Saturday, April 28, 2007
In Case Anyone is Wondering How My Weekend is Going...
I just spent twenty minutes hiding behind a rack of romance novels in the book section of a secondhand store.
You see, I decided to pop in to check out the record selection, and while I was browsing through absurdly full racks of Liza Minnelli and Bread albums, a nice older gentleman took it upon himself to help me. Noting that I had an album of Brahms' Symphony Number Four, he decided to load me up with about six other Brahms albums he had discovered. And then about twelve Bruckner albums. And then some random organ concertos that I have no idea where they came from. The help, it seemed, simply would not stop.
I tried to thank him kindly and walk further down the aisle, thinking I could always return later and stash the thousand unwanted flute and harp albums he had saddled me with back in their places. But this simply caused him to yell out to me each time he found another item he thought might be of use. He called me "sir."
I then thought of making some excuse and leaving the store, such as "Oh my God, is that my car on fire?" or "Excuse me sir, but I'm due to donate some organs at three." But given that no one at the secondhand store ever really seems to have anywhere to be, I didn't think it would be plausible.
So I did what any reasonable person would do. I obscured myself behind some Danielle Steeles until he left the store. I'm pretty sure that's how Anne Frank did it, too.
I just spent twenty minutes hiding behind a rack of romance novels in the book section of a secondhand store.
You see, I decided to pop in to check out the record selection, and while I was browsing through absurdly full racks of Liza Minnelli and Bread albums, a nice older gentleman took it upon himself to help me. Noting that I had an album of Brahms' Symphony Number Four, he decided to load me up with about six other Brahms albums he had discovered. And then about twelve Bruckner albums. And then some random organ concertos that I have no idea where they came from. The help, it seemed, simply would not stop.
I tried to thank him kindly and walk further down the aisle, thinking I could always return later and stash the thousand unwanted flute and harp albums he had saddled me with back in their places. But this simply caused him to yell out to me each time he found another item he thought might be of use. He called me "sir."
I then thought of making some excuse and leaving the store, such as "Oh my God, is that my car on fire?" or "Excuse me sir, but I'm due to donate some organs at three." But given that no one at the secondhand store ever really seems to have anywhere to be, I didn't think it would be plausible.
So I did what any reasonable person would do. I obscured myself behind some Danielle Steeles until he left the store. I'm pretty sure that's how Anne Frank did it, too.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Happy Administrative Professionals Day!
Yesterday was Administrative Professionals Day, the exciting time of year when secretaries the world over get taken out to awkward lunches at Bennigan's and receive the lowest-price floral arrangement on the FTD website. In honor of this auspicious occasion, I present below some memories of my favorite administrative professionals.
"Franny" -- Had to leave work early one day because her husband had gotten drunk off of PBR and threatened to murder their kitten. Also took a day to mourn the passing of James Brown.
"Charlene" -- Loudly and consistently took personal calls at the office including one in which she was apparently discussing a friend's abortion. On several occasions wore track pants to work.
"Diane" -- Frequently shared casually racist viewpoints, including notions that "immigrants are dirty" and "Italians like cheese."
"Ann" -- Could never be found without a copy of People magazine, whether at lunch, taking dictation, or participating in a walk-a-thon.
"Kris" -- Threw a stapler at a summer intern.
"Karen" -- Developed unhealthy obsession with Hugh Grant and eventually quit work to become a cosmetologist.
A great big "thanks" for all you do, ladies!
Yesterday was Administrative Professionals Day, the exciting time of year when secretaries the world over get taken out to awkward lunches at Bennigan's and receive the lowest-price floral arrangement on the FTD website. In honor of this auspicious occasion, I present below some memories of my favorite administrative professionals.
"Franny" -- Had to leave work early one day because her husband had gotten drunk off of PBR and threatened to murder their kitten. Also took a day to mourn the passing of James Brown.
"Charlene" -- Loudly and consistently took personal calls at the office including one in which she was apparently discussing a friend's abortion. On several occasions wore track pants to work.
"Diane" -- Frequently shared casually racist viewpoints, including notions that "immigrants are dirty" and "Italians like cheese."
"Ann" -- Could never be found without a copy of People magazine, whether at lunch, taking dictation, or participating in a walk-a-thon.
"Kris" -- Threw a stapler at a summer intern.
"Karen" -- Developed unhealthy obsession with Hugh Grant and eventually quit work to become a cosmetologist.
A great big "thanks" for all you do, ladies!
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Fortunate
I had Chinese for lunch today and my fortune cookie shared the following message: "An aura of glamour and mystery surrounds your events this week." Ah, the cookie knows me so well. I am Mr. Glamour and Mystery. I'll remember that as I take that tour of a hog rendering plant I've got scheduled for later this week.
I always think it's funny when fortune cookies just say generic things that aren't fortunes at all but just truisms. For instance, I once got a message that said "A stitch in time saves nine." Great, is Ben Franklin living in my cookie? I want to be promised success and riches, not hectored into being punctual.
Maybe I should start writing fortune cookies for a living. I have some really great ideas in this arena. For instance, a series of fortune cookies with threatening or disturbing messages, such as "You will die on June 21, 2013" or "Do you know where your wife is?" Or cookies with insults drafted by the great comics of the world, like Jay Leno and Screech. Or maybe photo fortunes that actually depict your imminent devise. This is a growth industry, I can just feel it.
I had Chinese for lunch today and my fortune cookie shared the following message: "An aura of glamour and mystery surrounds your events this week." Ah, the cookie knows me so well. I am Mr. Glamour and Mystery. I'll remember that as I take that tour of a hog rendering plant I've got scheduled for later this week.
I always think it's funny when fortune cookies just say generic things that aren't fortunes at all but just truisms. For instance, I once got a message that said "A stitch in time saves nine." Great, is Ben Franklin living in my cookie? I want to be promised success and riches, not hectored into being punctual.
Maybe I should start writing fortune cookies for a living. I have some really great ideas in this arena. For instance, a series of fortune cookies with threatening or disturbing messages, such as "You will die on June 21, 2013" or "Do you know where your wife is?" Or cookies with insults drafted by the great comics of the world, like Jay Leno and Screech. Or maybe photo fortunes that actually depict your imminent devise. This is a growth industry, I can just feel it.
Monday, April 23, 2007
TV Guide
In perhaps the most horrifying turn of events ever, our DVR is broken. It's still recording programs, but it won't allow you to watch them. Which, you know, you kind of want to do. (Don't worry, though, On Demand still works fine -- my viewing of vaguely sad singles ads continues unabated.) It's also making a really loud buzzing noise. So loud that at first I thought it was my upstairs neighbors vacuuming. Accordingly, I have missed out on all of my regular Thursday night programming. How can one person be allowed to suffer so much?
I did, however, catch last night's Charm School, and I am ready to declare it the Finest Television Program That Has Ever Aired. Now, I've never been a huge fan of Mo'Nique and her enormous haunches, but I have to say I really enjoy the interesting blend of sanctimoniousness and outright mockery she brings to this program. I'm also exceedingly glad to see some of my favorite Flavor of Love girls again, including, um, the one who cries all the time and the one with the hair that looks like it's made out of yarn. Plus, they're all trying to kill each other over $50,000. Correct me if I'm wrong, but couldn't a person "win" that sum just by getting a job?
In perhaps the most horrifying turn of events ever, our DVR is broken. It's still recording programs, but it won't allow you to watch them. Which, you know, you kind of want to do. (Don't worry, though, On Demand still works fine -- my viewing of vaguely sad singles ads continues unabated.) It's also making a really loud buzzing noise. So loud that at first I thought it was my upstairs neighbors vacuuming. Accordingly, I have missed out on all of my regular Thursday night programming. How can one person be allowed to suffer so much?
I did, however, catch last night's Charm School, and I am ready to declare it the Finest Television Program That Has Ever Aired. Now, I've never been a huge fan of Mo'Nique and her enormous haunches, but I have to say I really enjoy the interesting blend of sanctimoniousness and outright mockery she brings to this program. I'm also exceedingly glad to see some of my favorite Flavor of Love girls again, including, um, the one who cries all the time and the one with the hair that looks like it's made out of yarn. Plus, they're all trying to kill each other over $50,000. Correct me if I'm wrong, but couldn't a person "win" that sum just by getting a job?
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Local Color
One of the fun things about living in Wrigleyville is that you get to watch drunk people misbehaving all Cubs season long. For instance, last August I observed an exceedingly intoxicated young man drop his pants and attempt to pee against the glass front door of a condo building, apparently believing he was in an alley. An elderly lady emerged from the building and began swatting at him with a broom. Undaunted, he simply fell over in the grass and peed himself. After that, it seemed difficult to trust his "I'm not as think as you drunk I am" t-shirt.
I'm reminded of this because last night on my way home I passed a gentleman who was contemplating a fire hydrant as though it might open up and give him all the secrets of life and the universe at any given moment. If I were a betting man I would say he sometime thereafter threw up on it, but of course wagering is a violation of God's law, so I won't speculate. I also passed a number of people "playing bags" or "cornholing" (dirty names for exceedingly Midwestern pastimes are awesome) on their sidewalks without much hope of coordination or success of any kind. Oh, and a girl whose boob had fallen out without her realizing it. It is going to be another fun summer.
One of the fun things about living in Wrigleyville is that you get to watch drunk people misbehaving all Cubs season long. For instance, last August I observed an exceedingly intoxicated young man drop his pants and attempt to pee against the glass front door of a condo building, apparently believing he was in an alley. An elderly lady emerged from the building and began swatting at him with a broom. Undaunted, he simply fell over in the grass and peed himself. After that, it seemed difficult to trust his "I'm not as think as you drunk I am" t-shirt.
I'm reminded of this because last night on my way home I passed a gentleman who was contemplating a fire hydrant as though it might open up and give him all the secrets of life and the universe at any given moment. If I were a betting man I would say he sometime thereafter threw up on it, but of course wagering is a violation of God's law, so I won't speculate. I also passed a number of people "playing bags" or "cornholing" (dirty names for exceedingly Midwestern pastimes are awesome) on their sidewalks without much hope of coordination or success of any kind. Oh, and a girl whose boob had fallen out without her realizing it. It is going to be another fun summer.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Directory Assistance
My high school maintains an online alumni directory that is sort of a hoot. It's somehow really fascinating to me to find out who went on to be a cat groomer and who got married three times in two and a half years. I also like it when people tell obvious lies, such as maintaining they are astronauts based out of Des Moines or that they have been knighted. And then there are always people's fascinating rhetorical choices, such as ending a biographical entry with "huggles and snuggles" or "xoxo." That's a little bit more love than I generally expect to find online without turning over my credit card number.
Of course, my own profile is incredibly simple and fact based -- essentially just the information that someone would be able to torture out of me. Naturally I carefully tested it with a number of focus groups before posting it, finally settling on a version that test audiences found "warm" and "compelling" without being "too aggressive." And this was back in the early days of the Internet, so I had to crowd it up with amusing clip art and wait twenty minutes for it to upload. I'm thinking about revising it now, though, possibly in the style of William Faulkner. I also of course want to include something about that hilarious time I fucked Abe Lincoln.
My high school maintains an online alumni directory that is sort of a hoot. It's somehow really fascinating to me to find out who went on to be a cat groomer and who got married three times in two and a half years. I also like it when people tell obvious lies, such as maintaining they are astronauts based out of Des Moines or that they have been knighted. And then there are always people's fascinating rhetorical choices, such as ending a biographical entry with "huggles and snuggles" or "xoxo." That's a little bit more love than I generally expect to find online without turning over my credit card number.
Of course, my own profile is incredibly simple and fact based -- essentially just the information that someone would be able to torture out of me. Naturally I carefully tested it with a number of focus groups before posting it, finally settling on a version that test audiences found "warm" and "compelling" without being "too aggressive." And this was back in the early days of the Internet, so I had to crowd it up with amusing clip art and wait twenty minutes for it to upload. I'm thinking about revising it now, though, possibly in the style of William Faulkner. I also of course want to include something about that hilarious time I fucked Abe Lincoln.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Classics Illustrated
You may not know this, but in addition to being an accomplished writer and gifted photographer, I am also a stellar visual artist. Though I rarely show my work outside of New York or Paris, I thought I'd share a few recent favorites to bring some high culture to your Sunday.
I call this piece woman at the pharmacy who was mean to me. You can't tell this from the drawing, but there were actually lasers shooting out of her eyes.
This is my record player. Multicolored musical notes actually do shoot out of it as it operates. I'm afraid that someday someone will be injured.
Ever topical, this is my rendering of Don Imus. Either that or a raisin with a penchant for Western wear.
This is my drawing of the Entertainment Weekly I read at the gym today. I know a lot of the heads look kind of lumpy, but if you look closely this Tuesday you will see that they are that way in real life, too.
You may not know this, but in addition to being an accomplished writer and gifted photographer, I am also a stellar visual artist. Though I rarely show my work outside of New York or Paris, I thought I'd share a few recent favorites to bring some high culture to your Sunday.
I call this piece woman at the pharmacy who was mean to me. You can't tell this from the drawing, but there were actually lasers shooting out of her eyes.
This is my record player. Multicolored musical notes actually do shoot out of it as it operates. I'm afraid that someday someone will be injured.
Ever topical, this is my rendering of Don Imus. Either that or a raisin with a penchant for Western wear.
This is my drawing of the Entertainment Weekly I read at the gym today. I know a lot of the heads look kind of lumpy, but if you look closely this Tuesday you will see that they are that way in real life, too.Friday, April 13, 2007
Not Dead Yet
So I finally got in to see a doctor, and although he appeared to be about 14 years old, he did a pretty thorough job of listening to me bitch for half an hour (he even wrote down every word!) and handing me a bunch of medication, so I'm pretty pleased. He had a really good "I'm concerned" face and didn't even make me take off my pants for the examination. That's good physicianing, in my view.
The nurse, on the other hand, seemed to have wandered into the office by accident and been handed some needles and a set of scrubs. It's the only time I can remember when I've had my blood drawn by someone who seemed to find the idea of being near me repulsive. I think that if she could have thrown the syringe at me and hit a vein, she would have done so. She also gave me an EKG without uttering a single word besides "you need to take your shirt off." I actually wasn't even sure when it was over, though I did take the liberty of removing the suction cups when she failed to come back after half an hour. Although I think they could be the next hot new accessory.
The best part, however, was when I managed to get lost on my way out of the clinic and I ended up raving about a blood test and my next appointment in a different suite entirely. I'm sure that Kramer & Johnson, Accountants, would have been much more accommodating had it not been tax season.
So I finally got in to see a doctor, and although he appeared to be about 14 years old, he did a pretty thorough job of listening to me bitch for half an hour (he even wrote down every word!) and handing me a bunch of medication, so I'm pretty pleased. He had a really good "I'm concerned" face and didn't even make me take off my pants for the examination. That's good physicianing, in my view.
The nurse, on the other hand, seemed to have wandered into the office by accident and been handed some needles and a set of scrubs. It's the only time I can remember when I've had my blood drawn by someone who seemed to find the idea of being near me repulsive. I think that if she could have thrown the syringe at me and hit a vein, she would have done so. She also gave me an EKG without uttering a single word besides "you need to take your shirt off." I actually wasn't even sure when it was over, though I did take the liberty of removing the suction cups when she failed to come back after half an hour. Although I think they could be the next hot new accessory.
The best part, however, was when I managed to get lost on my way out of the clinic and I ended up raving about a blood test and my next appointment in a different suite entirely. I'm sure that Kramer & Johnson, Accountants, would have been much more accommodating had it not been tax season.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Medical Miracle
The great thing about health care in this country is that you are more than welcome to be sick so long as you plan it three months in advance. If you unreasonably decide to catch a virus or hack off a limb without first consulting your physician, however, you may not be quite as well off. Hence the conversation I had with our benefits department yesterday:
JAY: Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a benefits question.
BENEFITS LADY: Did you check our website?
JAY: Yes, but the answer doesn't seem to be there.
BL: It's a very helpful website.
JAY: Um, yeah. So my question is just whether there's any sort of ambulatory care available on our insurance plan.
BL: Wait, what are you saying? You need me to call you an ambulance?
JAY: No, no, that's not it. It's not urgent or anything, but I'm sick, and I want to see a doctor now, instead of waiting two weeks for an appointment.
BL: Okay, you kind of freaked me out there for a minute.
JAY: Sorry.
BL: But I totally know what you're talking about. My doctor always makes me wait forever. Like this one time I had this really bad rash all over my face, and they made me walk around looking like Edward James Olmos for three and a half weeks.
JAY: Uh huh. So is there anything I can . . .
BL: I think I may have some of that cream left over, if that helps.
JAY: That's not really my problem.
BL: Okay. Well, what are your symptoms?
JAY: Well, I've been waking up every night with . . . you know, I'd rather not go into it.
BL: All right, then, is there anything else?
JAY: How could there possibly be? Thanks so much.
BL: Have a good one.
After a couple hours of calling other doctors' offices, I did finally manage to land an appointment for this afternoon. If past history is any indication, I should be feeling totally recovered by then.
The great thing about health care in this country is that you are more than welcome to be sick so long as you plan it three months in advance. If you unreasonably decide to catch a virus or hack off a limb without first consulting your physician, however, you may not be quite as well off. Hence the conversation I had with our benefits department yesterday:
JAY: Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a benefits question.
BENEFITS LADY: Did you check our website?
JAY: Yes, but the answer doesn't seem to be there.
BL: It's a very helpful website.
JAY: Um, yeah. So my question is just whether there's any sort of ambulatory care available on our insurance plan.
BL: Wait, what are you saying? You need me to call you an ambulance?
JAY: No, no, that's not it. It's not urgent or anything, but I'm sick, and I want to see a doctor now, instead of waiting two weeks for an appointment.
BL: Okay, you kind of freaked me out there for a minute.
JAY: Sorry.
BL: But I totally know what you're talking about. My doctor always makes me wait forever. Like this one time I had this really bad rash all over my face, and they made me walk around looking like Edward James Olmos for three and a half weeks.
JAY: Uh huh. So is there anything I can . . .
BL: I think I may have some of that cream left over, if that helps.
JAY: That's not really my problem.
BL: Okay. Well, what are your symptoms?
JAY: Well, I've been waking up every night with . . . you know, I'd rather not go into it.
BL: All right, then, is there anything else?
JAY: How could there possibly be? Thanks so much.
BL: Have a good one.
After a couple hours of calling other doctors' offices, I did finally manage to land an appointment for this afternoon. If past history is any indication, I should be feeling totally recovered by then.
Monday, April 09, 2007
See America By Rail
I went back to Quincy this weekend to celebrate the resurrection of my lord and savior and play canasta with my parents. Rather than once again testing the limits of my affection for cruise control and convenience store sandwiches, I decided to take the train this time around, which turned out to be kind of fascinating. First of all, I was sitting behind a pair of gentlemen who, though strangers when they got on the train, determined that they were going to become the best friends of all time by the time they disembarked. They managed this by chatting really loudly about everything from their somewhat old-fashioned views on gender roles to the vital importance of high school basketball in our modern world of today. They also decided about halfway through the trip that it would be appropriate for them to remove not only their shoes but also their socks. Luckily the trip was only four and a half hours, or I feel certain pants would have followed.
Another great thing about the train was the helpful staff that treated all of us as though we were small, petulant children. I have never been hectored so many times about putting my luggage in the overhead rack or under my seat, and I have flown with my mother. I really thought there might be a rumble when one of the conductors referred to an aggressive woman with five or six pieces of carry on as "young lady." No such luck, however.
In the end, however, the best thing about the train was that it went to Quincy, where I spent much of the weekend eating cheap chocolate (Bunny Munny, anyone?) and playing piano duets with a fourth grade level of difficulty with my sister. Now that is a vacation.
I went back to Quincy this weekend to celebrate the resurrection of my lord and savior and play canasta with my parents. Rather than once again testing the limits of my affection for cruise control and convenience store sandwiches, I decided to take the train this time around, which turned out to be kind of fascinating. First of all, I was sitting behind a pair of gentlemen who, though strangers when they got on the train, determined that they were going to become the best friends of all time by the time they disembarked. They managed this by chatting really loudly about everything from their somewhat old-fashioned views on gender roles to the vital importance of high school basketball in our modern world of today. They also decided about halfway through the trip that it would be appropriate for them to remove not only their shoes but also their socks. Luckily the trip was only four and a half hours, or I feel certain pants would have followed.
Another great thing about the train was the helpful staff that treated all of us as though we were small, petulant children. I have never been hectored so many times about putting my luggage in the overhead rack or under my seat, and I have flown with my mother. I really thought there might be a rumble when one of the conductors referred to an aggressive woman with five or six pieces of carry on as "young lady." No such luck, however.
In the end, however, the best thing about the train was that it went to Quincy, where I spent much of the weekend eating cheap chocolate (Bunny Munny, anyone?) and playing piano duets with a fourth grade level of difficulty with my sister. Now that is a vacation.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Panic Attacks!
I don't know if I've mentioned this on here before, but from time to time I suffer from late-night panic attacks that essentially render me nonsensical for hours at a time. My mind just keeps racing and frequently I can't quite separate reality, as in "I am for some reason changing into my tuxedo at three in the morning," from dreams, as in "the ghost of Harriet Tubman is trying to murder me" (there is some bad blood between us, but still). Frequently I decide to clean or redecorate while in such a state, which generally makes it appear as though we've got a somewhat lazy poltergeist when I finally come to my senses. It's really and truly good times, except not.
But anyway, I bring all of this up because I pretty much had the mother of all such attacks yesterday and ended up delivering several hours worth of monologue to Roommate Liz in the deep of the night while fiendishly pacing our living room and inexplicably chugging water. Among the topics I addressed in my discourse were: 1) postmodernism and the difference between "story" and "history", 2) the state of the contemporary novel, 3) how fun it would be to be total best friends for life with Tina Fey, and 4) how I really like peeing. I also danced, on occasion, and refused to watch an Avril Lavigne video on the grounds that "I really think it might kill me." RL bore up admirably, however, and had me safely relaxed and in bed before I could decide to test out my homemade hang glider or drive to France or something. All in all, a magical evening.
I don't know if I've mentioned this on here before, but from time to time I suffer from late-night panic attacks that essentially render me nonsensical for hours at a time. My mind just keeps racing and frequently I can't quite separate reality, as in "I am for some reason changing into my tuxedo at three in the morning," from dreams, as in "the ghost of Harriet Tubman is trying to murder me" (there is some bad blood between us, but still). Frequently I decide to clean or redecorate while in such a state, which generally makes it appear as though we've got a somewhat lazy poltergeist when I finally come to my senses. It's really and truly good times, except not.
But anyway, I bring all of this up because I pretty much had the mother of all such attacks yesterday and ended up delivering several hours worth of monologue to Roommate Liz in the deep of the night while fiendishly pacing our living room and inexplicably chugging water. Among the topics I addressed in my discourse were: 1) postmodernism and the difference between "story" and "history", 2) the state of the contemporary novel, 3) how fun it would be to be total best friends for life with Tina Fey, and 4) how I really like peeing. I also danced, on occasion, and refused to watch an Avril Lavigne video on the grounds that "I really think it might kill me." RL bore up admirably, however, and had me safely relaxed and in bed before I could decide to test out my homemade hang glider or drive to France or something. All in all, a magical evening.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Return to the Living
Being sick kind of puts you in this whole strange other world, where putting on pants is a challenge and eating two pieces of toast without throwing up is an accomplishment. Over the past few days, I found myself receiving congratulations for things like taking a shower and staying awake until 9:30 PM. Primarily I think people are just being nice out of fear that I'll lick their silverware and purposefully contaminate them, but I'll take it. Praise can be so terrifically hard to come by.
As I've gotten better, though, I have increasingly recognized the sad fact that daytime television is not perhaps what it once was. Maybe I'm just looking through the lens of a 12-year-old who really, really wanted to stay home and watch people agonize over the cost of sponges with Bob Barker rather than taking a rock test, but I don't really love the Tyra show. The whole day was really just a mess of glacially-paced soap operas with unamusingly wooden actors, talk shows hosted by people originally famous for something else but now downgraded to "personality" status, and reruns of shows I was never even sure should have existed in the first place. I didn't even recognize half the folks on Days of Our Lives and I couldn't find a decent Seventh Heaven rerun anywhere. And if there's anything that can quell your nausea, it's Seventh Heaven, let me tell you.
So see, probably it's a good thing that I'm back at work and have things to worry about other than MTV's disturbing failure to rerun MADE episodes during the daytime hours now.
Being sick kind of puts you in this whole strange other world, where putting on pants is a challenge and eating two pieces of toast without throwing up is an accomplishment. Over the past few days, I found myself receiving congratulations for things like taking a shower and staying awake until 9:30 PM. Primarily I think people are just being nice out of fear that I'll lick their silverware and purposefully contaminate them, but I'll take it. Praise can be so terrifically hard to come by.
As I've gotten better, though, I have increasingly recognized the sad fact that daytime television is not perhaps what it once was. Maybe I'm just looking through the lens of a 12-year-old who really, really wanted to stay home and watch people agonize over the cost of sponges with Bob Barker rather than taking a rock test, but I don't really love the Tyra show. The whole day was really just a mess of glacially-paced soap operas with unamusingly wooden actors, talk shows hosted by people originally famous for something else but now downgraded to "personality" status, and reruns of shows I was never even sure should have existed in the first place. I didn't even recognize half the folks on Days of Our Lives and I couldn't find a decent Seventh Heaven rerun anywhere. And if there's anything that can quell your nausea, it's Seventh Heaven, let me tell you.
So see, probably it's a good thing that I'm back at work and have things to worry about other than MTV's disturbing failure to rerun MADE episodes during the daytime hours now.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Out Sick
So I had to call in sick today. I hate to do it because since I have to bill a certain number of hours each year anyway, staying home today just means I'll be making it up some Saturday or weeknight. But after the third vomiting episode, I had to admit that I am perhaps not fit for the office. Or anywhere, for that matter. I've been lying in my bed all day alternating between chills and fever, which has the interesting effect of causing me to pile every single blanket in our house on top of myself before eventually casting them off in a fit of rage. Plus I'm not thinking at all clearly, which resulted in me sobbing for about twenty minutes during a particularly heavy episode of Scrubs. Also in me almost buying some scrubs at Walgreens during my over the counter meds trip. They were on sale for $5.99 in a nice variety of colors.
Speaking of which, why is it always when I'm literally dying that I end up behind some lady who can't find her credit card? She found her ATM card, her library card, her Subway Sub Club card (mmm, delicious values), and her Sam Waterston Fan Club Card (okay, I made that one up), but no credit card. She just kept helplessly burbling "Oh, well, I know it's in here somewhere... wait, that's not it... no, I really want to put this on credit... hold on a second." The man in line behind me buying souvenir Chicago shot glasses at 9:30 in the morning was not at all pleased.
But anyway, I think I'm going to go pass in and out of consciousness for a while. The good news is I have no appetite at all, so I think I can make up for some of that Lenten fasting I totally forgot to do.
So I had to call in sick today. I hate to do it because since I have to bill a certain number of hours each year anyway, staying home today just means I'll be making it up some Saturday or weeknight. But after the third vomiting episode, I had to admit that I am perhaps not fit for the office. Or anywhere, for that matter. I've been lying in my bed all day alternating between chills and fever, which has the interesting effect of causing me to pile every single blanket in our house on top of myself before eventually casting them off in a fit of rage. Plus I'm not thinking at all clearly, which resulted in me sobbing for about twenty minutes during a particularly heavy episode of Scrubs. Also in me almost buying some scrubs at Walgreens during my over the counter meds trip. They were on sale for $5.99 in a nice variety of colors.
Speaking of which, why is it always when I'm literally dying that I end up behind some lady who can't find her credit card? She found her ATM card, her library card, her Subway Sub Club card (mmm, delicious values), and her Sam Waterston Fan Club Card (okay, I made that one up), but no credit card. She just kept helplessly burbling "Oh, well, I know it's in here somewhere... wait, that's not it... no, I really want to put this on credit... hold on a second." The man in line behind me buying souvenir Chicago shot glasses at 9:30 in the morning was not at all pleased.
But anyway, I think I'm going to go pass in and out of consciousness for a while. The good news is I have no appetite at all, so I think I can make up for some of that Lenten fasting I totally forgot to do.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Moot Points
Because I am an amazing humanitarian in addition to a being an exceptional legal scholar, I volunteered to help judge a moot court competition yesterday. For those who are unfamiliar with moot court, it's an exercise in which law students spend months researching and arguing a made-up case where people with comical names somehow get tangled up in multiple cutting-edge Constitutional issues. They (the students, not the made-up people) go before panels of judges who generally research the issues to be covered while watching episodes of Laverne & Shirley on Nick at Night the day before the competition and answer questions so random they may as well have been drawn from the advice column section of Seventeen magazine. Back in the day, I was a moot court "best oralist" myself (not as dirty as it sounds), which won me the distinction of getting to argue my fake case before some woman from Canada I'd never heard of before. I decided to open with a joke, of course.
But anyway, I was on the other side of the bench this weekend, and it was pretty awesome. I couldn't really decide whether my judicial role model should be more Wapner or Scheindlin, so I just decided to act as though I'd suffered a head wound and couldn't fully control my behavior. I interrupted, I badgered, I argued, I stared off into the distance as though totally unaware of anything anyone was saying; in short, I was the total model of judicial perfection. I stopped short of throwing things, but that was really just because I wanted to save something for next year. Maybe I can also bring my own robe.
Because I am an amazing humanitarian in addition to a being an exceptional legal scholar, I volunteered to help judge a moot court competition yesterday. For those who are unfamiliar with moot court, it's an exercise in which law students spend months researching and arguing a made-up case where people with comical names somehow get tangled up in multiple cutting-edge Constitutional issues. They (the students, not the made-up people) go before panels of judges who generally research the issues to be covered while watching episodes of Laverne & Shirley on Nick at Night the day before the competition and answer questions so random they may as well have been drawn from the advice column section of Seventeen magazine. Back in the day, I was a moot court "best oralist" myself (not as dirty as it sounds), which won me the distinction of getting to argue my fake case before some woman from Canada I'd never heard of before. I decided to open with a joke, of course.
But anyway, I was on the other side of the bench this weekend, and it was pretty awesome. I couldn't really decide whether my judicial role model should be more Wapner or Scheindlin, so I just decided to act as though I'd suffered a head wound and couldn't fully control my behavior. I interrupted, I badgered, I argued, I stared off into the distance as though totally unaware of anything anyone was saying; in short, I was the total model of judicial perfection. I stopped short of throwing things, but that was really just because I wanted to save something for next year. Maybe I can also bring my own robe.
