Melpomene & Thalia

So, ok. I’ll admit it. I have this crazy double standard when it comes to cat-calling. When guys do it to me I get a little defensive. One time, when walking into best buy, some older man zeroed into my cleavage like a moth to an excessively powerful bug zapper. After fighting off his intentions for a romantic drive-by motor boating (and leaving him howling in agony on the ground) I gave him my “your mother taught you better than that” speach, I walked into the store and bought some anime a new iPod to make myself feel better.

This, I don’t feel is ok. Unless you’re hot. And you make it very clear that you want me, by drunkenly winking at me from across the crowded bar, even though I’m so drunk I forgot how to take a shot. Then it’s you, me, and a disappointing quickie the broom closet, baby.

Regardless, I feel that it is more than fine for me to sexually harass any man within my range of vision. (This includes spying on people from opposite high rise apartment buildings with binoculars.)

Case and point: When I was pulling into my garage for work this morning, I had to stop to let someone maneuver two heavy gas canisters out of the way before i could pull in. I was tired, I was cranky, and dammit, I hadn’t had caffeine yet, so I was ready to say something smart about the fact that he had to use the entrance to exit, when he looked up. Y. U. M. He had scuffed work boots, those nice wranglers, that so perfectly cup certain portions of the male anatomy, and tattoos–and good ones at that–covered the nicely formed muscles of his arms. And then there was his face! A sexy stubble of beard was brewing along his lovely square jaw, and a pair of equally enticing green eyes looked back at me with interest. Probably over the fact that he had been out of my way for at least a minute before I could tear myself away from his body to look at his face. So I smiled, grinned actually, and said “Good Morning” in my best phone sex operator voice, and leaned out the window, ignoring the line of cars behind me.

I LOVE making men blush!

Even happier than noticing that Heidelberg’s parking lot was nearly empty this morning, so I brought in bagels and croissants into the office, which I might magnanimously share with those who kiss my ass enough.  But enough talk…

Ok, one and all, I’ve had it.

I’m pretty fed up with a managerial style as comfy as sojourn in an iron maiden. 

So, I’m going to look for a new job… and hopefully a new place to live.  I’m thinking somewhere around Palm Springs, but I’m open to suggestions.

So, bring on the help, my fablous internet friends. 

And no, Pistols… I will not be a call girl.  Or, if I do, you don’t get any discounts.

Did I mention that my parents have been gone for a month? Well, they have. And while I’ve been watering their plants, feeding their deamon cat, bailing out their basement, taking in their mail, having to be polite to their neighbors–who, incidentally, make me throw up a bit in my mouth every time I remember that they exist–even planting their damn garden, etc., those… those… JERKS! have been climbing Matcu Picchu–only to discover that the only secrets written on the stone walls are merly recipies for piss poor attempts at hot chocolate, and tally notes from the town whore –and playing tag with the wonderful animals of the Galapagos–and I hope one of those snot encrusted iguanas bites them on the toe–with my loving brother, Dumbquat, and his girlfriend, Dell. Just kidding. I’m kinda glad that they’ve been gone for so long. And being the noble and loving child that I am, I really hope they had the time of their lives. Meaning, of course, that they got the travel bug out of their system this time. Then, maybe, I wouldn’t have to deal with their house/responsibilities when they get goned again.

Well, ok, so maybe I’m not that altruistic. It was great not having to buy groceries for several weeks. Though they might complain about not having ANYTHING in the fridge. (I found a great new recipe for tomato soup: Ketchup. Just add water!)

I just overheard something that made me do a double take. All I heard was:

“during the fourth Trimester of the year, “

before I had to laugh. Apparently, laughing at a fake PhD (you know, one of those people who are too lazy to write their dissertation, but are perfectly ok with spending thousands of dollars a credit hour for several years of classes) is not a very nice thing to do. They start to get all professorial on your ass.

Having grown up with a real PhD–and a smart ass’d one at that–this doesn’t scare me any more than pushy telemarketers.

FhD: …fourth trimester of the year…

Gnugs: <snort!>

F: excuse me?

Again, it seems like these people can’t see through the invisibility cloak I inherited along with sloppy files when I took this job. I seem to startle them just by breathing sometimes!

G: oh, I thought that you said 4 trimesters.

Yeah, I’m here, a-hole. And a first hand witness to the fact that you’re a schmooze who likes to throw around your hypothetical potential a bit more than your actuality.

F: yes, I did. Why?

What could you know, you silly female receptionist? Shouldn’t you be getting me coffee, or typing something for me? Like the reasons I am awesome?

G: Well I thought that the prefix ‘tri’ had something to do with things split into threes.

You asshat. Get your own damn coffee. It’d probably be safer, given that A) I don’t like coffee, and B) I always carry lots of eye drops around for anyone who asks me to do something they are perfectly able to do themselves.

F: It does.

I will ignore it now. I have no time to explain this to the likes of you.

G: Oh. It must have something to do with that new math I read about in the Post a while back.

Yeah, the one where kids don’t actually have to know how to count to add large numbers? Aren’t WE progressive?

F: Excuse me?

She knows how to read? But I know how to read. How could she possibly have anything in common with my extraordinary intellect?

G: I’m sorry. I just must need a PhD to understand how a unit, when split three ways, can have 4 equal parts. My appologies.

take that, you… you… jerk!

F: <sputters… then turns and leaves>

G: hehehehehe. blog time!

My Homeopath rocks more than anyone on the planet.

Why, you ask? Because the ‘thunder induced orgasm’ has lasted for over a week now, and wasn’t really thunder induced. It’s all due to her latest ‘remedy’ for me.

I haven’t felt this good in YEARS. FABULOUS!

This is only my first week back in control of my braincells, and I had to go and lose control over practically my entire body. Specifically? Its womanly parts. (And yes, I include my female brain in that as well).

Some girls get raucously horny after a few drinks, diamond commercials, vaccuming (as my odd ex-roommate like to tell me all the time), or maybe just a really good song. Ok, I’m two for four there, but what really gets me going is thunder and lightning. And apparently lots and lots of rain, because I practically drowned myself when a bout of the following had me staring up into the sky for at least 5 minutes.

While cleaning up brush, and bailing out around my house last night, I would suddenly stop moving, and stare into the distance for a few minutes. I can’t imagine what I looked like. (Ok, maybe I don’t want to think about the the look on my face during those quiet quiet moments of introspection.) Anyways, it took me approximately 3 times the amount of time it should have to clean up the brush that fell from the trees during the first wave of last night’s storm, set up sump pumps, and drag and place trashcans underneath the worst of the offenders posing as gutters, all because every time lightning snuck across the sky, or thunder roared, I would stop and end up staring into nothing for prolonged periods of time.

No, I was not going catatonic… or, maybe I was? I was thinking dirty dirty dirty thoughts about total strangers coming up behind me, and taking me against the wall of the garage while our combined heat vaporised the rain as it fell onto our skin (undoubtably pledging his eternal love, and swiss bank accounts, to me mere minutes afterwards), or some other stranger and I coming up with some pretty good scenes for harlequin-bondage novels with the swing set… if not another couple of chapters to My Uncle Oswald. Wind-up contraptions included.

Dear lord. I got NO sleep last night.

Correcting the grammar of a client, is not bright if one wants to keep one’s job.

However, it is a great thing to try if you’re jonesin’ for an unemployment check.

Well. That was a fun and wonderful ride. I have been poked, scanned, stretched, heated and massaged to within an inch of my life (the last of which was quite enjoyable, if I do say so myself!) I woke up two weeks ago with a really stiff neck. That got worse in a hot shower. Even worse when I tried to stretch it out in said hot and steamy shower. Then completely froze on me with a horrifying, crunching snap.

Needless to say I started quietly leaking salt water–since screaming would have hurt too much– and tried lying down for a little bit. Agony is too tame a word for what I felt, and obscenities a blushing innocent compared to what flew out of my mouth. After waking up my poor roommate, not to mention the one upstairs one, and inciting both their dogs to riot, my roommate had to help me to the hospital. I hate hospitals. They have doctors there. Unless I’m linked to one through hearts, minds, and his bank account, they better keep their satanic selves away from me.

So they rayed me. And I sat in my little room waiting for the really big advil to do what I expected it would: NOTHING. The doctor came back in, and instead of saying something comforting like “our X-Ray tech was too busy trying to take a good shadow of your rack to get a good look at your spine,” or something as simple as “we’d like to get a better look at the spine itself,” she comes in biting her lip and saying “We don’t like what we see on the Xrays.” So, it took two of them to figure out that not only was their something wrong, but that IT SHOWED UP IN A DAMN X-RAY!

So, after the Valium and the Percocet kicked in, and I apologized for loosing it like that, I was Scanned. Unlike the X-Ray, I had to lay down to be scanned. And that worked about as well as it did after the disastrous shower. After I stopped convulsing — and no I am not making up any of this crap — they scanned my cat. (Eat your heart out.)

Then about an hour after that lovely experience, my 5′3″ Doctor skipped into my cubicle, in her purple clogs a la Clueless, and said that she thought I was alright, and that if someone picked me up, I was allowed to leave.  After promising to see a neurologist, and an orthopedic surgeon, or a neurological orthopedic–whatever, I called my mommy to come pick up her broken daughter.  Who naturally, the mommy, not the broken daughter, pawned me off onto my father.

My father is not a nice man.  Oh, he pretends to be, calling me to make sure I have everything, maybe making me a coffee table, even occasionally buying me books.  But under it all, is the heart of a bully.  He enjoys bringing his doped up, un-showered, and broken daughter into public, and laugh at all the crazy stuff she does.  Wonderful.  Thanks, Dad.

So, as the title says, I am now back in action, after a disastrous 2 week love/hate affair with narcotic painkillers and muscle relaxers.  I am now better, meaning I can think again, as well as move, well, more than I could before.  And as I am back at work, I have to get off here, but not before I leave you with these words of wisdom:

If any of you have the ability to injure yourself to the point of self induced paralysis, remember: Percocet gives you nightmares.  And makes signing up for Match.com, E-Harmony, and Chemistry.com seem like a fabulous thing to do. At 3am, no less.

I completely forgot about the Dona tossing. That was hilarious.

P.S. Please tell Steve that I like your brother to do me like a woman. Haha.