A quick update on past storylines (is that what you call it? Hey, it’s my life here; it’s not a ‘storyline’ or whatever, as though the DiMera’s have hatched an evil plot to be foiled by one of the Brady’s sleuthing brood or something):
Ward and Esteban fixed the dryer in about fifteen minutes. I am so damned impressed with them. And also a bit disappointed that I didn’t get to call the Maytag repairman. Just because I would have liked to have written that in my Franklin Planner and then crossed it off neatly. Just the same, now the (fucking) laundry threatens to consume us. And also, I had nothing to wear this morning. Nothing in that I had a closet full of clothes but every possible wardrobe combination was missing a key element, so I ended up relying on the rather boring standard hoodie and Torrid Tinkerbell t-shirt today and then I realized that I’ve worn a hoodie with something (v-neck t with black hoodie, camisole with white hoodie, regular t with red hoodie, Ms. Kitty’s Motorcycles t with pink hoodie, and now the Tink t with white hoodie again) almost every day this week. One trick pony much? Blame the dryer, people. That is all.
After discussing with my cute physical therapist Carol that we both felt I wasn’t making any further progress and stopping treatment on the knee, I went back to my doctor who ordered yet another MRI. It seems that the bad painful parts of my knee injury have healed (exactly as I suspected, since it hasn’t done the weird painful mysterious swelling thing in some time and I can walk around without it aching) but there is still fluid and problems with the Hump O’Pain. Therefore, back to physical therapy for Round Three. This time, however, instead of the general shock treatment, we’re doing what I wanted to do in the first place, which involves an electrode passing anti-inflammatory and pain medication directly through the skin. We’re coming up on the year anniversary next Sunday of the drunken sausage injury. You have no idea how tired I am of not being able to kneel. I will never set foot in Texas again.
The kitchen floor is about to be thrown down. I researched and decided upon this laminate stuff over the summer but then Esteban balked at the cost of installation (which is about as much as having hardwood installed). And why shouldn’t he, because it was sort of a lot of money for stuff that people on Trading Spaces are doing in a weekend while Paige Page screeches at them and Ty humps the camera. But then it just sat on reserve. And sat. And sat. And still’ STILL’ my kitchen had no floor. I mean, sometimes it’s hard to pretend that you’re not living in a glorified fraternity house, and given the fact that Summer Slacker Girl never really surfaced in her full glory (read: the kitchen was not harboring fugitives from the CDC’s Most Wanted list and a colony of suspicious Tupperware had not set up a rebel base in the refrigerator, such as in past summers), I simply will not tolerate living like a refugee all winter (cue Tom Petty repeating that I dun haaaaa t’live like a refugaaaay). So I decided that I would just pick it up from the store where it’s been on reserve all summer and then let it sit in the kitchen, staring reproachfully at Esteban whenever he went for another bottle of seltzer. And then, while on the phone with the floor people I thought about the miserable weekend of trying to put in the flooring and the gluing and the measuring and the arguments and tired muscles and potential injuries and how I’d be most certainly thinking that I was stupid for being cheap and not just paying someone to do it. So instead I just said ‘When can your installers come?’ and now I’m going to have a new kitchen floor in two weeks. And won’t THAT be nice to check off my list in my Franklin Planner. Of course, I’ll have to flip back to my 2002 archive, but it will be worth it.
I’ve succumbed to Esteban’s requests and have declared a moratorium on reality television shows, limiting now to only Survivor (because it’s there), any potential Real World/Road Rules Challenges (because if I go too long without some Coralisms, I start to get shaky) and the glorious trainwreck that is America’s Next Top Model. Not only does it have Janice Dickensen, looking like a combination of the Cryptkeeper and a freshly shaved vagina, but also crazy J. Alexander (whom I would like to befriend so he can teach me how to walk and more importantly, how to work it like the rent is due, because apparently that’s the only way one should work anything) and now they’ve added the unbelievable Nole’, the feyest fey who ever feyed, along with his little dog that sits on a pillow on the judging table. And also, the hotness that is Nigel the aloof and painfully honest British photographer and apparently the only straight man on the entire show (excluding Tyra Banks of course). I was starting to feel like this new season–erm, rather ‘cycle’, as though it’s desperately searching for a tampon– was going to be dull, but then someone poured beer on some girl (prompting the delightful sound byte ‘Bitch poured beer on my weave!’) and then Amanda, the blind model (!!), was talking about her son and then said very solemnly ‘He was conceived on September 11th’ to the HOUR!’, it was the first time that I have ever laughed at anything related to September 11th. Damn it, models are getting knocked up therefore, by God it is proof the terrorists have not won.
I now have a better understanding of John Kerry’s position (and this is an interesting read), but we still do not have Kerry/Edwards yard signs. Esteban managed through some finagling to score a Kerry/Edwards window sign, which he has placed in our big front window. We did receive a call from Russ Feingold’s office stating that we could come down and get our yard signs, but then were limited to only one because they don’t have very many and are RATIONING them. I suspect highly trained monkeys are running both campaigns. Perhaps monkeys riding dogs and wearing mariachi costumes.
I have temporarily lost my luxurious doublewide cubicle to an Indian contractor/outsource guy. I’m not exactly following the rules of Kindergarten and sharing nicely, however, as I have not moved my stuff from the majority of our shared area, nor has he asked. I think he’s afraid of me. He nervously clicks his pen about four billion times a day and sets his phone headset so loud that I can hear both sides of the conversation. Actually, he’s very loud in general. All of them are. Some of them appear to chant or sing to themselves during the day while sitting at their desks, which is strange and off-putting. Also, for a while, Aravindan seemed to have put a picture of an ivory phallus on his desktop, but it’s since been replaced with the cool looking goddess with many arms (Shiva?). I sort of miss the phallus statue, because I enjoyed the double takes of passersby. Because they’re in the final phases of off shoring, they (the metaphorical authoritative ‘They’ that everyone hates) have just given notice to most of my department. Most of my coworkers will be out of a job shortly after Thanksgiving. They will no longer say definitively that my job is ‘safe’ and in fact gave a much too long answer to that question wherein they left the door open to kick the few survivors in the ass in the future. When you think about it, what I do is not that different from those who are getting kicked to the curb, but it is more specialized. However, with their pool of applicants pretty much eliminated, they can’t be picturing new growth in my level, so we few, we brave few are imagining that our positions will be on foreign soil in the next two years. Maybe less. Regardless, it sucks that a lot of my friends and coworkers are getting their ‘So Long and Thanks for All The Consensual Ass Plunderings!’ talk today.
I am so very much in love with my writing class that I may want to make out with each person in there, even the Chatty McCathy and the Know It All. I had a glory moment this week when I interpreted a detail in a story that no one else had seen and when I commented on it, everyone including the professor went ‘ooooOOOOOOHHHHH!’ as fifteen little light bulbs went off over their heads and the author broke workshop rules of writer silence and shouted ‘THANK YOU! Very much!’ And then everyone laughed because suddenly the entire meaning of the story changed. That was a lovely moment. Also, the sun has almost completely set when I leave class now. Next week, I’m sure that I will be walking to my car in the dark.
Like several people in the comments section, I am also afraid of Vomiting. And am relieved to know that I am not the only person who is apprehensive when opening the tube of refrigerated dough. But am apparently the only one who hates the Uuuuunnnnntttbhthththtb sound. Speaking of that, there was talk in the comments (which, if you don’t know by now, is where ALL the action is wakka chicka wakka chicka) about a Mini Con in Green Bay over a weekend sometime this winter for folks who want to experience an evening at the Bad Bar. We could also possibly wrangle some karaoke (for those of us who are still feeling burned by the DC KaraNoke) and maybe some other things (chopped cherry jam and pie field trip?). Opinions and discussion are welcome in the comments section.
