Time was when staying awake for 36 hours at a stretch was nothing for me. Ha-ha I laughed gleefully while chugging yet another cup of coffee, lighting another cigarette and walzting off to Birminham or Tuscaloosa or wherever the hell we had decided to go while ditching class.
Yeah, not so much anymore, apparently. I've been awake for all of, um...hmmm (bad at math, bad at math) we'll call it 22 hours. Not even a full day! And it's not like I've been doing anything particularly inspiring. I'm working an overnight guard shift. (STOP SNICKERING!) I sit on my ass and turn alarms on and off and make sure people don't try to sleep here or the frat-tards from down the street don't break in.
So, apparently I'm old. The increasing amounts of gray hair was sort of a clue, but I was attributing that to standing too close to the microwave as a kid. Or growing up in Nevada (aka the "Test and/or Dump Scary Ass Shit Here State, Oh, By the Way, We Have Keno!"). Whatever. The fact is, I'm tired as hell (and probably none too coherent) and I still have an hour to go. Judging by the number of people who have walked in and asked if I need coffee and the glimpse I got of myself in a mirror a few hours ago my eyes are threatening to actually withdraw into my head.
Better still it's started to pour rain. I figure the thunder will start about the time I get home to go to sleep. Oreo hates thunder. So, there will be whining and crying and digging . And Oreo will be annoying too.
Seriously, I look like freakin' Skeletor or a Goth or Emo or whatever the hell you call teenaged angst-addicts who draw circles around their eyes with cigarette ash.
And the damn wind keeps blowing the ivy over the windows which looks like something jumping at me out of the corner of my eye, so then I jump and I look psycho. Or, more psycho than usual.
"Why goodmorning Professor X. Yes, I'm doing this job now. Yes, it was a long night. (Jump/Twitch). What, no, I didn't just jump out of my skin."
Ahh, they already think I'm freakin' crazy.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
You dropped a what on your huh?
So, Tom came home early today, startling me and Oreo thoroughly. It transpired that this was all due to his having dropped a wall on his foot. So, after a long soaking in the tub, a healthy dose of ibuprofen, and a lot of me going "oh sick dude!" we've gotten far enough along in the recovery process for Tom to decide pictures are in order.
Visit his blog at your own risk.
See, Tom injuries follow a very typical timeline:
1) The injury occurs, usually involving: dropping something; something slipping; some body part brushing against something hot; falling off of something. Occasionally, it's a mixture of two or more of the above.
2) Witnesses rush to his aid, all the while amazed at his prowess at swearing while bleeding, burning, swelling, or all of the above. Seriously. Think drunken sailor. Druken sailor who just got a peg-leg worthy injury. It's quite impressive.
3) Witnesses usually encourage him to seek medical attention. Tom scoffs at their wussiness.
4) If I'm not already there, I get a phone call or he comes home, whichever is more convenient. Usually several hours after the fact. You know, well after I could have done anything useful. If I am there, I usually don't bother adding my voice to the chorus of "dude, go to the hospital" at this point but instead focus on applying pressure to whatever body part is spurting blood and convincing him that he needs to sit still for a few minutes.
5) Depending on his description of the injury (if communicating via phone) or my own personal inspection, *I* encourage him to seek medical attention. Tom scoffs at my wussiness. If he's still able to remain upright and semi-coherent, I usually let him win.
6) I remind Tom that there is no way I can carry his ass any where so, if he needs medical attention, he'd better hurry the hell up and get it, because I don't want to have to drag his unconscious ass down the hallway to the elevator. It'll ruin his clothes. Assuming they weren't ruined in the "incident" or ripped up to make bandages after the "incident" despite the presence of perfectly good, sterile bandages close by.
7) Ice, pain relievers, and antiseptic are provided for the wound. I usually make another attempt at the doctor suggestion. I'm usually rebuffed. The "your ass is heavy and I don't want to pay for an ambulance" argument is repeated. I give up.
8) Time passes.
9) Tom disappears into the bathroom to "doctor" his wound. Usually within 5-10 minutes I am summoned with the words every significant other wants to hear their beloved utter: "Hey Jus, could you bring me my pocket knife?" I've given up trying to prevent the man from performing minor surgery on himself with his pocket knife. I pretty much won my only victories on this front by convincing him to a) stop doing pocket-knife surgery in the living room or kitchen while Oreo is trying to see what's up; and b) sterilize the knife. (Seriously, do you know how freaky it is to look up from reading to see someone with their foot balanced precariously on the edge of a table while they hack at it with a pocket knife?)
10) Some mention is made of "drilling through the nail." I swear - every time. Even when the injury has nothing to do with fingers or toes. The man just has a fondess for drilling through his own nails. I guess it's better than his head. "That would have worked if you hadn't stopped me."
11) To his credit, he usually is fine in a few days. Because he's a manly man. Or too stupid to feel pain. Whatever.
To sum up - he's fine. I'll let y'all know if it gets gangrenous though. Because as soon as he's out of the hospital for that, there's going to be a huge "I freakin' told you so" party and you're all invited. :)
Visit his blog at your own risk.
See, Tom injuries follow a very typical timeline:
1) The injury occurs, usually involving: dropping something; something slipping; some body part brushing against something hot; falling off of something. Occasionally, it's a mixture of two or more of the above.
2) Witnesses rush to his aid, all the while amazed at his prowess at swearing while bleeding, burning, swelling, or all of the above. Seriously. Think drunken sailor. Druken sailor who just got a peg-leg worthy injury. It's quite impressive.
3) Witnesses usually encourage him to seek medical attention. Tom scoffs at their wussiness.
4) If I'm not already there, I get a phone call or he comes home, whichever is more convenient. Usually several hours after the fact. You know, well after I could have done anything useful. If I am there, I usually don't bother adding my voice to the chorus of "dude, go to the hospital" at this point but instead focus on applying pressure to whatever body part is spurting blood and convincing him that he needs to sit still for a few minutes.
5) Depending on his description of the injury (if communicating via phone) or my own personal inspection, *I* encourage him to seek medical attention. Tom scoffs at my wussiness. If he's still able to remain upright and semi-coherent, I usually let him win.
6) I remind Tom that there is no way I can carry his ass any where so, if he needs medical attention, he'd better hurry the hell up and get it, because I don't want to have to drag his unconscious ass down the hallway to the elevator. It'll ruin his clothes. Assuming they weren't ruined in the "incident" or ripped up to make bandages after the "incident" despite the presence of perfectly good, sterile bandages close by.
7) Ice, pain relievers, and antiseptic are provided for the wound. I usually make another attempt at the doctor suggestion. I'm usually rebuffed. The "your ass is heavy and I don't want to pay for an ambulance" argument is repeated. I give up.
8) Time passes.
9) Tom disappears into the bathroom to "doctor" his wound. Usually within 5-10 minutes I am summoned with the words every significant other wants to hear their beloved utter: "Hey Jus, could you bring me my pocket knife?" I've given up trying to prevent the man from performing minor surgery on himself with his pocket knife. I pretty much won my only victories on this front by convincing him to a) stop doing pocket-knife surgery in the living room or kitchen while Oreo is trying to see what's up; and b) sterilize the knife. (Seriously, do you know how freaky it is to look up from reading to see someone with their foot balanced precariously on the edge of a table while they hack at it with a pocket knife?)
10) Some mention is made of "drilling through the nail." I swear - every time. Even when the injury has nothing to do with fingers or toes. The man just has a fondess for drilling through his own nails. I guess it's better than his head. "That would have worked if you hadn't stopped me."
11) To his credit, he usually is fine in a few days. Because he's a manly man. Or too stupid to feel pain. Whatever.
To sum up - he's fine. I'll let y'all know if it gets gangrenous though. Because as soon as he's out of the hospital for that, there's going to be a huge "I freakin' told you so" party and you're all invited. :)
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Well hell, it only took almost another year.
Why the hell do I have this thing again? No one checked it even when it was almost live. Anyway, it's pink now for Breast Cancer Awareness month. Having gone through the joy of finding a lump and the ensuing WTF!!!! panic, I have a certain heightened sympathy for those who actually are diagnosed.
So, this is why the page is now pink, despite the fact that I hate the color pink and wish they'd picked purple or green or something else...
So, this is why the page is now pink, despite the fact that I hate the color pink and wish they'd picked purple or green or something else...
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