I am a former damn, dirty smoker. The former is only applied because of my recent hospital stay (see my previous post for that story). I have been smoke free for five weeks as of today and truth be told, it freakin sucks!
Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that I stopped smoking, as it was such a rude, disgusting habit. However, I never realized how much I really enjoyed smoking until I stopped. It's not that I am craving nicotine, because I'm not. This isn't even like previous attempts to quit, when I eventually gave up. What it comes down to, is that I miss the actual act of smoking. Hell, I was good at it.
Let me put this into perspective for all you non-smoking, never smoker folks: I smoked about 1 pack per day. The last time I bought a pack, it cost around $6. Do the math. I don't miss spending that money. Beyond that, I don't notice a great change. I suppose I can breathe easier, but it's not something that I ever tried to measure. When I was smoking, I would still go to the gym and hit the treadmill. If I could have lit up and had a martini, I would have been in heaven, but that would have been a rather strange sight. (Absolutely Fabulous come to life!) Of course, after the gym, I would light up in my car for the drive home.
Speaking of driving, that seems to be when I miss smoking the most (after drinking). I always enjoyed a cigarette when sitting in traffic. Then there's the aforementioned drinking and smoking (regardless of how I might feel the next day); nothing quite as enjoyable as a martini or a beer with a cigarette (or six). (Oh, by the way, this totally reminds me of a trip to a local bar, where I actually said, "This room smells like my hangovers taste". Yup....that's definitely a future story).
I'm not going back to smoking, I just miss it....every day. Not for the drug, but for the action. Besides, if I could survive my recent vacation without smoking (turns out New Hope is a smoker's town) then I should be good to go. Hopefully I can become one of those folks who has one on occasion and no more. We'll see. Until then, I'll just pretend.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Well That Was Certainly Unexpected
Okay folks, now that I have been able to find a few moments of free time, I would like to share the story of my recent surgery. Some of you may have heard this, but I'm sure it's still funny the second (or fifth) time that you hear it. Besides, if you don't want to hear the tale again, then change the web address at the top of the screen.
Three weeks ago, I was having a relatively normal Tuesday evening in front of the TV. I had a late dinner of frozen pizza (with extra garlic -- this is important). I actually thought as I was eating, "This is quite possibly the best frozen pizza I've ever had". About 30 minutes after I finished eating, I began to feel this horrible pain in the middle of my abdomen (go abouts 2 inches below your breast bone if you want a more detailed location). Mind you, I've had this feeling before, but I always thought it was indigestion as it normally went away within an hour (usually a nice belch was needed). Not so this time. The pain was horrible and I began to pace my house trying to burp. I will also (with great shame) admit to asking Arne to burp me (shut up, we do it to infants). After a bit of time, I finally burped; unfortunately, it was immediately followed by vomit. (Remember the garlic I mentioned? Yeah, not so good on repeat. Take that with you for future reference). Anyway, a short time later, I felt more begin to rise (sorry for being gross). I made it to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and proceeded to projectile vomit while standing over the bowl. It was so surprising that all I could do was stand up straight and say out loud, "Well fuck me!" Mind you, Arne was upstairs sleeping during this great display. Had my head begun to spin like Regan's in The Exorcist, I would have had no witness. (I also would have said, "Your mother sucks cocks in Hell!" Some of you get that reference).
Since the contents of my stomach were now removed, I decided to make an attempt at sleeping. Which I managed to do for about 20 minutes. Then I was back up and pacing. Finally, around 2:30 in the morning, I gave in and decided that it was best to make my way to a hospital.
So, 3:00 A.M. on a Wednesday and the emergency room was empty. Awesome, I'll get right in! No. Instead I have to hang out in the waiting room for about 15 minutes while all of the TVs are tuned to Fox News. Seriously, I can't stand Glenn Beck on a good day, why should I be expected to tolerate him on 6 televisions in the middle of the night? I should have known that was a bad sign.
Finally, some teenage girl retrieves me and takes me to the triage room, where she precedes to question why my blood pressure is so high (and it was). Apparently the fact that I'm in pain, it's 3 in the morning and this is my first ER trip isn't a good answer. So she finishes her assessment (that I'm in pain is, apparently, not obvious) and leads me to an exam room in the back. Mind you, she is casually sauntering and appears to be lost in a dream, while I am on the verge of screaming, "Give me drugs!!!!"
After being in the exam room for another 10 minutes or so, the ER doctor (intern/15 year old) exams me. Shortly after she leaves, a nurse appears with a beautiful syringe of morphine, which it turns out, I actually very much enjoy. A short time later and I've had an ultrasound. Afterwards, the 15 year old tells me that I have Pancreitis and begins to ask how much I drink. Apparently, this is quite a common occurrence when you have overindulged. I admitted to drinking a few beverages a week (it is never consistent and is usually lower. Of course, I was also thinking, "Don't mention the bottle of wine you drank on Monday night. I mean c'mon, it's only three glasses). She looks so skeptical. (Shut up!) Everyone who enters the room from this point on asks how much I drink. (Apparently trying to get me to admit something).
By 5:00, I've had a more thorough ultrasound and it has been determined that I have gall stones. Suddenly, all the questions related to the over consumption of alcohol stop. You know I wanted to start waving my middle fingers around and telling everyone to suck it!
Sometime after 6, I'm taken for a CT Scan. I'm warned as the contrast material is added to my IV, that once it "hits your bladder, you may feel like you're urinating, but you're not". Well, that's just poor timing, because at this point, I actually have to pee. Shortly thereafter, I felt the warm feeling go through my lower area and once pass, was thankful to know that my body didn't take it as a sign to embarrass me further. On my way back to the ER, I actually made the fella stop my bed in the middle of the hall so that I could find a restroom. Upon returning to the bed, he was nowhere to be found. So then I hung out in the hall as folks passed by. I had to resist the urge to erupt into laughter at the absurdity of the situation, for fear that I would have found myself on the psych floor.
Please make note of the time. It is now 7:00 A.M. I've been in hospital for 4 hours. Another 4 hours pass before I'm taken to an actual room, even though it was known for awhile that I was to be admitted. Thankfully Facebook was able to provide some amusement for me, as I could not rest. (Nothing says a good time, like documenting your humiliation). After finally making it to my room, I decided it was a good time to call my mother to let her know what's up. Yeah, that was a fun call. "Hi mom. Don't panic, but I'm in the hospital". (Yes, that's actually what I said -- such tact).
Anyway, I'm super excited to find out that I will have the blockage removed via a tube that is placed down my throat and that I shouldn't need surgery. I actually thought I would be out the next day. FOOL!
When I'm finally being prepped for the ERCP (don't ask what that stands for, because I don't know -- you are just as capable of looking it up as I am), the nurse asks what I do for work. I tell him the name of my company (it's health insurance -- go figure) and somehow he manages to hear that I work for a morgue. Shit! Could I possibly leave now.
Moved to the surgery room and more prep continues. Finally, a piece of rubber/plastic (?) is put in my mouth to prevent me from biting on the tube that will be inserted. It is at this moment, that I decide to take a chance: "You know, I could make a very inappropriate joke right now." (I could have, it was like I had a ball-gag stuck in my mouth. Look it up). Everyone laughed and I knew I would be in good hands. The Propofol (again, yum) took over and the next thing I knew, two nurses were standing over me, attempting to wake me. I looked up and said, "well, you're lovely" to the nurse that I saw. (More embarrassment). Shortly after being returned to my room, I found that I actually had approximately 25 (what?!?) gall stones and that my gallbladder would, in fact, need to be removed. Dammit!
Even though my surgery is not scheduled until Friday (it's only Wednesday, remember), I am not allowed any food or water, in an effort to let my pancreas return to normal function. Finally by the end of the evening, I've managed to talk the staff into letting me have ice chips to cool my parched throat. On the bright side, I'd least I might lose a little weight.
Thursday comes and brings with it horrendous rain showers. Or so I'm told. Since I wasn't by the window, I never actually saw the rain.
Friday arrives and I'm surprised to learn that I'm being taken to surgery in 5 minutes. (Here's a note to hospital staff -- patients often have people to call prior to a surgery, in case they die. Please remember that small courtesy). Anyway, in the surgical prep room, listening to another patient whose gallbladder is to be removed, being told that he will be released in a few hours. (Bastard! No fair! Why am I the freak who's in hospital for several days, when most folks have this happen and are released same day? Waaaaa!). Finally it hits me: it's Friday the 13th. Glad I'm not superstitious.
Anyway, the surgery goes down and I am relieved to know that I am not a jerk when coming out of the general anesthesia. I am, however, for reasons unknown to me, talking about Ramona and Beezus, a book I have not read, nor a movie I have seen. I have nothing to say to this, as it obviously speaks volumes on its own. Sigh.
After being returned to my room, I was finally provided a meal of soup and jell-o. I was so excited, I told the nurse that I would hug her, but it required too much effort to move from the food. By Friday evening, I was ready to go home. I was bored and was not getting the rest that one (allegedly) gets in a hospital.
Saturday arrives and I've decided that if necessary, I will throw a tantrum if that is what is needed to be discharged. Either that or I would find a way to open the window and head down the side of the building, even if the hospital gown would be blowing wildly and my naked rear would be on display. (Like strangers haven't seen my naked ass before. It's glorious, I promise . Well, I've never had any complaints).
A few hours later and I'm home in my bed. So happy. Sleep came so easily.
Of course, during this period of recovery, I found that percocet (or hydrocodone -- darn optional Rx substitution) does not make me sleepy. I have found that it tends to have the opposite effect on me. Morphine patches would have been divine. Just sayin.
So folks, that's my story. I'm happy that I could share my humiliation with you. Hopefully, I never have another story like this to share. Until later.
Three weeks ago, I was having a relatively normal Tuesday evening in front of the TV. I had a late dinner of frozen pizza (with extra garlic -- this is important). I actually thought as I was eating, "This is quite possibly the best frozen pizza I've ever had". About 30 minutes after I finished eating, I began to feel this horrible pain in the middle of my abdomen (go abouts 2 inches below your breast bone if you want a more detailed location). Mind you, I've had this feeling before, but I always thought it was indigestion as it normally went away within an hour (usually a nice belch was needed). Not so this time. The pain was horrible and I began to pace my house trying to burp. I will also (with great shame) admit to asking Arne to burp me (shut up, we do it to infants). After a bit of time, I finally burped; unfortunately, it was immediately followed by vomit. (Remember the garlic I mentioned? Yeah, not so good on repeat. Take that with you for future reference). Anyway, a short time later, I felt more begin to rise (sorry for being gross). I made it to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and proceeded to projectile vomit while standing over the bowl. It was so surprising that all I could do was stand up straight and say out loud, "Well fuck me!" Mind you, Arne was upstairs sleeping during this great display. Had my head begun to spin like Regan's in The Exorcist, I would have had no witness. (I also would have said, "Your mother sucks cocks in Hell!" Some of you get that reference).
Since the contents of my stomach were now removed, I decided to make an attempt at sleeping. Which I managed to do for about 20 minutes. Then I was back up and pacing. Finally, around 2:30 in the morning, I gave in and decided that it was best to make my way to a hospital.
So, 3:00 A.M. on a Wednesday and the emergency room was empty. Awesome, I'll get right in! No. Instead I have to hang out in the waiting room for about 15 minutes while all of the TVs are tuned to Fox News. Seriously, I can't stand Glenn Beck on a good day, why should I be expected to tolerate him on 6 televisions in the middle of the night? I should have known that was a bad sign.
Finally, some teenage girl retrieves me and takes me to the triage room, where she precedes to question why my blood pressure is so high (and it was). Apparently the fact that I'm in pain, it's 3 in the morning and this is my first ER trip isn't a good answer. So she finishes her assessment (that I'm in pain is, apparently, not obvious) and leads me to an exam room in the back. Mind you, she is casually sauntering and appears to be lost in a dream, while I am on the verge of screaming, "Give me drugs!!!!"
After being in the exam room for another 10 minutes or so, the ER doctor (intern/15 year old) exams me. Shortly after she leaves, a nurse appears with a beautiful syringe of morphine, which it turns out, I actually very much enjoy. A short time later and I've had an ultrasound. Afterwards, the 15 year old tells me that I have Pancreitis and begins to ask how much I drink. Apparently, this is quite a common occurrence when you have overindulged. I admitted to drinking a few beverages a week (it is never consistent and is usually lower. Of course, I was also thinking, "Don't mention the bottle of wine you drank on Monday night. I mean c'mon, it's only three glasses). She looks so skeptical. (Shut up!) Everyone who enters the room from this point on asks how much I drink. (Apparently trying to get me to admit something).
By 5:00, I've had a more thorough ultrasound and it has been determined that I have gall stones. Suddenly, all the questions related to the over consumption of alcohol stop. You know I wanted to start waving my middle fingers around and telling everyone to suck it!
Sometime after 6, I'm taken for a CT Scan. I'm warned as the contrast material is added to my IV, that once it "hits your bladder, you may feel like you're urinating, but you're not". Well, that's just poor timing, because at this point, I actually have to pee. Shortly thereafter, I felt the warm feeling go through my lower area and once pass, was thankful to know that my body didn't take it as a sign to embarrass me further. On my way back to the ER, I actually made the fella stop my bed in the middle of the hall so that I could find a restroom. Upon returning to the bed, he was nowhere to be found. So then I hung out in the hall as folks passed by. I had to resist the urge to erupt into laughter at the absurdity of the situation, for fear that I would have found myself on the psych floor.
Please make note of the time. It is now 7:00 A.M. I've been in hospital for 4 hours. Another 4 hours pass before I'm taken to an actual room, even though it was known for awhile that I was to be admitted. Thankfully Facebook was able to provide some amusement for me, as I could not rest. (Nothing says a good time, like documenting your humiliation). After finally making it to my room, I decided it was a good time to call my mother to let her know what's up. Yeah, that was a fun call. "Hi mom. Don't panic, but I'm in the hospital". (Yes, that's actually what I said -- such tact).
Anyway, I'm super excited to find out that I will have the blockage removed via a tube that is placed down my throat and that I shouldn't need surgery. I actually thought I would be out the next day. FOOL!
When I'm finally being prepped for the ERCP (don't ask what that stands for, because I don't know -- you are just as capable of looking it up as I am), the nurse asks what I do for work. I tell him the name of my company (it's health insurance -- go figure) and somehow he manages to hear that I work for a morgue. Shit! Could I possibly leave now.
Moved to the surgery room and more prep continues. Finally, a piece of rubber/plastic (?) is put in my mouth to prevent me from biting on the tube that will be inserted. It is at this moment, that I decide to take a chance: "You know, I could make a very inappropriate joke right now." (I could have, it was like I had a ball-gag stuck in my mouth. Look it up). Everyone laughed and I knew I would be in good hands. The Propofol (again, yum) took over and the next thing I knew, two nurses were standing over me, attempting to wake me. I looked up and said, "well, you're lovely" to the nurse that I saw. (More embarrassment). Shortly after being returned to my room, I found that I actually had approximately 25 (what?!?) gall stones and that my gallbladder would, in fact, need to be removed. Dammit!
Even though my surgery is not scheduled until Friday (it's only Wednesday, remember), I am not allowed any food or water, in an effort to let my pancreas return to normal function. Finally by the end of the evening, I've managed to talk the staff into letting me have ice chips to cool my parched throat. On the bright side, I'd least I might lose a little weight.
Thursday comes and brings with it horrendous rain showers. Or so I'm told. Since I wasn't by the window, I never actually saw the rain.
Friday arrives and I'm surprised to learn that I'm being taken to surgery in 5 minutes. (Here's a note to hospital staff -- patients often have people to call prior to a surgery, in case they die. Please remember that small courtesy). Anyway, in the surgical prep room, listening to another patient whose gallbladder is to be removed, being told that he will be released in a few hours. (Bastard! No fair! Why am I the freak who's in hospital for several days, when most folks have this happen and are released same day? Waaaaa!). Finally it hits me: it's Friday the 13th. Glad I'm not superstitious.
Anyway, the surgery goes down and I am relieved to know that I am not a jerk when coming out of the general anesthesia. I am, however, for reasons unknown to me, talking about Ramona and Beezus, a book I have not read, nor a movie I have seen. I have nothing to say to this, as it obviously speaks volumes on its own. Sigh.
After being returned to my room, I was finally provided a meal of soup and jell-o. I was so excited, I told the nurse that I would hug her, but it required too much effort to move from the food. By Friday evening, I was ready to go home. I was bored and was not getting the rest that one (allegedly) gets in a hospital.
Saturday arrives and I've decided that if necessary, I will throw a tantrum if that is what is needed to be discharged. Either that or I would find a way to open the window and head down the side of the building, even if the hospital gown would be blowing wildly and my naked rear would be on display. (Like strangers haven't seen my naked ass before. It's glorious, I promise . Well, I've never had any complaints).
A few hours later and I'm home in my bed. So happy. Sleep came so easily.
Of course, during this period of recovery, I found that percocet (or hydrocodone -- darn optional Rx substitution) does not make me sleepy. I have found that it tends to have the opposite effect on me. Morphine patches would have been divine. Just sayin.
So folks, that's my story. I'm happy that I could share my humiliation with you. Hopefully, I never have another story like this to share. Until later.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Be Patient, Something is Coming Soon
I hope to have a new post soon chronicling the glorious tale of my recent hospital stay and surgery. So please stay tuned, something new should appear within the next few days. As for now, I'm busying recovering (and online shopping).
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
It's Story Time
Until a few months ago, my belly button was pierced. I had planned to remove the piercing before turning 40; however, I was hoping to be back to the weight I was when I had the piercing done, just for old time's sake.....or something like that. Anyway, I was watching RuPaul's Drag Race (start your engines....sorry, tangent) and the episode centered around the contestants dressing several older gay men in drag. One of the older fellas had his navel pierced and actually had several rings or whatnot through it. Needless to say after seeing this, my piercing came out immediately.
I thought I'd tell the story of getting my belly button pierced. I had my ear pierced a few years prior: the first time by a piercing gun, although it never healed properly so I removed it; and finally, by a needle, which for whatever reason, I enjoyed. The moan that escaped my mouth seemed to intrigue the piercer...piercest...piercing dude. I thought getting my belly button done would be a piece of cake. (Cue the dum..Dum....DUUUUUUUUUUUUM!)
My boyfriend said he thought it was sexy and would pay (thanks!). So one Saturday in February, we went to the piercing shop just outside of Baltimore, hon. I have to point out that the establishment was extremely clean (hello, that's a good thing) and appeared to be a new facility (or at least recently renovated...again, a good thing). Anyway, this rather heavy and tall man with a bleach blond handlebar moustache (can you tell I'm in trouble already) took me to one of the back rooms. I removed my shirt and hopped onto the table.
Mr. Moustache inserted himself between my legs (I swear this isn't going to turn into a porno) and did his prep work (although that does sound like there was about to be some brownchickenbrowncow). He tells me to take deep breaths and on the count of three, he would do the piercing.
Inhale. Exhale.
1
Deep breathing going on.
2
Inhale....FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!
Without missing a beat, King Handlebar asks, "What did you call me?" and proceeds to laugh, before telling me that he has pierced 12 year old girls (bad BAD parents! I judge only because I started my own religion and am allowed to do so. See the entry on Timmyism.) who told him that it didn't hurt. My only response was a simple and sarcastic "They lied". I barely got this out before I was lying back on the table with a Popsicle in my mouth. Apparently, I was slightly lightheaded (I'm not a total wuss, I swear!) so he thought I could use the sugar or whatever. So as I'm enjoying my treat and he's doing his thing, he looks at me and asks, "Were you out drinking last night?". I assumed he was making conversation, so I replied that I had been. Turns out my reasoning for his question was wrong, because he proceeded to tell me that he thought so, because he's "Never had anyone bleed so much". (So, I'm apparently a wussy bleeder. Shut up 'Stache, you're making me rethink your tip.)
Consider that a lesson folks. If you're going to pierce something, don't drink the night before. (In my defense, this was in my younger days when I would go out to bars every weekend and drink....a lot. Seriously, a lot. Those days are way behind me. Now I have two glasses of wine and I'm ready for bed.)
That my friends, is the story of my former belly button piercing. It is also the story of how Arne bought me the gift of pain.
I thought I'd tell the story of getting my belly button pierced. I had my ear pierced a few years prior: the first time by a piercing gun, although it never healed properly so I removed it; and finally, by a needle, which for whatever reason, I enjoyed. The moan that escaped my mouth seemed to intrigue the piercer...piercest...piercing dude. I thought getting my belly button done would be a piece of cake. (Cue the dum..Dum....DUUUUUUUUUUUUM!)
My boyfriend said he thought it was sexy and would pay (thanks!). So one Saturday in February, we went to the piercing shop just outside of Baltimore, hon. I have to point out that the establishment was extremely clean (hello, that's a good thing) and appeared to be a new facility (or at least recently renovated...again, a good thing). Anyway, this rather heavy and tall man with a bleach blond handlebar moustache (can you tell I'm in trouble already) took me to one of the back rooms. I removed my shirt and hopped onto the table.
Mr. Moustache inserted himself between my legs (I swear this isn't going to turn into a porno) and did his prep work (although that does sound like there was about to be some brownchickenbrowncow). He tells me to take deep breaths and on the count of three, he would do the piercing.
Inhale. Exhale.
1
Deep breathing going on.
2
Inhale....FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!
Without missing a beat, King Handlebar asks, "What did you call me?" and proceeds to laugh, before telling me that he has pierced 12 year old girls (bad BAD parents! I judge only because I started my own religion and am allowed to do so. See the entry on Timmyism.) who told him that it didn't hurt. My only response was a simple and sarcastic "They lied". I barely got this out before I was lying back on the table with a Popsicle in my mouth. Apparently, I was slightly lightheaded (I'm not a total wuss, I swear!) so he thought I could use the sugar or whatever. So as I'm enjoying my treat and he's doing his thing, he looks at me and asks, "Were you out drinking last night?". I assumed he was making conversation, so I replied that I had been. Turns out my reasoning for his question was wrong, because he proceeded to tell me that he thought so, because he's "Never had anyone bleed so much". (So, I'm apparently a wussy bleeder. Shut up 'Stache, you're making me rethink your tip.)
Consider that a lesson folks. If you're going to pierce something, don't drink the night before. (In my defense, this was in my younger days when I would go out to bars every weekend and drink....a lot. Seriously, a lot. Those days are way behind me. Now I have two glasses of wine and I'm ready for bed.)
That my friends, is the story of my former belly button piercing. It is also the story of how Arne bought me the gift of pain.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Don't You Dare Play it Again, Sam!
OK, so I know that I can't be alone in this. Surely there are others of you who suffer from this problem, right? I'm not referring to some medical condition or bizarre fear. What I'm talking about is the song that gets stuck in your head and won't seem to go away, no matter what you do. It could be a song that just pops into your mind from out of nowhere, or a song that gets stuck in your head all day after you hear it once, or worse, the song that is playing on a loop in your brain as soon as you wake up in the morning.
For me, the biggest offender lately has been Beyonce's "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" (and randomly B -- yes, I feel as if I can call you that since you've been violating my brain for over a year -- what's up with having part of the title in parentheses, are you now Shania Twain? Just asking). I will be the first to admit to the brilliance of this song. It's the kind of tune that you can help moving your feet to when you hear, but it is also one that seems to bury itself deep into your subconscious, popping up when you least expect it.
I've tried many thinks to get the song to stop playing over and over, such as avoiding it or actually listening to it. Neither method seems to ever help. When I try to avoid it, the Universe (in it's infinite wisdom and great need to play practical jokes) seems to put the song everywhere I am. Suddenly this song is on every radio station I turn to in the car and even playing in stores that I may venture into. That's some kind of hardcore promotion Mrs. Z!
Taking the time to listen to the song doesn't work either, as the repetitive loop is now intensified; only now, it's in stereo. For instance, today at work, the song popped up on my iPhone. As soon as I heard the opening notes, feet began to move around and my shoulders started moving with the beat. If I actually knew the dance from the video, I would have jumped up into the hall and done it. (This, by the way, would have been no real surprise, as it's not uncommon for me to bust out in a dance at work. What can I say, I'm unique).
Of course, this isn't the only culprit, but of late it's the worst. Those moments when it seems to merge itself with other songs, can take a turn for the strange. (I'm talking to you Miss Lady Gaga! You clever tune smith turning out your playful rhymes and catchy melodies). Try dealing with something along the lines of "All the single ladies, caught in a bad romance". Yup, exactly. The whole strange thing plays a trick on an otherwise normal day. Now, I have to try to go and get both of those songs out of my head.
Admit it though, you're singing the Beyonce song now.
For me, the biggest offender lately has been Beyonce's "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" (and randomly B -- yes, I feel as if I can call you that since you've been violating my brain for over a year -- what's up with having part of the title in parentheses, are you now Shania Twain? Just asking). I will be the first to admit to the brilliance of this song. It's the kind of tune that you can help moving your feet to when you hear, but it is also one that seems to bury itself deep into your subconscious, popping up when you least expect it.
I've tried many thinks to get the song to stop playing over and over, such as avoiding it or actually listening to it. Neither method seems to ever help. When I try to avoid it, the Universe (in it's infinite wisdom and great need to play practical jokes) seems to put the song everywhere I am. Suddenly this song is on every radio station I turn to in the car and even playing in stores that I may venture into. That's some kind of hardcore promotion Mrs. Z!
Taking the time to listen to the song doesn't work either, as the repetitive loop is now intensified; only now, it's in stereo. For instance, today at work, the song popped up on my iPhone. As soon as I heard the opening notes, feet began to move around and my shoulders started moving with the beat. If I actually knew the dance from the video, I would have jumped up into the hall and done it. (This, by the way, would have been no real surprise, as it's not uncommon for me to bust out in a dance at work. What can I say, I'm unique).
Of course, this isn't the only culprit, but of late it's the worst. Those moments when it seems to merge itself with other songs, can take a turn for the strange. (I'm talking to you Miss Lady Gaga! You clever tune smith turning out your playful rhymes and catchy melodies). Try dealing with something along the lines of "All the single ladies, caught in a bad romance". Yup, exactly. The whole strange thing plays a trick on an otherwise normal day. Now, I have to try to go and get both of those songs out of my head.
Admit it though, you're singing the Beyonce song now.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Plight of the North American Asshat.
***Let me take a moment to preface this (shout out to Fran Fine!) and say that I was swimming over the weekend and have a bit of swimmer's ear. Actually, that's an understatement. Everything sounds so distant and at times I feel like I'm shouting from the bottom of a well. For those who know me, that means that I am probably speaking at a normal level for once rather than shouting, but whatever.
There seems to be a growing number of asshats running around with free reign to cause destruction, chaos and sheer annoyance wherever they may venture. (Mad props to
Jen Lancaster -- my literary goddess -- for introducing the word asshat to my vocabulary. Check out one (all) of her books; they'll make you laugh out loud). For whatever reason (bad karma perhaps) these particular individuals always seem to find their way to my general territory. Take for instance the asshat (also known as The Braid) who felt the need to violate me today with her blatant stupidity. If you are going to call me at work because you are confused by something that we are working on together, that's fine, I have no problem explaining the situation to you. HOWEVER, there is no reason to call me and in your, ahem, subtle way, allude to the fact that I am incorrect in what I am doing and the direction with which I am leading the project. Apparently, The Braid is not aware that I created my own religion, and because of this, it is impossible for me to be wrong (isn't that how it works?). Also, if you shut up for 2.5 seconds and listen to what I'm saying, maybe it will begin to sink in. (It could happen).
Is that what happened you ask? Why, of course not. Instead, la asshat (la chapeau de derriere?) chose to argue with me, with logic that made no sense (perhaps it did in her strange little world). I am typically not one to get angry when dealing with folks (no, seriously) but I had to raise my voice to even come close to making a point. I was even overcome with a need to quote Judy Judge and tell her to put on her listening ears (I managed to avoid that impulse). In the end, after a couple of emails, she realized -- I was right. Seriously, I usually am. Pay attention, it'll help you out in the end.
Unfortunately, this kind of asshatery is not new. This special breed of people seems to be popping up everywhere, spouting the kind of moronic statements that could easily push calm, collected individuals to a state of madness. I would like to propose a new asshat only tax that would go to fund the educational system. Maybe, just maybe, this will prevent future asshats from inflicting their overall suckiness on others. If not, then at least the tax they pay will make the rest of us feel better.
There seems to be a growing number of asshats running around with free reign to cause destruction, chaos and sheer annoyance wherever they may venture. (Mad props to
Jen Lancaster -- my literary goddess -- for introducing the word asshat to my vocabulary. Check out one (all) of her books; they'll make you laugh out loud). For whatever reason (bad karma perhaps) these particular individuals always seem to find their way to my general territory. Take for instance the asshat (also known as The Braid) who felt the need to violate me today with her blatant stupidity. If you are going to call me at work because you are confused by something that we are working on together, that's fine, I have no problem explaining the situation to you. HOWEVER, there is no reason to call me and in your, ahem, subtle way, allude to the fact that I am incorrect in what I am doing and the direction with which I am leading the project. Apparently, The Braid is not aware that I created my own religion, and because of this, it is impossible for me to be wrong (isn't that how it works?). Also, if you shut up for 2.5 seconds and listen to what I'm saying, maybe it will begin to sink in. (It could happen).
Is that what happened you ask? Why, of course not. Instead, la asshat (la chapeau de derriere?) chose to argue with me, with logic that made no sense (perhaps it did in her strange little world). I am typically not one to get angry when dealing with folks (no, seriously) but I had to raise my voice to even come close to making a point. I was even overcome with a need to quote Judy Judge and tell her to put on her listening ears (I managed to avoid that impulse). In the end, after a couple of emails, she realized -- I was right. Seriously, I usually am. Pay attention, it'll help you out in the end.
Unfortunately, this kind of asshatery is not new. This special breed of people seems to be popping up everywhere, spouting the kind of moronic statements that could easily push calm, collected individuals to a state of madness. I would like to propose a new asshat only tax that would go to fund the educational system. Maybe, just maybe, this will prevent future asshats from inflicting their overall suckiness on others. If not, then at least the tax they pay will make the rest of us feel better.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
I Will Not Drink the Flavor-Ade!
So I've been participating in Weight Watchers for almost two months and I have to say that at times, it feels a little cult like. I'm not trying to disrespect the program (I have lost 20 pounds in that time), but sometimes I feel like there will be little cups of a grape beverage passed to all of us.
I wasn't sure what to expect on my first visit. Would I have to introduce myself like they do in AA (or at least how it's always portrayed in movies & TV)? Hi, my name is Tim and I'm a fatty. I was relieved that the introduction wasn't necessary.
The program itself is good, in that it teaches good behaviors, but being so obsessive with this point system kind of creeps me out. (Perhaps this is just because I'm sick of counting points). The truth is, I don't always count my points like I should. Why you ask? I feel that because I've changed my diet AND because I regularly visit the gym, it really isn't always necessary. Just saying, a little lifestyle change goes a long way folks.
Oh and the meetings. Oy vey! I can understand applauding folks who have lost weight (in any amount -- let's face it, it's a big deal) is a good motivator. Seriously though, some of these folks need to SHUT THE HELL UP! I get so tired of listening to the same people over and over talking about the same thing every week. Some of this is an obvious cry for attention. If you're in that much need of some affection (you know some of these folks are treating applause as affection and affirmation) then get a pet. Or go have sex. Don't let your weight stop you dammit! Anyone can get some 'Brownchickenbrowncow' (say it fast) if they just try.
Plus, I don't understand the folks who like to eat during the meetings. Yes, they are snacks that you purchased at the meeting (seriously -- CULT. It's like the gift shop at a church. Makes you wonder, just a wee bit.) but you still need to count the points and stop shoveling them down your throats. Perhaps they should do away with chairs and have everyone do squats during the meeting. I know that some of the folks are only relying on the "point system" and not getting the exercise they need. Maybe a little motivation for them?
Like I said, it is helpful in teaching good habits, but maybe I'm just a little too dark and twisty to fully embrace it. Or, I'm just a dick.
I wasn't sure what to expect on my first visit. Would I have to introduce myself like they do in AA (or at least how it's always portrayed in movies & TV)? Hi, my name is Tim and I'm a fatty. I was relieved that the introduction wasn't necessary.
The program itself is good, in that it teaches good behaviors, but being so obsessive with this point system kind of creeps me out. (Perhaps this is just because I'm sick of counting points). The truth is, I don't always count my points like I should. Why you ask? I feel that because I've changed my diet AND because I regularly visit the gym, it really isn't always necessary. Just saying, a little lifestyle change goes a long way folks.
Oh and the meetings. Oy vey! I can understand applauding folks who have lost weight (in any amount -- let's face it, it's a big deal) is a good motivator. Seriously though, some of these folks need to SHUT THE HELL UP! I get so tired of listening to the same people over and over talking about the same thing every week. Some of this is an obvious cry for attention. If you're in that much need of some affection (you know some of these folks are treating applause as affection and affirmation) then get a pet. Or go have sex. Don't let your weight stop you dammit! Anyone can get some 'Brownchickenbrowncow' (say it fast) if they just try.
Plus, I don't understand the folks who like to eat during the meetings. Yes, they are snacks that you purchased at the meeting (seriously -- CULT. It's like the gift shop at a church. Makes you wonder, just a wee bit.) but you still need to count the points and stop shoveling them down your throats. Perhaps they should do away with chairs and have everyone do squats during the meeting. I know that some of the folks are only relying on the "point system" and not getting the exercise they need. Maybe a little motivation for them?
Like I said, it is helpful in teaching good habits, but maybe I'm just a little too dark and twisty to fully embrace it. Or, I'm just a dick.
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