Now I can't stop.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
If you said "Valentine's Day" you made the right call!
DECEMBER 26TH and I am inundated with VALENTINE'S DAY CARDS?!?!?!?!? Why not a big display filled with seed packets for Arbor Day? Is it too early to Put out the Halloween costumes?
And why does Valentine's Day need a 2 month lead in? Is it just to torture the husbands/boyfriends of the world? We have finally gotten past the "subtle" hints for a Christmas gift that comes in a small box labeled Kays or Zales or Jared or some other damn place, and now we have to see and hear MORE ads for "show her you love her. Say it with diamonds". Sure, and next year I'll say it with bankruptcy (where is a high hat sound effect when you need it?). I am lucky that Wifey is not jewelry obsessed (although she DID make 3 separate "suggestions" for next year's Christmas gift. And also took each opportunity to remind me that she has a birthday and we have an anniversary before Christmas rolls around again. If anyone who reads this goes to one of those fancy Catholic churches I see on the television and in movies PLEASE light one of those cool altar candles for me. I have always wanted someone to do that for me and I don't think it has ever been done. And while I appreciate the sentiment, the one you have in the hallway next to the bathroom just doesn't have the same effect, even if it DOES make the entire house smell like sugar cookies or fresh linen or whatever fricking candle-of-the-month Yankee Candle is hawking this month).
In case you are wondering, Wifey is doing pretty well/good (I like to use improper grammar sometimes, but not all the time. This way I get to do both in one sentence) with her recovery. This surgery was a little more intense that the last one, and she will actually have to go for physical therapy this time. But she keeps promising me increased flexibility, and for that I will get her whatever damn resistance equipment she needs.
Also, last night we had a bit of a conversation.
Wifey has complained on more than one occasion about my inability to fall asleep when we go to bed. I will usually start to ramble on about any number of topics. And because my body is tired but my brain has too much information collected throughout the day to process, I will get kind of goofy at bedtime. Anyone who knows me knows that goofy is not much of a stretch for me anyway, but I do feel bad about subjecting Wifey to this. At least I did until last night. Last night I came home exhausted. I have not slept well for the better part of a month, and going back to the 2-a-day grind after 4 straight days of one or no jobs wore me out. So I laid down and got bundled up in my blankets and quickly began nodding off. Well Wifey came downstairs and got herself all ready for bed and decided that she wanted to talk. And talk.
I was silently praying that the drugs they gave her for the pain would kick in and she would go into WifeyComaVille (soon to be a theme restaurant by Jimmy Buffet), but no such luck. I began to think that she hadn't taken any lately. And THAT is when she decided to drop the bombshell on me
--Sidebar to the sidebar--
Wifey's Mama gave each of us a movie and a book for Christmas. She gave me the Special Edition of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, which I never bought because I have the original on video but have wanted to buy since it came out. So that was in fact an awesome gift. The book she gave me (and Wifey got her own copy of the same book) was "The Purpose Driven Life". I am looking forward to reading this book. But I was not expecting the personal inscription in the book (and the matching one in Wifey's book) that referred to the journey from birth through life through MORE BIRTH. If I didn't know better I would think she was pining for grandkids (it has always seemed weird to me that the parents of a female would want their daughter to get pregnant, even after she is married. That means that someone had to, well, you know. And at this point in my life I cannot fathom a parent, ESPECIALLY a father, being okay with someone touching his daughter even after she is made an honest woman. I do not see my ambiguity on this fading if Wifey and I have a daughter. God I hope we have all boys. I don't think I will survive the ulcers that having a daughter would give me). So it seems that the pressure cooker is finally on us. My parents have 2 grandkids already (courtesy of my sister and brother-in-law) so there is a release valve there. Mama-in-law has no such outlet for her desires. Well...
--back to original sidebar--
Wifey started talking about being ready to try and have a kid starting sometime next year.
I have wanted kids for a while (with Wifey I started thinking about it on or about our 3rd date, as I was trying to figure out a way to get her in the sack. Back then she was much better at holding her liquor, so that wasn't a viable option. I wound up having to use charm. I didn't know I had it. There is a good chance I don't. But whatever the hell it was, she bought it. YAY me!). When we first got serious enough to discuss marriage, she said that she wanted to wait 5 years. I said I didn't want to wait that long. She said she would consider 2 or 3, but she wanted us to have some time first. I agreed with her that it was a good idea, and I am glad she said it because we haven't exactly had a whole bunch of time with each other as it is. If we had some tiny poop machine in the house it might have become impossible to see each other at all. The news that she is thinking about getting ourselves ready to have kids as soon as next year (health and financial planning will be necessary) is something I have been waiting to hear her say.
But not on a Wednesday at 1:45 in the morning when I have an alarm clock that will be going off in less than 4 hours.
And here is the thing. I don't know if she did take any of her "happy fun pills" last night, and if she did I don't know what time she took them. I know that she was a little (okay, more than a little) legally stoned at my sister's house Christmas Day, and she mentioned my sister-in-law's munchkin as one of the impeti (what is the plural for impetus? Impetusses? Impetae?) for the decision. My fear is that hillbilly heroin and watching a tot wander about got her primordial maternal instincts all worked up into a frothy lather, but in a week she will be back on the propho-train, which means I am still playing for USC (please tell me you get that).
We didn't talk much about it after she dropped her "KNOCK ME UP" sign on my head and then rolled over to go to sleep. I left this morning before she was awake enough to realize that I had to go to work. I am waiting to see what conversations we have tonight. Rest assured I will let you know the good parts.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
I have been having trouble posting videos since I switched my blog over to the beta thing they want us all to be on so bad. And to make matters worse, the version of this that I posted a few weeks ago is no longer available on YouTube. So now I have been trying to re-post for a while. Hopefully this works and it will be on. Of course if you are reading this than it worked. If you are not reading this than it didn't, but that makes my disclaimer worthless.
I need more coffee.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
(Does anyone else think that Barbara Walters is watching Rosie as she picks her cause of the week and realizes that she has become the captain of the Titanic and Rosie is the iceberg?)
Rosie has decided to go after the moral qualifications of Donald Trump after he decided to not fire her as Ms. USA (I no longer have the mental acuity to figure out how the hell he got control of Ms. USA or how the hell he still makes himself relevant to anything. Trump has whored himself out so much that he has actually become chaste again. How this is possible is beyond me, but I think it is true. Any day now he is going to start selling Trump brand Air, or some line of crap like that, and my head will explode from the sheer force of gazing at his hubris). Read the article HERE and then come back.
Okay, so Rosie talks trash about Trump. Trump comes back trashing her and saying that she isn't as popular a tv show personality as she claimed to be (and in a STUNNING display of self control Trump goes more than 30 seconds talking about television without pimping the new season of the Apprentice! Or more likely the article edited that part out). But the best part is the end...
"She's out of her mind. I will probably sue Rosie for a number of reasons. I'm worth a lot of money. She doesn't tell the facts," he added.
Did you see it? "I'm worth a lot of money". When I read that, all I could see in my head was Francis in "Pee Wee's Big Adventure". In fact, I am waiting for these two titans of piety to break into a "I know you are but what am I?" argument any minute now. And when it does happen, let us all hope that Matt Lauer is nearby with a camera and a microphone. Why Matt Lauer? I have no earthly idea, it just sounded right in my head. I think that Matt Lauer will bring balance to the cosmos somehow. I just don't know how as of yet. But as soon as I do I will let him know, because we all know that the cosmos could use a little more balance. And Jenga (see the next post for an explanation).
BTW - a big pet peeve of mine is that one person who signs up to bring plates (and sometimes will say that they are bringing napkins too). That is just a bullshit pot luck category. And here's the thing, you know you will see them again in about 6 months. At some point the office will do some kind of summer shindig, and you know this jackass will sign up to bring condiments. OOOOOOOHHHHHH! "You're going to bring mustard AND mayonnaise? Are you sure your budget can handle relish? Oh, this? This is my German potato salad. The recipe has been in my family for generations, brought from Europe when my grandparents immigrated here from Poland in 1925. But enough about that, is that HUNT'S ketchup? Wow, you shouldn't have!"
But anyway, I have chosen to exercise the right NOT to walk as far as office meals are concerned. And if I needed any extra motivation for my not joining the festivities, I have been given it in spades. SWAN (She Without A Nickname) decided to bring in her portable karaoke machine. Why would ANYONE feel the need to own one of these things? Do they really host parties and break the thing out and next thing you know it is the happening place to be? I always picture it like those old Jenga commercials. There is a party in this nice, swanky condo and 4 of the beautiful people that occupy this world are playing with little pieces of balsa wood that have been stacked in some random pattern. Well soon enough all the doctors and lawyers and impossibly successful people attending this soiree have stopped what they are doing and EVERYONE is watching the Jenga game. It is THAT fascinating. And everyone is "ooohing" and aahing" at every move, and perfect teeth are exposed with every genuine laugh that can only emanate from the soul of a truly content person as they vicariously enjoy the game of Jenga. And then, the look of surprise, nay, the look of HORROR when one of the players (I think it is the attractive blond lady) pulls the piece that makes the Jenga fall down. Followed by UPROARIOUS laughter and a few playful punches on the shoulder (and I am pretty sure I saw a high five somewhere in the background) as EVERYONE cheers and claps at the end of the most funnest game EVER!!! The only redeeming thing about Jenga is that as long as you have more than 2 players you have more than 1 winner. There is always one loser, but everyone else wins. And that can do nothing but improve your feeling of self worth, unless you REALLY suck at Jenga.
But I digress. Back to the personal karaoke machine. I just picture SWAN standing in her living room, disheveled in her work clothes that she never took off, a few candles lit as she sings "All By Myself" and fights off the tears. Why is it that I almost find the thought of that funny? I just cannot stomach the thought of JJ (who is here on a THURSDAY! 2 days in a row of this claptrap AND a holiday party marred with controversy, which I will get to in a minute) and some random guy from IT singing "Paradise by the Dashboard Light". Mother Hen breaking into her rendition of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend"...you get the idea.
BREAKING CONTROVERSY NEWS!!!!!!!!!!
Somebody brought bagels from Panera (another bastard who stole my idea!), and JJ decided that they should be taken out of the container that they were brought in (that cardboard carrying case thing). And she took them out and put them on a tray. And she used her bare hands. Now we get to the two sides to this. One, I don't want JJ (or anyone else who hasn't just washed their hands) touching food that I am going to eat. But on the other hand, the way the Hens have gone off the deep end about this (pulling each other into remote corners of the office to share this information and cluck disapprovingly at her) seems a bit extreme for an old lady that pulled a few bagels out of a box. It is not like we work in the OR and she just stepped out of surgery here. A little reason is all I ask for (and will never get as long as I am here).
Okay, I gotta run. Brunch starts in less than half an hour, and I have to post something else before I get the hell out of here.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
I would give this to a bunch of you, but Wifey would make it so that I would never be able to give it again, so I will save it for her. But wrapping it will be fun. Not as much fun as her unwrapping it, but fun nonetheless.
Just follow these three simple steps:
1. Cut a hole in a box.
2. Put your junk in that box.
3. Make her open the box.
Justin Timberlake is officially a funny mofo. He makes damn good pop music, and now he has moved up a couple of notches in my book.
If he was also a Scientologist, I would be totally screwed.
Monday, December 18, 2006
I just hope that if I am blessed with a new job, that it gives me as much ammunition and material as the ones I have now have given me.
Also, a quick, open apology to Post Script (an old college friend). I am very sorry that Wifey and I didn't make it out to the Gathering of the P's (long story). We were just both too exhausted, and even when we talked about going and decided that we would go and make an appearance, we wound up vegging out and just staring blankly at whatever we were doing and never made it to the "put on clothes you can wear out in public" part of going out. And to the Honorary P, happy belated birthday. I hope your "29+2" birthday was everything you hoped it would be and more. I will endeavor to make it to "29+3". I promise.
I am going to go and have some Metamucil and lie down until Matlock comes on.
Oh my sciatica.
Friday, December 15, 2006
The big thing I have had to come to grips with is that my career is not where I thought it would be. I am not living as an actor, getting paid to entertain people. I also didn't plan on meeting Wifey and making the name more than just prophecy. I didn't plan on buying a house in the city and planning on raising a family (eventually, when I can get Wifey drunk enough to let me finish what we started without a thin layer of lubricated recycled tire in the way).
And this led me to the question that I had to answer: If I never accomplish what I had set out to do, if I am destined to live a life of anonymous servitude to unseen corporations, would I be happy? Is it enough?
What surprised me is how quickly I answered the question. I didn't have to think about it at all. The answer is yes. I may not have "made it" like I thought I was going to, but I made it like I found out I wanted to. Do I want to work 2 jobs, 65+ hours a week? Do I want to wear a polyester guards uniform and be laughed at by a bunch of Calvert Hall punkasses who are just waiting to turn 16 so Mommy and Daddy can buy them a new Hybrid or Jeep or whatever the cool car of the month is? No. Do I want to toil away in obscurity just for the "bitchin" pension plan and the corporate matched 401K (depending on the job)? Not really. But if I never move past this staion in my life, will I be able to look at myself in the mirror and be satisfied in who I am? Yup. Because I know that I am going to be a good father, and I will find a way to provide for my family, and anything else is gravy.
But that doesn't mean I will be satisfied performing at Spots when I am 55, doing "To Kill A Mockingbird" or "Fiddler On The Roof" AGAIN. I want to at least be doing the same old community theatre claptrap at Everyman. Is that too much to ask?
Now Wifey needs the truck, and I was told by the wound center that I should be done by 11am no problem. I still have to go back up to them and get new boots. I finally get tired of waiting after I hear them tell some guy that just signed in that the wait shouldn't be more than about 15-20 minutes. I chuckle because I have already been waiting for 52 minutes (yup I was counting). I see them call back the third person that arrived after me. I ask them when I am going to be brought back. They ask me when I signed in. I tell her it has been almost an hour. She says "nuh-uh" (thank God she used layman's terms. If she had denied me in dr. speak I would probably still be there scratching my head in confusion). I show her where my name is on the now discarded list that had been all scratched off except for my name (it is folded back to expose the next page that is about 15 names deep with 13 of them scratched off, which means that the patient has been seated in the back). She asks for my insurance card. SHE COULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT A DAMN HOUR AGO?!?!? But at last I am brought back to the men's changing room and given the "Holy crap he's friggin' HUGE" robe to put on (they had to go to another room to get it. I am pretty sure that it is usually reserved for women who have entered their fourth trimester. And yes I know I said "fourth" and "trimester". THAT is the joke dammit!
And now we get to the violation. I was told to strip down to my underbritches (I was allowed to keep my shirt on under my robe. Yay for humility!), an I was taken to an examination room. There I met Jan (pronounced "Youn", like "young without the final "G" sound), the East German woman who obviously moved to the states once the Wall fell and all the torture jobs got outsourced to the Phillipines. She has me lay on the examination table, and pulls out a sheet to lay across my upper legs. I am thinking that we are in for a relatively simple procedure, so I put my head back. And then...
I know that women subject themselves to all sorts of degrading exams when they see their GYN. I don't know the precise nature of these exams, but I have heard enough talk to know that stirrups are not fun and that there is apparently some tool that looks like a duck's bill made of metal that remains at a constant temperature of 24 degrees Kelvin.In the grand scheme of things, a man's visit to the proctologist consists of a minute or two of "So Doc, do you like to go BOWL-OWL-OH-MY-GOS-HOLY-SHIT! and then you take an extra minute to sit down in the car. I would not begin to compare my experience to the pain and discomfort that a woman has to experience. But that being said...
MOTHER FUCKER! I try not to drop the big enchilada of curse words, but that is the only way I can vocalize what happened next. Jan takes the sheet and goes to tuck it into the gown, and also into the leg of my boxers. And THERE WAS CONTACT! It isn't like she went to give me a happy ending, but still, an "excuse me" would have been nice. If you are going to cut me off on the freeway. you could at least wave. And if you are going to make uninvited contact with General Jiggly, say something. "Sorry", "Whoops!", "Impressive"...ANYTHING! And then she squirts about 2 quarts of what felt like cold 10W30 on my inner thigh and followed that by taking some kind of scanning instrument and jabbing it into the crease between my thigh and my island of fun and prizes. No warning. And when I inevitably tense up she tells me to stop resisting. "Stop resisting"? What the hell is this, Gitmo? She picks about 4 spots on the thigh and just grinds the thing into my flesh. And all I could think was that if this is how all ultrasounds are done, no wonder babies come out crying. Oh my Damn!
This continues on the other thigh. By this point I have become used to the torture and can at least mentally prepare myself for the impending emasculation. And before you ask, yes there was cockular contact with the other leg too. Not to mention nutular contact too.
What does all of this mean? It means that I have officially been re-entered into the world of "Bad Touch". I will probably feel dirty of a few days. And there is a good chance that when I am finished here I am going to drink a bottle of wine. Maybe two.
Honestly, I can really see the humor in this. By the time she started on my second leg, I was in full Ferris Bueller mode, constantly "looking at the camera" to make sure that the audience knew that I knew just how absurd this all was.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Shut! Up! How the hell was what Kelly Ripa said the slightest bit homophobic?!? (Confused? See HERE)
It is actions and statements like that that cause actual cases of hatred and bigotry to be belittled or ignored. "I don't know where that hand has been"? How did you get that it was homophobic, especially since Clay Aiken has never claimed to be homosexual? Who are you to publicly out him? Who made you the arbiter of decency and the watchdog for the homosexual community? Who made you anything more than a loudmouth, annoying shrill lump of flesh who can't act (check THIS, THIS, and THIS if you need proof of her complete lack of ability)? For all of us, please, shut the hell up!
I would say she needs a man, but something tells me that it wouldn't do her much good. Wouldn't do much for the guy either.
To the punks who keep stealing condoms from Target:
I appreciate the desire to have safe sex. I practice it myself sometimes (and sometimes I even have a partner to practice it WITH me). But I do not condome your safe sex at the expense of my 401K, dammit!
To everyone who commented on my attire at work on Thursday:
Yes, I am a large man wearing the jersey of a large man. I get it. Let it go. If I really was Tony Siragusa, do you really think I would be working there? Seriously, get a grip.
To the Boob Thief:
Those. Are. Mine. If you are that desperate for a pillow, I will start a collection to get you one. But Wifey's God-given love pillows are not for you to drool on. I swear to all that I hold holy, if I EVER catch the scent of Similac on them, I am going to be VERY angry with you.
Stop encouraging him.
To that bitch who works with Wifey:
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!! Suck it bitch!
To the Ronnettes:
I am not feeling the love like I used to. You need to rectify that, and soon.
$80 for the Sopranos Season Six Part I? Who the hell are you kidding? I have two words for you all. Price. Point. Stop being so greedy. I already paid you once for the honor of watching the show, don't bend me over the cash register for the honor of being able to watch it again. Bada Bing, Bada Bite me.
Stop complaining so much. If you keep this up, you'll start to sound like Rosie O'Donnell.
I go to my cubicle there in the basement, and what do I see? Well, everythng seems nominal, but then I look down. And guess what I DON'T see...
Yup, my chair is gone. I don't know where it is. I try to take a chair from an empty cubicle (a co-worker who has moved to a better job, now there is no one working there, and I am told that the chair has to stay in the empty cubicle. I am offered another chair by the person that said I couldn't have the empty cubicle one, but the thing is obviously on it's last legs (or wheels as the case may be), and I have the distinct feeling that I would go through that chair like a hot knife through melted butter. So I wind up grabbing a non-wheeled chair that has been used for holding random boxes while it sits in the corner, all lonely and neglected. So now I have a new friend, and I am going to requisition a new chair. I am going to ask for a real nice leather one and see how high end I can go before they put the kibosh on me.
Welcome back, huh?
Also, on a side note, one of my bosses asked me what my shirt size is. It seems that in the course of 3 years (I just started my 3rd year there at the end of November) the "Christmas Gift" for all the employees of the hospital has gone from a $25 gift card to a local grocery chain to some kind of gift basket, to a polo shirt. Yes, BSR will be "S" no more. I might still be "F"'ed, but I will no longer be "S". If only they had thought of this in time for my wedding...
B (soon to be less the "less") S R