In which I enlighten you as to the state of my health and well-being

Evidently I'm involved in a war against my own body, which has been going on since the 80's. Here's the result of my latest skirmish, in which I employed the genius tactic of opening my office window and slamming my left index finger into one of the the upper wooden pane dividers. I won that skirmish, having completely subdued the offending digit.

I'll keep you all up to date as to the progress of the nasty bruise, which as of today is already three weeks old. This is going to take MONTHS. Good, I need blog fodder anyway. The fuzziness you see at the top of the bruise is the result of the nail growing, dragging bits of blood with it. Sexy, huh?


Here is a shot of the fingers of my right hand. Notice the middle finger is slightly bent? If you look closely, it's unmistakable. And the middle finger of my left hand is also bent, just in the other direction. This was done in high school, when I played basketball for my high school team. To be honest, I sat on the bench more than I played, (I am both velocity- and vertically-challenged, and I was afraid to wear my glasses in a game - not a good combo for the game of basketball. I later developed a good outside shot in an adult league I played in, since I could afford contact lenses, but in high school it was glasses or nothing. Perhaps it's worth noting that I also got my ass kicked in the adult league. Outside shot or no, I have no business pretending I'm an athlete). This was most likely the result of trying to catch the ball with my fingertips, rather than my palm, in practice. Though I do remember sitting on the bench during one game, literally taking hold of fingers that had been knocked out of joint, pulling them out, and putting them back in position with that sickening, audible crack. So I must have actually been in the game at least a few times.

Seems I'm always slamming fingers in doors, knocking knees on coffee table corners, stubbing toes on table legs, cutting my fingers open with cooking knives, in general getting a new bruise or cut daily.

But these are only minor battles compared to the war against the whole bodily system. This is where the real violence and hatred starts. The bitch wants to be fat, you see. And THIS WILL NOT DO. Now, I keep a pretty tight rein on the fat and cellulite rebellion by eating real food and exercising. But here's my latest thing: A yearly 'cleansing' to re-start the old digestive system, and clear out old rubbish. Since spring is coming, in addition to another ban on coffee, and a vast reduction in alcohol (wine on the weekends is fine. Fuck off - IT IS.), I'm taking this shit here:


You guys. There is stuff coming out of me that has probably been there since the 70's. Too much information? Tough. You guys don't come here for enlightenment and high art. (Do you?) But I have to say - for women of a certain age who have that midriff paunch that doesn't seem to go away with diet and exercise, this is supposed to help start the process of eliminating the garbage that's holding things up. And by things I mean the clutter and paste that's been gathering in your intestines and colon walls because of all the processed foods and chemicals you ingest.

Blee.

I'm on day 4 of a 7-day process. No HUGE reduction in midriff yet. But I did eat pizza last night, so that was a step in the wrong direction. My pants do feel a tad loose, but that could be my imagination. Will let you know. Why am I telling you all this? Because I can. Because if I die, and this blog goes silent for an even longer time, you'll know that it was probably due to an escalation of hostilities between my self and this bitch of a carcass I inhabit.

Aren't you glad you checked in?

In a better mood now, thanks to...

Kingsford Goes to the Beach - Watch more amazing videos here


WANT.

Damn this work ethic

Ever have one of those weeks where everything you touch goes tits up? The world seems agin' you, every e-mail you open at work is some fire to put out, some emergency, some stupid question from a student* that you answer eleventy million times a day, and the answer to which is in documents and guides that are available in 20 different places on the web site, and is available to ANYONE who cares to look it up? Everyone is dying to meet with you to give you more work to do, while taking you away from the work that you're supposed to be doing in the first fucking place? Meetings. Fuck 'em.

And, once again, I'm taking on projects that aren't even my job. But since I hate people who whine "that's not my job," and I have a personality that won't allow me NOT to do something that needs doing, just because it's 'not my job,' I can't simply refuse. Sometimes I wish I could be like Bartleby the Scrivener, and just reply "I would prefer not to."

But I'd like to know a couple of things: When did I become a fucking secretary? How did this happen, and did I, in some moment of sickening 'helpfulness' agree to it? How does one get rid of one's pesky work ethic? Is there a surgical solution? Therapy?

Banged in sick on Wednesday - and even though I truly wasn't feeling well, I felt guilty. Guilty about banging in sick for the first time since spring 2008. Guilty enough to shuffle around the house ACTING as though I felt worse than I did. You know the "Ahhhhmmm siiiiick" shuffle and whine, where your shoulders hunch, you drag your feet, with that self-pitying expression on your mug - like you're pretending to have plague when you only have a little stomach upset and sniffle. Come on, we all do it. I hate that person you become when you're a little sick, but play it up for effect - to no one.

And even then, I worked on a couple of projects from home. Yes, home sick - on e-mail, trying to accomplish something work-related. Honestly, that's drifting into the arena of the unwell...

I know, I know - I'm grateful to have a job, and a safe one, at this particular time, and in an economy where people are being laid off all around me, and the news gets worse every day. I KNOW! Bear with me, I'm just in need of a good anger-enema. This shall pass. (Bahhhhh - it shall pass. Get it?)

And something did cheer me up on the way home last night - oddly enough. It was the sight of the dead black branches of the trees, against the steel blue backdrop of the winter twilight, and the satellite radio, playing Motorhead's "Eat the Rich." I smiled a little, I must admit.

But then I came in this morning to a co-worker in one of her 'harping-on-one-tiny-detail-that-isn't-really-important-or-relevant-to-the-subject-at-hand' moods. Sure, let's belabor a point that we went over and fixed MONTHS ago, just because some student* is reading an outdated document and I've sent the student* the revised document anyway. Just fucking STOP before I go all esplody and flappy and shouty. Okay?


*Honestly, soon the word 'student' will become a general term of abuse. "Don't be a moron. What are you, a fucking STUDENT?"