|
What's With Today, Today? |
Go Back |
|
your birthday
I haven’t caught up with Krista’s journal since her son was born. But if I had done my duty as a good journal reader, I would have found someone else with—oh wow—the exact same symptoms as me. And she has—check it out—gallstones. Imagine that. When Bobbi and Krista wrote me to commiserate over my pain, they both compared it to the pain of childbirth. Well. I don’t feel so bad about staying home for a tummy ache anymore. I feel entirely vindicated. “See? I told you it hurts! Ha! You bastards!” In fact, I’ve made sure to work that little detail in the conversations I’ve had with my bosses today. “Oh, you know that stomach pain? Well, according to the American Medical Association, the pain usually completely incapacitates people for days at a time. It’s more painful than chewing your own arm off. Just so you know.” A little hyperbole never hurt anyone. Currently, I feel slightly nauseous. The doctor did give me some Compazine suppositories to insert if I feel nauseous. So I think I’m just going to go to the restroom and put this pill the size of a goldfish up my— yeah, RIGHT. Let’s see. What are my options here? There’s option one: a little nausea. Then there’s option two: STICKING something IN MY ASS. Nausea… ass. Nausea… ass. Pass the ginger ale, Skipper, cause Gilligan is staying right here. (Wow. I have absolutely no idea what that means.)
I know xoom sucks. I know xoom is slow and annoying. But I’ve finally taken a definite step towards ending your pain and mine: I have registered a new domain. And in the spirit of xeney and pamie, I’ve selected one that’s only five letters long. (In fact, it’s almost an anagram of pamie, so that all those extremely confused and dyslexic pamie fans may find themselves at my domain before they know what hit them.) So, you heard it here first. Stay tuned for the launch of mopie.com. Coming soon, as long as I don’t die first. That’s right. Step aside, Skipper, cause Gilligan is coming to town! (Sorry. Can’t help you with that one either.)
Wow. It only took about a minute for the Crazy Dog Lady (Mad Puppy Fucker) to drive me up the wall today. Since the Geo Pet is in a coma, I am driving my mother’s ancient wretched minivan, a Ford Aerostar. I’m so stylin’ in that thing. Anyway, this morning, I parked the minivan in my parking spot. The one with my name on it. God for-fucking-bid. Candy parks her Suburban in the parking spot on one side of me, and the CDL parks her electric bicycle (snicker) on the other side. This effectively blocks the passenger door of my car, but whatever. Do I bitch and whine at her about this? No. Anyway, this morning, my car was parked a little bit closer to her precious bicycle. Possibly because the minivan is triple the size of the Geo Pet, but you know, maybe I was just deliberately trying to make her life more difficult. In fact, that must be what it was. I was heading down to go pick up lunch for a meeting, and she demanded to come down with me and move her bike, saying: “I left a very polite note on the van. I didn’t know whose van that was, but I just left a polite little note, because there’s not much room for me to park. Thank god Joan hadn’t gotten there yet, because I was able to go around the other side…” On and on she went, following me down the stairs. After assuring her that I was capable of backing up in a straight line and not hitting her bike in the process, she left. Need I tell you that the note was hardly “polite”? She had actually TAPED it over the door handle of the car, with two huge pieces of scotch tape, so I had to rip the note off in order to open the door. Sure. That’s polite. Here's the note. Note the annoying use of quotes, the use of the word "slot" and her "I'm so polite" self delusion. That mark at the bottom is her "signature" (her initials are BB). I know. You should see the rest of her handwriting. The woman writes like a serial killer.
So then after I came back, and after I had somehow managed to get the pizza and sandwiches out of the van despite her electric #$@&-ing bicycle being in the way, I went up and said to her, “You know, [Crazy Dog Lady], I can’t really get my car further over. I mean, Candy has to get in her car, too. And when your bike is parked there, I can’t get into the passenger side of my car, either.” Her eyebrows shot up. “What should I do about that? Should I quit? Maybe I should just QUIT.” I swear to god, this is exactly how she talks, ALL THE TIME. The ultimate martyr complex. I took a deep breath and responded, “No. Listen. To. Me. I’m JUST SAYING that you’re not the ONLY one being inconvenienced by this arrangement. We both have to just learn to DEAL WITH IT.” She may have said something after that, but it was drowned out by the sounds of all the blood rushing to my head and the smoke pouring out my ears. She also told me something very satisfactory: yesterday Dave “yelled” at her for speaking condescendingly to him. I guess she was trying to extract pity (surprise, surprise) but out of me, all she got was elation. It’s about damn time someone put her in her place. Take THAT,
Skipper…
|
What
I'm Reading:
Nothing. Matt says if I get my gall bladder removed, he'll bring me ten books a day when I'm in the hospital. What a guy. I wonder if I could get an advance on that?  SMURF!Journal Quote of the Day: “When Diana Ross first appears: AAAAAAHH!! KILL IT! KILL IT NOW!... Oh. That's her hair. Dear god in heaven, what HAS she done to it? It looks like a muskrat exploded on her head!.”Random Tidbit: One drug says no caffiene, one says no milk or yogurt, my gall bladder says no fat...I now feel guilty every time I ingest any sort of food whatsoever. |
