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Polycystic who what now?

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this but I have something called Polycystic Ovaries Syndrome. No, my ovaries are fine and as far as I know, I have not even one cyst, let alone many screaming hordes of cysts (why do I imagine some kind of cystic concert, maybe a Lefty Lollapalooza and a Right Side Bonnaroo? Which clearly makes the cervix Coachella), but whatever, I still have a syndrome. And so it goes. I never really give any thought to it, because one of the main issues involves reproduction, and since I’m not really interested in adding to the crush of humanity on the planet (especially since we can’t seem to take care of the people we have already) and also, whoops, anything that stacks the deck against me accidentally having to push a human out of a very painful place seems a bit like a boon. My real problem hits my vanity, which is always the way. This thingy tends to make one fat and also hairy while alternately going bald. So, it is a very glamorous syndrome. But I’ve learned to deal and whatever, it’s just one of those things. Like a Plantar’s Wart or something. Whatever.

Up until I saw this.

Dear God, it’s me, Weetabix. Please give me a different syndrome. One that doesn’t involve communities of people making really horrible puns. Thank you.

Our toilet seat broke last weekend. Or rather, the little whoosit that holds the whatsit down. I don’t know. Apparently it’s a very important part that people do not think about nearly enough and also, they do not carry at Walgreens or any convenience stores. And I just don’t have the emotional wherewithal to go into the Hundred Dollar Store at this juncture, so we’re trying to live without it. But at some point, somehow, when I got home from work one night and kicked off my shoes, I walked into the bathroom and stepped in fresh pee. Esteban had just peed, in the normal way that men pee, so I don’t know if I need to blame the toilet seat’s whosit or his lack of hand/eye(/urine stream) coordination or if this was just some kind of phantom pee that materialized like ectoplasm from the beyond, but damn it, there was totally pee and I totally stepped in it with my bare right foot.

I quickly brought down my left foot to jump (OUT OF THE PEE) and stepped on a shard of broken glass.

The world? Fuck the world, man. There’s just no winning.

(Confidential to Mimi Smartypants: Don’t read this next bit. Skip ahead to the next section.)

Later that night, still barefoot, I stepped in raw meat, but this was probably my own fault as a) it was raw meat from the meal I was cooking, therefore the offending meat source was pretty clear and b)as La Wade pointed out, I should have put on shoes after the pee/debris incident. But at that point, damn it, if I cannot go barefoot in my own house, then where can I go barefoot and not worry about stepping in a descending scale of very disturbing items?

And this right there is why I have punny syndromes. Because what if I had gesticulated madly with the baby and then stepped on it? It could happen.

That was totally a true story.

(Clearly this is a sign that I’ve been talking to Eben too much recently.)


My project from hell continues to swallow deep gorging recesses of time at work, but it’s all new ground in the project management arena, since my last project never made it this far. I now realize that my last project got killed only moments before it started to become incredibly satisfying. And since my current project is much higher a priority than last year’s project, as it touches a thousand people in the company and also, rumor has it that they are looking to can a bunch of people again, my resurrected 2006 project gets to sit on the shelf until I’ve mostly tied up the 2007 project. This is where I’d make a comment about job security, except that the level of sarcasm wouldn’t be tangible through mere text on a white background. So imagine.

In other news, the paper I thought was pretty good? Apparently it’s blowing goats for thrills out behind the A&W and also, I suck. I’m getting past it. Mostly by whining, but I will survive. This proof that I am not infallible is probably a good learning experience or some kind of ABC Afterschool special bullshit like that. Now I’m going to go jump through a window like a doped up Helen Hunt.

Also, all of this imagined time that I was going to have during the summer? The time for frolicking and whatnot? When the fuck did I think that was going to happen exactly? Because hell no. In the last two weeks, I have something like eleventy billion trips planned. I am not making that up. The next hundred days or so probably involve the following: Chicago, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Chicago, Salt Lake City, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Mexico, San Francisco, Chicago. I honestly don’t have any idea how I’m going to do all of that, because only some of them are for work and the rest require vacation days, but eh, I’ll think about that when I get to it.

I think I need new luggage.

There continue to be bunches of updates over at Elastic Waist. The very awesome editors behind the site are encouraging me to take some risks, so there are some very Dumber Than A Box of Rocks-esque entries showing up over there along with the more Jezebel-esque “royal we” posts. Like this one. Also, we love it when you comment. You have no idea.

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