
Disko: "Fantastic. Did the uplink go well?"
Governor: "Yes. I think it went well."
Disko: "Great, great. Have a good one."
At this point I believe he said, "You too." And I dare to say that there was a look of bewilderment on his face. I continued on my quest to the Media Library to see Ann with a sly smile; although it may seem like small potatoes, this was the highlight of my day.
Lastly, I did promise Leah Nell that I would mention her sleeping bag coat in my blog. It seems as if everyone around campus wears one. One day I was just itching to inquire about this style of jacket and, it just so happens that I ran into her while she was wearing one. Hence, we had a three minute discussion in the hallway about how warm the bag keeps you. Needless to say, it was so cold in Madison today, so she wore her sleeping bag continuously all afternoon. I don't blame her. I personally keep the heat in my office at a balmy 72 degrees, therefore, I fully understand the need to maintain warmth.
Diet Coke
I honestly believe that Diet Coke is comparable to junk. I know many Diet Coke drinkers who would agree with me. A couple of weeks ago I checked the Post Secret website and some anonymous Diet Coke addict sent in a postcard stating so.
I've been off Diet Coke for 8 months now, until today. I was summoned into my boss's office to discuss some work related items. I sat there, and as my boss was speaking to me there happened to be none other than a 20 ounce Diet Coke sitting there on his desk…
The words spewing from his mouth sounded like the teacher from Charlie Brown – whah, whah, whah, whah whah… I sat there memorized by that carbonated brown liquid thinking; I want you, I have to have you, it's been so long! I remember simply stating at least four or five times, "Mike, I really like the looks of that Diet Coke…" Don't ask me what work related topic was discussed; I was obsessed, possessed and I NEEDED a @#%$ Diet Coke.
I rushed back into my office. Frantic, I pulled open my desk drawers and rifled through my messenger bag like a junkie hysterically searching for their misplaced paraphernalia. My hands were shaking uncontrollably and I felt on the brink of a nervous breakdown – I had no cash!!!! WHY DOESN'T THE POP MACHINE TAKE DEBIT CARDS!!!!
I ran across the hall to my coworker's office and begged him for a dollar like my cat when I am dining on chicken for dinner. I WAS GOING TO DIE WITHOUT THAT SWEET, CARBONATED, FIZZY NECTURE! My coworker looked at the crazy look in my eye and knew that there wasn't much time, he handed me a fistful of quarters. I took off in a flash down the hall, I could hear the soda machine softly chanting over and over, "Tate, there is a Diet Coke waiting here just for you…"
I made it to the lounge without being stopped by another employee with a silly computer question; there was only one thing on my mind, a can of Diet Coke… I could have almost made love to the soda machine; the red light signifying that all the Diet Cokes had been had was indeed NOT illuminated. I didn't even wait for the change, with the last quarter I heard the orgasmic cha-chunk of my Diet Coke dropping to where I could at last embrace my can that I had so longed for.
I rushed back to my office and set the can on my desk. I caressed its beautiful silver exoskeleton and marveled at its ability to have such control over me. I wiped the lid and opened the tab – oh I was in ecstasy…….
Oh Diet Coke, I covet you and what you do for me. You're comparable to junk….
I've been off Diet Coke for 8 months now, until today. I was summoned into my boss's office to discuss some work related items. I sat there, and as my boss was speaking to me there happened to be none other than a 20 ounce Diet Coke sitting there on his desk…
The words spewing from his mouth sounded like the teacher from Charlie Brown – whah, whah, whah, whah whah… I sat there memorized by that carbonated brown liquid thinking; I want you, I have to have you, it's been so long! I remember simply stating at least four or five times, "Mike, I really like the looks of that Diet Coke…" Don't ask me what work related topic was discussed; I was obsessed, possessed and I NEEDED a @#%$ Diet Coke.
I rushed back into my office. Frantic, I pulled open my desk drawers and rifled through my messenger bag like a junkie hysterically searching for their misplaced paraphernalia. My hands were shaking uncontrollably and I felt on the brink of a nervous breakdown – I had no cash!!!! WHY DOESN'T THE POP MACHINE TAKE DEBIT CARDS!!!!
I ran across the hall to my coworker's office and begged him for a dollar like my cat when I am dining on chicken for dinner. I WAS GOING TO DIE WITHOUT THAT SWEET, CARBONATED, FIZZY NECTURE! My coworker looked at the crazy look in my eye and knew that there wasn't much time, he handed me a fistful of quarters. I took off in a flash down the hall, I could hear the soda machine softly chanting over and over, "Tate, there is a Diet Coke waiting here just for you…"
I made it to the lounge without being stopped by another employee with a silly computer question; there was only one thing on my mind, a can of Diet Coke… I could have almost made love to the soda machine; the red light signifying that all the Diet Cokes had been had was indeed NOT illuminated. I didn't even wait for the change, with the last quarter I heard the orgasmic cha-chunk of my Diet Coke dropping to where I could at last embrace my can that I had so longed for.
I rushed back to my office and set the can on my desk. I caressed its beautiful silver exoskeleton and marveled at its ability to have such control over me. I wiped the lid and opened the tab – oh I was in ecstasy…….
Oh Diet Coke, I covet you and what you do for me. You're comparable to junk….
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