If I may be honest for a second, my favorite part of my job is the lost and found email that's distributed once a month-ish. Nine times out of ten it's filled to the brim with what-the-fuckery.
My coworker, K, and I always joked that we were going to start "loosing" random thrifted/dollar store items around the building to see if they make the list. It was always a great idea, but lacked follow through (surprise, surprise!).
A few weeks ago K & other cutie coworker, J stopped byto tell me that my birthday present was on it's way, but they didn't know when it would arrive. The two little blondies were smiling like cats who ate a thousand canaries stuffed with foie gras. I quickly forgot about this exchange about ten minutes after they pranced away giggling.
However, today at 4:31PM, the latest installment of the lost & found came out. I was giddy with excitement when I saw the message pop up in the lower right hand corner of my screen. It was like Christmas morning, and I was 8 again. Here's this month's goodness:
Boy, have I got a good one for you! So, I found a new doctor's office two minutes from my work and I swear, this place is a c-l-i-n-i-c with a capital K. I used to go to a posher office with my Cadillac state plan, but couldn't bear the drive anymore. Not to mention the fact that my doctor was my M-I-L's BFF. It was awkward to say the least.
Anyhow, now I'm at this KLINIC where it's more likely that I'll catch worse shit from the waiting room chairs than if I were to drag my bare ass like a dog on a rug around town. A couple weeks ago, I go in for my annual pap schmear and lo and behold my doc discovers a cervical polyp. EGADS! "It's probably benign, but we'll run some tests and give you a call," doc says.
A week later and nothing. I phone repeatedly, and get hung up on ten times by someone who cannot figure out how to transfer a call. All I hear is, "Hel-" click. "Hell-" click. "Heh-" click. Rinse, repeat 7x. I finally track down someone who can work this newfangled contraption called the telephone and the Latina on the other line starts out. "No results for pap yet, but I have the results of your STD test."
STD test?? This is news to me as, a) I didn't request one and b) I haven't been in the game for years. I suppose they were testing me because I'm a new patient. No bigz, as I've always had a squeaky clean bill of health.
She continues, as if reading off a mile long laundry list, "Chlamydia... Gonorrhea..."
I'm standing in the breakroom at work and my face turns lobster and my heart just about jumps out my throat. That deafening kind of silence ricochets around in my skull, as I begin to feel lightheaded.
"...all negative." She finishes, after what feels like eighty-eight eternities.
Jesus effing Christ, you CANNOTread off someone's chart like that. She shaved about a five years off my life right there. A few days later, I found out my polyp was not cancerous. All's well that ends well, I s'ppose. Nothing like a little pussy scare to keep you on your toes.
This week was a momentous one, as it was the first time I caught an episode of the Wendy Williams Show. Thank you daytime television and especially, thank you to all the veterans who sacrificed your lives so that I could have a day off in the middle of the week to watch my new favorite show. I want Wendy to be my new best friend. She had me at "torching-this-slim-jim-like-a-crack-pipe." LOVE. HER.
R keeps flipping our doormat over to the "Go away" side. I keep switching it back, hoping no one -besides the torpid Mexican landscapers- takes note.
NOTE: I realized that I sounded exceedingly racist just now. It was not my intention to mean that I *wanted* the landscapers to take note of the mat & "Go away." Rather, I was trying to convey the fact that they've probably already seen the mat in this fashion.
With that said, in the immortalized words of Sarah Silverman: "I don't care if you think I'm racist, I just want you to think I'm thin."
DISCLAIMER: I know, I know. "'Blank' is the new 'blank'" proclamations are just thee worst, right? However, it sets the tone of what I'm trying to express. Don't worry, I'm not going all soft on you. Well, maybe a little...
I guess the first step to recovery is realizing you have a problem. My problem is that I need to check my inner bitch at the door & keep my pie hole shut. I realized this a while back and have been trying to work on it for the past, oh...few years or so? Every now and again, I fall off the wagon.
Which step is it that you apologize to everyone you've ever hurt? Can I just do a blanket apology here? I'M SO SORRY!!!
Somewhere along the line, I came to the conclusion that being bitchy, mean, and sarcastic was crazysexycool. In reality, it's kind of ugly and I don't like it. We've all been on the receiving end of bitchiness and it doesn't feel good at all. Making fun of people or having a laugh at someone else's expense just isn't cool or sexy. It's just plain crazy.
So there this guy we know who has been shaving his head for years and years. He surprised us all when he grew out this mop. Last night, I told him his hair looked like that of a 13 year old boy's. It did. It's long, flippy outty, and deeply parted with bangs in eyes (you know what I'm talking about). I thought I was trying to be helpful, but instead I was probably just hurtful.
Why did I feel the need to go there? I guess I felt like someone needed to tell this dude that his 'do is not very appropriate for a 34 year old man. A "for his own good" type of thing. I say I'd want someone to tell me, if I was clueless (not sure in reality if I'd want that though-- but please, by all means, tell me?).
Then, I felt even more like a major asshole when he said he was trying to grow it for Locks of Love. UGH!!! I said that was really, really nice. But then I just had to add that it grows very slowly, and that he should take some vitamins! WHY?!? Jesus christ, what a twatwaffle.
Followed up by, "Nevermind, you'd probably grow tits or something." I'm so ashamed! I am going to apologize to him next time I see him. That was all just really horrible, but I couldn't stop. He totally didn't deserve it and wasn't the type that would hit the ball back. I should really learn to pick on people my own size... no wait, to not pick on people at all.
Headed to a wedding tonight at the desert botanical garden. Should be good times, the weather really couldn't be any more beautiful, and any less November. Hope the weekend is treating you kindly so far. x to the o.
A bit grim, but I'm drawing up plans for some scheduled posts in case of my untimely demise. I suppose this was partly inspired by the late Theresa Duncan's Wit of the Staircase (one of my favorite blogs, ex post facto). She had 2 scheduled posts that published after her suicide. One was a ghost story by Dick Cavett and the other a T.S. Eliot poem.
Perhaps she scheduled them long ago, as the last post on new year's eve was entitled, "New Beginning." Or... maybe she wrote them right before, to communicate to us from the afterlife. Either way, it's other worldly and totally enchanting, no?
I must be careful, because I wouldn't want my virtual legacy to accidentally be a poop post, me calling someone a tardcunt, or something crass like that. However, it could very well be a NASA/Jak&Jil post because I do tend to schedule those ahead of time in batches.
Oh god, the pressure and the logistics! I'd have to move post dates if I survive. Maybe they can be scheduled to appear on my birthday? But how would you know if I passed? I'm not a high profile person. Hrmmm. Perhaps I could have R post an obituary for me. But what if we died together? I'd need a back up poster. Blurgh. This is turning into a clusterfuck.
I've always been strangly obsessed/paranoid with the trail of cyber junk I'm leaving behind. What will happen to this blog? My other blogs? My various email accounts? My photo storage accounts? My Twitter?
Recently, I've been trying to streamline my web presence. So far I've already killed: myspace, facebook, buzznet, deviant art, friendster, orkut (remember that FAIL?). Still on the kill list: livejournal (eep! I'm sentimental), various half empty photobuckets, and on and on.
My life has been filled to the brim with East Indian men lately. Everyday I wait with bated breath that we'll unsuspectingly break out into a Bollywood dance number. But alas, it never happens, only more science and budget talk. A girl can dream, right?