On occasion, I can be a little difficult at home.
I know, you're astounded.
It's easy to think that I'm perfect, obviously... but I'm here to tell you that isn't the case at all.
I'm especially imperfect when I'm in a just-awakened state. It takes about ninety minutes in the morning for my hamster to embrace his proverbial wheel and get me going.
Which means that, on occasion, I do stupid stuff while I'm half-asleep.**1 I mostly just sit on the couch and watch the lights on the router blink until my brain will engage... but sometimes I go so far as to try to carry on conversations. Or move with purpose. And that can be a problem.
Additionally, when I'm asleep, I'm a bit of a thrasher.
My Maternal Unit has compared me to an egg beater, a hurricane, a windmill and a tornado. And none of those very flatteringly. My arms and legs and head tend to whip about in a mad frenzy, which often puts co-sleepers in harm's way.
In other words... on occasion, I can also be a little bit punchy at home.
Not punchy like "I'm going to grump my way around the general vicinity..."
But more like swinging-fists-and-flailing-heads-and-causing-general-mayhem-and-pain.
Which is how I went to work this morning with a banged up forehead, and Boyfriend of Amazingness almost had to go to work with a broken nose.**2
**1 Boyfriend of Amazingness says he's going to write a book about it. I wish he would - I bet it's literary gold. Not that I remember a blasted word of it...
**2 "Almost" in that I didn't actually break it with my forehead. Not in that he didn't actually have to go to work. Although that would have been a pretty sweet phone call. "Sorry, boss... I can't come in today. Sunny broke my nose. No... it was an accident... I was trying to kiss her goodbye for the morning, and she wanted to help."
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Friday, September 14, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Mmm-Hmm...
I woke up this morning with a crick in my neck.
What a pain.
Not because I can't tip my head to the right to hold the phone while I type...
Not because I can't roll my head around to alleviate the strain of holding up my amazing brainpan as I gawk at the computer...
Not even because I have to begin all upper body movements from just below my shoulderblades...**1
No.
This is a pain, because as soon as I realize I have a crick in my neck, I immediately think of the song "Crick In My Neck" by a popular Country/Rap performer named Cowboy Troy.
And it's unfortunately catchy.
Which is why I'm sharing it here with you!
"Crick In My Neck"**2
Enjoy, my ReaderFriends. And thank you for sharing my pain.
**1 I look like an owl, only less awesome.
**2 It pains me to use a link not generated directly by the artist. However, he doesn't seem to have this song on his stream. So... we'll use this.
What a pain.
Not because I can't tip my head to the right to hold the phone while I type...
Not because I can't roll my head around to alleviate the strain of holding up my amazing brainpan as I gawk at the computer...
Not even because I have to begin all upper body movements from just below my shoulderblades...**1
No.
This is a pain, because as soon as I realize I have a crick in my neck, I immediately think of the song "Crick In My Neck" by a popular Country/Rap performer named Cowboy Troy.
And it's unfortunately catchy.
Which is why I'm sharing it here with you!
"Crick In My Neck"**2
Enjoy, my ReaderFriends. And thank you for sharing my pain.
**1 I look like an owl, only less awesome.
**2 It pains me to use a link not generated directly by the artist. However, he doesn't seem to have this song on his stream. So... we'll use this.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Winter Safety
Ah, winter. What a glorious time of year.
- The roads get covered with gooey gunk which rivals the grease trap in the kitchen of the Ol' Home Fill 'Er Up And Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe.**
- The sidewalks become a disgusting mess of frozen puddles and salt deposits with the sole purpose of ruining my favorite "It's Winter But I Don't Have To Admit It Yet" boots.
- The driveway becomes stuck in an infinite loop of Being Shoveled and then Being Filled With Snow From The Rotten NeighborSpawn Who Insist That My Driveway Is Better For Sledding Than Their Own, with only sporadic interruptions for when Lady Nature decides that my yard is a disgraceful mess and needs to be whitewashed.
So, yeah. Winter. Woot.
I'm fairly lucky. While my driveway is a source of difficulty, at least it isn't long. And if it snows overnight while the cars are in the yard, the shovelling isn't awful. Just pull the cars into the road and *kapow.* Instant clean.
And it's not like this season lasts forever, either. Yes, it starts getting cold in September. Yes, it's still not tee-shirt weather in April. But at least the snow is only really awful from January until the end of March. And the days don't stay short forever. In fact, just this morning I realized that there was light for my Getting Ready For Work ritual. Which is nice.
However, I do have a bit of an issue with one thing:
Walking.
Walking around My Friendly Home State can be a mess in the wintertime. It never used to be such an issue - Prior to the move, I had to walk around a small parking lot at work. I could dictate how far I wanted to walk on my Shopping Endeavors, and walking up my driveway was a slice of schnitzel. There's hardly any drive to walk up. No complaints there.
But now, I've got a bit of a hike.
When we evacuated our prior Working Establishment in favor of new digs, we gave up our Cooshy Parking Lot of Awesomeness in favor of a parking garage.
Which isn't awful, I admit, when it snows and I don't have to shovel my car.
However, this parking lot is (depending on which side of the building I exit), just under a quarter of a mile away. Which means that I have some hiking to do.
That becomes difficult in the wintertime because:
- I do not live in a flat state, where you can see from one side to the other uninterrupted. I have mountains all over the place Being In The Way. To that end I do not just travel in the X and Y, but also in the Z.
- I work in a lovely older neighborhood whose establishment thought that bricks made a fantastic paving medium for sidewalks. Not the rough kind of brick, either... No, walking on these puppies is an adventure not unlike fresh fuzzy socks on a clean hardwood floor. Careful footsteps can make your walk a little safer, but you never know when the dog is going to come barreling around the corner and send you skittering across the living room on your rumpus.
- I am not old and decrepit, so I enjoy pretty shoes. That means I don't always choose the sneakers or clonky winter boots that would keep me safe... Sometimes I pick the pretty heels that make me feel like (brace yourself...) a female.
Now, that's not to say that residents of my fair Work City don't understand my plight. Last evening, as I was slip-sliding down the sidewalk on my Boots of Sunneriffic Might, two gentlemen passed me and regaled me with a little ditty I hear often on my adventures: "Be careful there! Whoops! Are you alright?"
I forged onward. I have my own little arsenault of tricks that help me feel more in control of my appendages:
- Stick arms out as if to create an A-Frame around one's trunk. This increases wind resistance in case a skid occurs. In addition, it airs out ghastly underarm odors that can occur when Heavy Winter Jackets are installed.
- Bend knees to increase proximity from posterior to sidewalk. This leaves a shorter distance to landing in case of an unfortunate fall, thus protecting That Which The Opposite Sex Ogles.
- Don't pick up one's feet. Just slide them along the sidewalk, lessening propulsion to impulse speed. This takes forces (other than gravity) out of the equation for toppling to the ground, so it's more of a fall and less of a forceful hurling of one's self to the pavement.
By and large, these rules keep me from Eating Dirt during my trudge from the office to my car.
However, it must have become apparent that I wasn't employing teleportation, and was indeed using My Own Two Feet to zoom from my workplace to the garage, and couldn't possibly be making safe choices unsupervised.
And so my employer created Safety Instructions just for travelers like myself.
These commandments have been issued in what I'm sure was constructed to be a whimsical fashion - Trying to catch the attention of the masses and impart their Safety Knowledge without bludgeoning the workers over the head with proper walking practices. Their thoughts aren't unlike my own - arms out, shuffle your feet, bend your knees... However, they took it one step further. For your enjoyment:
** Thank you, C.W. McCall, for that timeless piece of classic music!
- The roads get covered with gooey gunk which rivals the grease trap in the kitchen of the Ol' Home Fill 'Er Up And Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe.**
- The sidewalks become a disgusting mess of frozen puddles and salt deposits with the sole purpose of ruining my favorite "It's Winter But I Don't Have To Admit It Yet" boots.
- The driveway becomes stuck in an infinite loop of Being Shoveled and then Being Filled With Snow From The Rotten NeighborSpawn Who Insist That My Driveway Is Better For Sledding Than Their Own, with only sporadic interruptions for when Lady Nature decides that my yard is a disgraceful mess and needs to be whitewashed.
So, yeah. Winter. Woot.
I'm fairly lucky. While my driveway is a source of difficulty, at least it isn't long. And if it snows overnight while the cars are in the yard, the shovelling isn't awful. Just pull the cars into the road and *kapow.* Instant clean.
And it's not like this season lasts forever, either. Yes, it starts getting cold in September. Yes, it's still not tee-shirt weather in April. But at least the snow is only really awful from January until the end of March. And the days don't stay short forever. In fact, just this morning I realized that there was light for my Getting Ready For Work ritual. Which is nice.
However, I do have a bit of an issue with one thing:
Walking.
Walking around My Friendly Home State can be a mess in the wintertime. It never used to be such an issue - Prior to the move, I had to walk around a small parking lot at work. I could dictate how far I wanted to walk on my Shopping Endeavors, and walking up my driveway was a slice of schnitzel. There's hardly any drive to walk up. No complaints there.
But now, I've got a bit of a hike.
When we evacuated our prior Working Establishment in favor of new digs, we gave up our Cooshy Parking Lot of Awesomeness in favor of a parking garage.
Which isn't awful, I admit, when it snows and I don't have to shovel my car.
However, this parking lot is (depending on which side of the building I exit), just under a quarter of a mile away. Which means that I have some hiking to do.
That becomes difficult in the wintertime because:
- I do not live in a flat state, where you can see from one side to the other uninterrupted. I have mountains all over the place Being In The Way. To that end I do not just travel in the X and Y, but also in the Z.
- I work in a lovely older neighborhood whose establishment thought that bricks made a fantastic paving medium for sidewalks. Not the rough kind of brick, either... No, walking on these puppies is an adventure not unlike fresh fuzzy socks on a clean hardwood floor. Careful footsteps can make your walk a little safer, but you never know when the dog is going to come barreling around the corner and send you skittering across the living room on your rumpus.
- I am not old and decrepit, so I enjoy pretty shoes. That means I don't always choose the sneakers or clonky winter boots that would keep me safe... Sometimes I pick the pretty heels that make me feel like (brace yourself...) a female.
Now, that's not to say that residents of my fair Work City don't understand my plight. Last evening, as I was slip-sliding down the sidewalk on my Boots of Sunneriffic Might, two gentlemen passed me and regaled me with a little ditty I hear often on my adventures: "Be careful there! Whoops! Are you alright?"
I forged onward. I have my own little arsenault of tricks that help me feel more in control of my appendages:
- Stick arms out as if to create an A-Frame around one's trunk. This increases wind resistance in case a skid occurs. In addition, it airs out ghastly underarm odors that can occur when Heavy Winter Jackets are installed.
- Bend knees to increase proximity from posterior to sidewalk. This leaves a shorter distance to landing in case of an unfortunate fall, thus protecting That Which The Opposite Sex Ogles.
- Don't pick up one's feet. Just slide them along the sidewalk, lessening propulsion to impulse speed. This takes forces (other than gravity) out of the equation for toppling to the ground, so it's more of a fall and less of a forceful hurling of one's self to the pavement.
By and large, these rules keep me from Eating Dirt during my trudge from the office to my car.
However, it must have become apparent that I wasn't employing teleportation, and was indeed using My Own Two Feet to zoom from my workplace to the garage, and couldn't possibly be making safe choices unsupervised.
And so my employer created Safety Instructions just for travelers like myself.
These commandments have been issued in what I'm sure was constructed to be a whimsical fashion - Trying to catch the attention of the masses and impart their Safety Knowledge without bludgeoning the workers over the head with proper walking practices. Their thoughts aren't unlike my own - arms out, shuffle your feet, bend your knees... However, they took it one step further. For your enjoyment:
 |
| Don't Endanger Your Posterior, ReaderFriends. Make Good Choices Instead. |
** Thank you, C.W. McCall, for that timeless piece of classic music!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
NaNoWriMo - 5000 Words
Well, ReaderFriends, I've broken the 5000 word mark. Unfortunately, I've broken it about four days too late... Meaning that I'm approximately 8000 words behind, and only 1/10 of the way to the finish line. But NEVER FEAR! I have the power of the words on my side. Somehow I'll reach my 50,000 word goal.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
My daily life became an ongoing search for inspiration. I was desperate for my next successful blog post, and was willing to do almost anything to find fodder for my writing.
One day, on a whim, I decided that I would go for a run to “unlock my creativity.” I wasn’t entirely convinced that exertion of the physical sort was the key to my first Nobel prize, but the Blogger Buddy site was adamant. “Physical activity activates basal centers of the cognitive process,” the website touted. “Many writers find the act of performing simple movements - like washing dishes or going out for a run - will sensitizing synapses through an abrupt shift in focus in order to elevate reception of creative constructs through sub-conscious stimulation of neural receptors.” Blah -blah -go -for -a -run -and -stop -thinking -to -start -thinking -blah.
What Blogger Buddy forgot to tell me was that, unless your body is accustomed to physical exertion on the running level, it’s not exactly a mundane, simple movement.
It’s hell at five miles an hour.
My desperate desire to produce quality verbage had rendered my little frazzled brain incapable of long-term memory retrieval: specifically, the ability to remember high school gym class.
If my neural synapses had been functioning at their highest potential, I might have remembered my last attempt at becoming one of the gym-bunnies that could pound out a six minute mile and move right on to volleyball while the gym teacher regarded them with proud adoration. They could run effortlessly in laps around the gymnasium, quickly passing me - and then lapping me - while chatting in their obnoxious little pep-groups and giggling with that infuriating little high-school-cutesy giggle at their football star boyfriends.
I had the same amazing gym clothes. I had my hair pulled back into the same power-pony. And there - right there - was where the similarities ended.
The first step of that run was driven by pure jealous energy. I was insanely jealous that those skinny little bitches - in all their pep and cuteness - could so effortlessly impress their musclebound boyfriends and glean positive feedback from our drill sargeant gym instructor. That jealousy drove me into a panic that convinced me: if they could do it... so could I.
Less than half a mile in, it became blatantly obvious that sheer jealousy couldn’t propel me to their height. They had more than yoga pants and shiny hair on their side. Perhaps, if I hadn’t been operating in such a blind fury, I would have connected the peppy, cutesy girls to the cheerleading squad I hadn’t made at the beginning of the year. Unfortunately, the best thought I could formulate was a gutteral grunt of defeat as my body collapsed, drained completely of energy and will to push forward.
More unfortunately, I had also forgotten the humiliation of being escorted to the nurse’s office by one of the cutesy vomit-inducers and her even more vomit-inducing muscleboy, who dropped me in the waiting room and then stood in the hallway making out, just to mock my pain.
These are all flashes of memory that should have sparked inside my mind before I set off in search of literary inspiration.
One day, on a whim, I decided that I would go for a run to “unlock my creativity.” I wasn’t entirely convinced that exertion of the physical sort was the key to my first Nobel prize, but the Blogger Buddy site was adamant. “Physical activity activates basal centers of the cognitive process,” the website touted. “Many writers find the act of performing simple movements - like washing dishes or going out for a run - will sensitizing synapses through an abrupt shift in focus in order to elevate reception of creative constructs through sub-conscious stimulation of neural receptors.” Blah -blah -go -for -a -run -and -stop -thinking -to -start -thinking -blah.
What Blogger Buddy forgot to tell me was that, unless your body is accustomed to physical exertion on the running level, it’s not exactly a mundane, simple movement.
It’s hell at five miles an hour.
My desperate desire to produce quality verbage had rendered my little frazzled brain incapable of long-term memory retrieval: specifically, the ability to remember high school gym class.
If my neural synapses had been functioning at their highest potential, I might have remembered my last attempt at becoming one of the gym-bunnies that could pound out a six minute mile and move right on to volleyball while the gym teacher regarded them with proud adoration. They could run effortlessly in laps around the gymnasium, quickly passing me - and then lapping me - while chatting in their obnoxious little pep-groups and giggling with that infuriating little high-school-cutesy giggle at their football star boyfriends.
I had the same amazing gym clothes. I had my hair pulled back into the same power-pony. And there - right there - was where the similarities ended.
The first step of that run was driven by pure jealous energy. I was insanely jealous that those skinny little bitches - in all their pep and cuteness - could so effortlessly impress their musclebound boyfriends and glean positive feedback from our drill sargeant gym instructor. That jealousy drove me into a panic that convinced me: if they could do it... so could I.
Less than half a mile in, it became blatantly obvious that sheer jealousy couldn’t propel me to their height. They had more than yoga pants and shiny hair on their side. Perhaps, if I hadn’t been operating in such a blind fury, I would have connected the peppy, cutesy girls to the cheerleading squad I hadn’t made at the beginning of the year. Unfortunately, the best thought I could formulate was a gutteral grunt of defeat as my body collapsed, drained completely of energy and will to push forward.
More unfortunately, I had also forgotten the humiliation of being escorted to the nurse’s office by one of the cutesy vomit-inducers and her even more vomit-inducing muscleboy, who dropped me in the waiting room and then stood in the hallway making out, just to mock my pain.
These are all flashes of memory that should have sparked inside my mind before I set off in search of literary inspiration.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
For The Girls...
Boys, sit down and buckle up. Grab your popcorn and prepare to enjoy...
A blog post about boobies.
Or, to be more specific, a blog post about bras.
(Because this is, at it's dirtiest, an NC-17 site. Risque isn't exactly our idea of a good time.)
That's right - today I will play a card I typically don't, and cater mostly to the understanding of my fellow womenfolk.
I made a poor choice in chestal holsters today. And the fault falls entirely on the shoulders of my workplace.
You may have noticed lately that I've been less-than-attentive to you, my ReaderFriends. For this, I'm sincerely sorry. Unfortunately I must offer a tawdry and pathetic excuse of "Work just isn't funny." Furthermore... it's even stopped being fun.
People are stressed. Management is worried. And we're all on this little itty bitty boat in a big corporate ocean, with enough rations for exactly two-thirds of the crew to survive.... and a hurricane on the horizon. A hurricane that mated with a tornado. And produced little baby tornicanes that are dancing around their Momma and Daddy like a big maypole.
And there's no cake.
So... I've had some trouble getting blog posts together for you.
Oh, I've had some ideas...
Like the "Engineers have a weird sense of humor" train of thought, that I tried to follow but couldn't flesh out with enough examples because no one is feeling humorous.
Or the "Adventure of Sunny Smiles Part Too" story, which artfully told the tale of how I single handedly saved the day from bad grammar, but couldn't finish because I ended up staying late to work on the stupid project and I wasn't going to stay later just to finish a blog post but by the time I got home I just wanted rum.
Or even the "I hate technology" rant that just turned into a big angry RawrFest that I refused to poison your minds with.
Yes, I've certainly tried. I've hashed out thoughts and worked through details and even pulled together some storylines... But in the end, I just can't deliver.
It's been like that with a bunch of other projects as well:
My dance has fallen by the wayside...
So has the new singing group that I'm really interested in, but cannot attend because it seems to be falling on the only night of the week when I can stay home and try to decompress with my Boyfriend of Amazingness...
Even my Adventures in Organized Religion are suffering, as I struggle to keep up with the tasks there.
So, in short, it's not just you. Not that it makes you feel any better. But you ARE in good company. The dancers are awesome. The singers are really spiffy, too. And, as previously noted, the Boyfriend is made of Amazingness.
(I told you all that, to tell you this...)
As it happens, the workdays have been fairly difficult to conquer, even with my mighty superpowers of positivity. So, I've been enlisting the help of some super-power-weilding accessories:
The Mighty Boots of Mightiness...
The Sparkly Eyeshadow of Glittery Delight...
The Fresh-From-The-Dryer-And-Hugging-All-The-Right-Places Bluejeans...
And... The uber-bra.
(Because - and this is a verified fact - Women's chests are armed with the reigning source of power.)
A good, perky appearance can make all the difference in the world. They can turn rain to sunshine. They can turn snarks to smiles. And (most importantly), they give you something awesome to look down at when you're feeling glum and staring at your shoes. Just one downward glance, and suddenly you remember that you have friends in low places that are working their hardest for you!
This is where I made my most critical mistake this morning.
I've used up all of my go-to uber-bras. So I had to settle for my emergency backup.
Which has caused me nothing but pain and strife all day.
It's a "convertible strapless." Which means that it's designed to be a strapless, but it has these dinky little straps you can hook in so you can attempt to hold everything in place. Note: dinky. This is a crucial turning point.
I put it on, and felt okay at first.
But then the adhesive tried to do its job.
I've owned this bra for almost three years. I bought it specifically for one purpose: To act as the underlying companion to a brand new dress that I bought for my first college graduation. And it failed. It also failed on my cruise and at the wedding reception where I attempted to wear it again. Every time, the adhesive would become slippery and a southern migration would commence.
But today, as I attempted to employ the shoulder apparatuses to minimize this exodus... The adhesive made up for its previous performances by bonding enough for *three* important events. It pulled and pinched and stretched and caused general mayhem just below my neckline.
So much so that I forgot the strapless nature of the beast, and began trying to adjust to find a more comfortable position.
This is never easy in an office environment. Inevitably, as soon as you are in prime awkward-position, someone will catch you doing something horribly embarrassing... like adjusting your bra. You can try to play it off... Make like you were scratching your stomach or rubbing your arm... But they know. It's out.**
So, of course, as I was sitting there trying to get comfortable, I was walked up on. And in my haste to get my hand out of my shirt (Yup, full hand-down-the-front-of-the-neckline-and-under-the-arm position here...) I moved too quickly and unseated one strap from it's rear fastener.
And... that's the story of Why It's Work's Fault That Sunny Flashed Her Boss.**1
**No, I cannot make these adjustments in the bathroom. That's crazy talk.
**1 Okay, not really. I didn't flash anyone. But the heart attack I felt as though I was having certainly seemed to be on par with an accidental flashing. In reality, nobody noticed.
**1 Okay, not really. I didn't flash anyone. But the heart attack I felt as though I was having certainly seemed to be on par with an accidental flashing. In reality, nobody noticed.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Steak and Cheese, FTW
I'm not 100% certain which deity invented hiccups... But it was one with an irksome sense of humor.
I spent the brunt of yesterday hicc-ing around my office and causing general mayhem. This is unfortunate on a number of levels:
1) Hiccups aren't very lady like. And in an office, anything unladylike must be excused. Which means I have to say "Please excuse me" after every hiccup... Which is about every 18 seconds.
2) Hiccups hurt. I've always been an overachiever, so my hiccups are more like full-body heaves. My diaphram goes beyond the realm of the normal contraction: it attempts to implode my ribcage. So I end up making this weird "gasp" after every hiccup. Which is unsettling, both to me as my body collapses around itself, and to onlookers who think I've been taken with an apopleptic fit.
3) Hiccups aren't exactly office-friendly. As noted previously, it's been quiet lately. There's no noise to drown out my intense "HIC-uh." "HIC-uh." So people around the office go "What's that?" and toddle out to see The Source Of The Incredible Noise. And believe you me, there's nothing so exciting on a dreary afternoon as settling in for a pleasant game of "Watch The Receptionist In Her Fit of Uncontrollable Gastric Joy."
4) Hiccuping into the phone makes me sound like a nincompoop.
There is a typical chain of events that occurs with the onset of hiccups. It typically goes like this:
<little hic>
Me: Hmm... Maybe it was just a burp.
<slightly larger Hic>
Me: Nothing to fret about. It's coinci <HIC-uh.>
Me: Fuck.
From here, I sit quietly for a moment and think about the hiccups. Are they induced by anything in particular that I could change? Are they tasting like anything I ate that I could counteract with something different? Are they really going to make my ribcage implode?
Once I'm sick of that game, and have accepted the realization that I am indeed doomed to die a painful and tragic Hiccup Death if I don't do *something*, I begin my counterattack.
STEP ONE: Holding The Breath.
Any schoolchild who ever succumbs to hiccups can tell you: The first defense is the holding of the breath. Goodness knows why it works... Maybe it's the throwing-off of the normal equilibrium that pushes everything into appropriate action. Maybe it's just a time-killer until the everything settles in to normal again. Or maybe it's a Commie plot. In any case, it was my first attempt at a return to normalcy.
This must be carefully planned. One cannot go all willy-nilly with their breath holding: a certain sequence of events must be followed. A deep inhalation, a settling into the chair and a closing of the eyes to await the peaceful calm...
And the phone rings.
Not once. Not twice. Four different phone calls, interrupting four different breath-holdings. Four.
Every time it happens I breathe out, answer the phone, realize I need to breathe in, and it sounds like this:
<ring>
<whoosh>
<pick up phone>
<gasp>
Me: Good afternoon, this is <HIC-uh>. Ugh. Excuse me. Hi. How can I help you?
<laughter>
Client: Hiccups? Have you tried holding your breath?
STEP TWO: Ingesting Something Crazy To Make Them Stop.
As a child, I was taught that there are a number of homeopathic cures for hiccups. I was given small shots of whiskey, teaspoons of sugar, tablespoons of honey, peanut butter sandwiches... You name it, I ingested it in the name of science and getting-me-to-stop-hicc-ing-
Which was still a remarkable endeavor.
First, I had to obtain sugar. Not entirely difficult in an office, but still. It required going into the kitchen and grabbing a great gaumy** handful of 1 oz. sugar packets and a paper cup, and then sneaking back to my desk and not looking entirely guilty of snitching them.
From there, each individual packet is opened and dumped into the cup. This leaves my trashcan full of sugar wrappers and me looking like an incompetent addict with white powder all over my desk.
Eventually, enough sugar will accumulate in the bottom of my cup that it is scoopable with a spoon.
From which point it goes like this:
<insert spoon into mouth, start swishing sugar about to try to regain proper control of tongue>
<HIC-uh>
<splutter of sugar all over desk>
Fail.
Okay, trying again
<insert spoon into mouth, start swishing sugar about to try to regain proper control of tongue>
<Phone ring>
<prematurely attempt to swallow sugar-spit, choke slightly, gasp>
Me: Good afternoon, this is <HIC-uh>. Sorry. Excuse me. <sigh> Hi, how can I help you?
<laughter>
Client: Hiccups? Have you tried eating something?
STEP THREE: Alcohol.
Thankfully, this step didn't need to be implemented until after quitting time. I went home, and unsuccessfully tried to drown my hiccups in rum. When that didn't work, I tried Klondike bars. And then finally, after wasting a solid portion of my evening trying to make them go away, they subsided because I stopped thinking about them and sat down to eat my dinner.
And thus... steak and cheese, For The Win.
** This word has a little red squiggle under it. I tried lots of different spellings but couldn't find anything to call it out as properly spelled. Finally, I googled and came up with this result:
"'Gaumy' is [a] great Maine word for something kind of messy or awkward." http://www.panbo.
Monday, August 1, 2011
No Pain...
Ow.
Remember that insomnia post? And how I vaguely hinted at some pain from over-exertion?
My muscles aren't being vague anymore.
So here's the scoop: I took a tumble over the weekend because I didn't take care of myself, got a little too thirsty and a little too dizzy and fell down carrying a box of books on the stairs. Which wouldn't have been so bad except I landed on my butt/back/hips. So now (two days later), I hurt.
A lot.
Until now, it had been tolerable. At home when I got uncomfortable, I would fidget around and get myself comfy again, and go on with my tasks. At work, I pretty much just sit here. There's only so much fidgeting one can do from a seated position, and so... I grump.
In the scheme of things, I don't have it so bad. I have a remarkable feeling of accomplishment for That Which I Got Done Over The Weekend, and I have an afternoon off to do That Which I Didn't Get Done Over The Weekend, so I'm in good spirits about that. And keeping on with the moving helps me not seize up entirely and fall to a quivering lump on the floor.
Besides... it can be kind of fun to incite pity from my coworkers, and see what I can get them to do for me. (So far, nothing. But it's early yet.)
MONDAY NOONTIME NOMS!
I'm gonna retire - I don't give a God-damn! (From the same client, later in the same conversation.)
Are you have time to make a presentation printie? This is for internal ooing and ahhing. (From an EngineerFriend who was trying desperately not to come apart at the seams with their stressful project.)
<EngineerFriend approaches desk to sign out in Sign Out log>
Sunny: <mostly to self> Oh my goodness... They have cologne with undertones of bacon.
EngineerFriend: Hmm... <looks dreamily out the window for a moment> Oh! <starts, and looks back to Sign Out log> Now you got me all flustered, thinkin' about bacon!
Is your pride in your butt? (Upon telling a client on the phone that I had fallen and hurt myself some. He said 'I bet your pride got the worst blow.' I said 'Tell that to my butt!' This was his response.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)