Just Another Day at the Office

I have been having the best time ever with Crazy Baby-killing Lady. First, I find her on her porch talking as if she's been huffing helium and giggling constantly. I know she can find meth when she wants it, but helium? That's just weird. I take F-bomb to see her the next day so I can utilize his mad crazy-people assessment skills. We figure somethings wrong, but we can't figure out what it is. The following week, I can't find her. Anywhere. She won't answer her door, I can't hear her singing, and there are children's toys, juice, and about 5,000 flies covering her porch. Time to bring F-bomb back. The neighbors come over to talk to us while we're knocking on her door and they report she hasn't been seen in almost a week. That fact coupled with the Amityville Horror feel to the apartment makes us both think she's dead. The neighbors don't stop there, they describe how she's been digging through trash, peeing on the sidewalk, and dancing outside in her underwear. She also left a thank you note attached to a cheetos bag for the next door neighbor. It would have been a sweet gesture had the bag not been filled with shit. The neighbor thinks it's from a dog, F-bomb and I think it's more personal than that. We find the property manager who agrees to search the apartment; luckily and surprisingly, there isn't a corpse. Yet another neighbor wanders over to let us know that she had been calling the cops on CBKL, but the cops said they had to catch her in the act to arrest her because just being crazy isn't against the law. F-bomb makes some calls and finds out she is indeed in jail for disorderly conduct and battery and I am to attend her hearing in the morning. The next day I wait for two hours for her lawyer to present her case, only to discover she has been released. I call the psych ward and she isn't there, I call the court and they won't tell me what has happened with her, or if she has to attend a later hearing. I find her at home, now surrounded by pieces of Hostess Cupcakes. I can't understand half of what she is saying, but she reiterates she is telling the truth. I manage to make out that some witches live down the street and Satan has been riding his Harley (what else would the Prince of Darkness have?) through the neighborhood. Then a man passes on his bicycle and she yells "Keep the Blues alive!" at him, with an enthusiastic wave. Also, they didn't give her any of her antipsychotic meds in jail. But why bother, since being crazy isn't against the law? Later, when I was off for a week with my mom, she gets sent to the psych ward, goes before a judge, pisses him off, and gets a one-way ticket to a mental institution. I helped her every way she would let me and it wasn't enough. It wasn't my fault she ended up this way, but I still have a vague sense of failure about it.

Sometimes I wish I was an accountant.

Tequila is not My Friend

It was odd enough to recceive a comment from a stranger. It was odder to learn my blog has a twin. At first I thought "Fantastic, my blog has an evil twin. Now it's going to have affairs with the local handsome-yet-emotionally-distant surgeon and break his vulnerable heart yet again, steal babies from hospitals, and forge paternity documents all while pretending to be my blog." So I checked out the nefarious counterpart over at www.butternoparsnips.com. To my horror, it was nice! It was the kind of blog your mother would want you to see on a regular basis, not like some blogs that give you your first joint and write the embarrasing details of it on the bathroom wall at school. This means that my blog is the evil twin and I must remain vigilant for fear that my blog seduces a drunken Antonio and fakes a pregnancy in order to steal him from the sweet and seraphic Angeline.

After 31 days of anticipation, the Great Debauchery of 6/08 has come to an end. In the beginning the plan was for a few co-workers and me to take off early and spend the afternoon drinking rather than do any actual work, while being paid to do so. However, plans were elaborated upon and the new mission was for many co-workers to get and keep me drunk as long as possible and burst my karaoke cherry. We started out at a Mexican place (the kind where two of the waiters know English) with chimichanges and strawberry margaritas. Unfortunately, 3 margaritas didn't make much a dent in my sobriety and gave me wicked bad diarrhea (which I recently learned is the union of "dia-" comlete, through, and "-rrhea" to flow). We reconvened at Chicago's house to throw expired food at her garage (the blueberry yogurt was awesome but the cucumber was kind of...leaky) and play "Circle of Death" for 5 hours. Everyone got drunk and bonded and explained why they treated so-and-so as a such-and-such at work and how it will never happen again. I was taken to a bar that served no hard liquor, which pissed me off, and was fed jalapenos by hand and forced to do two karaoke songs. Ned from South Park probably sings better than I do, so I resorted to jumping up and down a lot and holding the microphone away from my mouth. Outside the bar, a group of three boys arguing over a slut confronted me about why two friends and I were laughing at them. I told them we had been making out, so they asked us to please come inside and join them as soon as possible. Yeah, right. I crashed on a friend's couch and woke up feeling very mortal. I've never had a hangover that two rolaids couldn't tame, apparently they were just waiting to all gang up on me this morning.

Mission accomplished.

Does "algebra" even rhyme with anything?

I met my teacher. He is fascinating, in a bizarre sort of way. He resembles Brian Cox and he constantly moves while teaching. He advised us to walk and move as much as possible to prevent pulmonary embolism, which he claims kills "many" people who fly long distances. They do not just die, they die while walking across the tarmac five seconds after arriving in Tokyo. I made up the five seconds and Tokyo part, but he said the dying just after exiting the plane part. Between multiplying binomials and learning all about i, he also mentioned the moon landing may have been faked and Wal-mart funds China who funds America who funds the War in Iraq. My favorite lecture tangent was Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs which morphed into his second wife's desire to replace the carpet. Does life get any better? Probably not.

I was even able to access my on-line medical terminology class. I was only 3 days behind, which gives me all of 4 days to submit 8 assignments and take my first exam over 4 chapters. The key to memorizing terms is to use them in everyday conversation, the repetition solidifies one's understanding, y'know? So tomorrow I will ever so nonchalantly mention I know somebody with blepharoptosis, someone else with thrombocytopenia, and yet a third person with gastroenteritis and a side of achondroplasia. When my peeps/co-workers/parents say "what the fuck?" I can elaborate for my own ulterior motives.

Lest you think I have squandered my time by studying, I will mention I saw "The Waitress" Saturday night. Sweet fancy Moses, I may have hit upon another streak of entertainement wonderfulness. "The Last King of Scotland" begat "The Office: Season II" begat "Hot Fuzz" begat "The Waitress." Spiderman 3 was begat somewhere in there, it was enjoyable though not super. I'll count it anyway. Seeing it with Beth made it super.

Finally, this is for Joe.

Thanks for nothing, Muhammed ibn Musa al-Khowarizmi!

I am taking algebra for the first time in 12 years, which is more than the expected lifespan of a Great Dane. I will spend the next 8 weeks rationalizing my denominators and factoring my primes (wait, no I won't). Tomorrow I may even get to meet my teacher! For some reason he couldn't teach class last night, perhaps he thinks syllabus day is pointless. He told the substitute the wrong room, which got everything off to a fabulous start. He immediately gave us a test with squiggles on it, than cackled that he would give us nightmares. Seriously. The syllabus contained a page on how to format our homework. It has 11 numbered bullets, 24 lettered bullets, and 8 roman numeraled bullets. Here's a taste:

3. The first sheet should be a cover sheet containing the following:

a. Name.

b. Homework ID, Which would usually be Chapter and Section.

c. Table of times worked with columns for:

i. Date;

ii. Start time;

iii. Stop time; and

iv. Time worked

This is my favorite part:

7. Put the cover sheet on top of the pile of homework pages.
8. Fold the stack of papers vertically bringing the right side over the left side
9. Leaving an one-quarter inch gap, crease the fold.

This is verbatim, it makes me glad he is not my grammar teacher. I am also glad the substitute is not my English teacher, he misspelled "nickels" and says unwords like "irregardless."

My class also has a That Guy. This That Guy sits in the back of the class and shouts out comments, asks condescending questions that imply he believes he is smarter than the teacher, and he apparently thinks he's funny. He's not. Trust me. I have not seen this That Guy (I sit in the front), but I would not be surprised if he's one of those too skinny 19 year old That Guys with baggy clothes and bad posture. Only time will tell. Or maybe turning my head will tell too.

I'm trying to think of this as a "Mathemagical Adventure!" There are plenty of cliff-hangers: Will I ever see the true teacher? Will I get an A? Will I care? Will I smack around that annoying waste of carbon? Will I remember how to use a graphing calculator? Will I feel like an idiot most of the time? Stay tuned to find out all these answers and more as I Go! To! Class!

My First Meme

Here are the rules: Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves. Write a post about your own random things. Post these rules. At the end of your blog, tag 8 people and post their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment and tell them they're tagged.

1. I hate large pieces of furniture. They're so...permanent. During a particularly nomadic 36 months I moved seven times and schlepped some things into my friends' basement for a month. So I actually moved my belongings eight times, which is the annoying, shitty part. For obvious reasons I developed my contempt of chiffarobes and kitchen tables: they involve heavy lifting, trucks, and bribes for other people to do the heavy lifting for me. Ironically, I married a carpenter.

2. My favorite word is "rapscallion." The runners-up are "bittersweet" and "mezzanine."

3. I have done more things to bodies than anyone else I know. I have bathed, massaged, straight cathed, enema-ed, sliced, diced, clothed, polished, fed, medicated, taken fluids (blood, urine, sputum, vitrious fluid, and bile), toileted, kicked, and joint-locked. If you count what I've done to rats and sexual things (to people! you sick bastard!), I would probably have twice as many verbs listed.

4. I have watched Army of Darkness roughly five thousand million dozen times. I used to be able to speak the entire script along with the movie. VBG bought If Chins Could Kill for me (and it's signed! Groovy!) and it remains one of my prized possessions.

5. My favorite physical feature is a facial scar. I don't know when or how I got it, but there it is. I love it because it is a mystery, and it isn't a body part I can compare to other people's and then smother my inferiority complex with Phish Food.

6. I am the last of 6. My mother is the last of 5. Her mother was the last of 12. If you add miscarriages, I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Yet I have no mystical powers. At least, none that I use for good.

7. I wrote my first book at the barely-literate age of 6. The plotline revolved around my journey to a lost kingdom where I found treasure and unicorns. I wrote my second book in the third grade. This time I journeyed to various worlds, eating more sugar than necessary, exploring jungles, and slaying dragons, for which I was rewarded with treasure. It was made possible by a leprechaun that I rescued on page two. Senior year of high school I wrote an outline for my third book. I refuse to show it to anyone, but I will say it involves a journey (no treasure though).

8. I am the world's foremost Proust scholar.

This is the part where I tag 8 people. Except I don't think I know 8 people who haven't done this. Let me think about it.

A Suck Beyond All Measure

Have you ever felt helpless?

Wednesday night my mother had to visit the ER due to overwhelming kidney pain. She had been peeing blood and blood clots for over a week, so everything that goes wrong smacks of death. I called her oncologist and her palliative care doctor to keep them updated, then never left her side until 1:30am. I got her to accept a painkiller and she was admitted to the hospital. Thursday morning I filled my boss in one which of my patients needed assistance (I almost got to cry in front of him for the second time) and spent most of the day in her room. That afternoon I helped her sign up for hospice. The bleeding in her lungs caused scarring so she's on oxygen, plus hospice gave her a wheelchair for outings. I hang around hoping she'll give me something to do. I can't cure her, so I dust and do laundry instead. My mother is dying and all I can do is housework. Fuck.

342 days and counting

The glut of birthdays is nearly over. By nearly over I mean I just celebrated three and the next one isn't until June 1st. Plus I have yet to give MacGyver his birthday card which I have been saving for 2 years, if saving means I keep forgetting to give it to him. His birthday and F-bomb's fall on the same day, which is awkward when I consider that on May 8th we are the only two people on Team F-bomb guaranteed to get cake and sex. I was put in charge of giving my boss his gift by the rest of my team. Trust me, they will not make that mistake again. To ensure less responsibility in the future I gave our boss a sympathy card. I found it hilarious.

Jews have all the fun. True, they have to deal with stereotypes, circumcision, persecution, discrimination, and genocide, but they still get eight crazy nights to celebrate Hanukkah. Catholics don't even have eight holidays that equal that kind of partying! We have Christmas, Easter, Christmas eve, Fat Tuesday, St. Nicholas' Day, and not much else, which is all nullified by 40 days of Lent. My parents made us give up television every year for Lent. That sucked balls, man. I'm trying to talk MacGyver into celebrating our birthdays for eight days each next year. I am confident that I can successfully celebrate his B'day for eight days, I am not so sure he can do the same. Remember when he made me cry by not getting me a Christmas present? I sure do. Sometimes a sympathy card holds no irony for my birthday.