Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Earlybird Special - Two Please

Isn't it sad when older people can't get a grip on how much water their bridge has been over and just deal with it?

Mr. Zoom and I made an especially grand showing of just how ungraceful we are with aging today. At the office.

We arrived today to find a brand new employee at the firm. He works in our office services department - which means he has to walk the floors all day and deliver stuff. It's one of the few positions that pretty much guarantees you will meet everyone in the office.

This kid, honest-to-goodness, looks like he's 12.

Mr. Zoom: "Did his mommy drop him off here?"

Me: "I wonder if Santa brought him that tie that he's wearing?"

Mr. Zoom: "Does management know we are in violation of child labor laws?"

Me: "If he gets nap time, I'm going straight to management with a complaint."

Mr. Zoom: "Does he even know where the bike locks are?"

The laughing stopped when I learned he just turned 21. 21!! What's next? I guess I'll know it's time to go buy myself a Lark* when I start mistaking 45 year olds for 30?

And then on the way home tonight, Mr. Zoom turned on one of the features in his car that we haven't used before. It has ... I can barely say it with a straight face ...

heated seats.

Why would anyone want that? I would guess people who live in really cold places would. I think it just came on the car, it wasn't like Mr. Zoom wanted it special.

Tonight it was damn cold. Cold as in, California cold. Like 60 degrees. So he clicked on my bun warmer. After a while I said "Ok, that's enough. We can turn that off now. That kinda feels like I peed my pants."

*Lark = I don't know if this item is known everywhere, but it's a motor scooter that is typically advertised as a tool for older people to get around with.

Monday, December 26, 2005

It Doesn't Get Much More Bloggable

Oh thank goodness Christmas is over. Not that I don't appreciate a paid day off of work and all - but there wasn't enough sleeping in for it to feel like real time off.

Last Wednesday I went to the Dr. to have a suspicious mole removed from my back. I've had this done before, so I thought it would be no big deal.

That was the big fat lie I told myself, and Mr. Zoom.

Mr. Zoom got to keep quiet as I dug my fingernails into his palm. While I squealed "ow ow ow ow ow OW OW OW ow ow ow. OW. OW OW OW. And that was just the numbing the skin, you won't feel the needle (lie) part.

All the requisite areas did go numb, but then my imagination went to work with every tug and push that I knew was happening, but couldn't really "feel". And I started sweating. I was already lying down, so I wasn't in danger of fainting. But you wouldn't have known it by my wailing.

I kept apologizing to everyone. I felt so stupid. I was only having a little chunk of my back removed and I KNOW the Dr. has seen and performed far worse extractions. My whining when stressed is like a pressure valve that releases my retardation slowly so I don't flip out and run out of the room. Without a shirt, no less.

But here's the thing. The Dr. decided to share with Mr. Zoom and I a little story about his past. In an effort to distract me.

He said "When I was younger I wanted to be a psychiatrist because I couldn't stand the sight of blood. Then my brother cured me of all of that."

Of course we asked "HOW?"

He said "He did something that any medical student these days WOULD NOT DO. He took me into his lab when he was taking anatomy class. He showed me the cadaver he was working on. Then he skinned it's face and wore it on his own head and started running around with it."

THAT'S SUPPOSED TO PUT ME AT EASE? And, HOW does that alleviate anyone's fear of blood? Shouldn't that reinforce that kind of phobia?

Mr. Zoom said what I was thinking: "Are you serious?" He said yes. It was all true.

Swell. My gatekeepter physician is Buffalo Bill's brother. I kept waiting for the receptionist to lower a basket in my lap and scream "PUT THE LOTION IN THE BASKET! NO FUNNY BUSINESS!"

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Do Not Lie Down Within 30 Minutes...or?

This is how I Christmas shop. I see things and I run towards them with a camera. It's very annoying for poor Mr. Zoom who has to try and keep me on track.

This week is brutal. I'm taking care of business, holiday and otherwise, in the hours before, during and after work this week. I absolutely HATE the stress the "holidays" create. Yet I LOVE finding the perfect gift for someone. But then I can't hold onto it until "the day".

It's hard being me.

I had intended to take a picture of the prescription bottle I received from the pharmacy the other day. The prescription is for my stupid uterus and its monthly girly squeeze fest also known as menstral cramps.

I just burned the eyes of any male readers, and probably some female ones too. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

So I get the refill and there are 5 little colorful warning labels on there accompanying the big white one we are all accustomed to. At first it was all the usual stuff: Take with food, take with plenty of water, limit loud mouth soup...etc.

Then I see: "Do not lie down for at least 30 minutes after taking this medication."

You.must.be.joking. I can't even keep myself verticle for 30 whole minutes without falling down EVEN WITHOUT TAKING MEDICATION. I turned to Mr. Zoom and said "Oh NO! Last night I took one of these while laying down! Do you think I'll live?"

Friday, December 16, 2005

When Moms Google: The Sequel

Does anyone remember that e-mail that went around way back - feels like a thousand years now - the e-mail about how one should not flash their headlights at an automobile that had no headlights on? The one that said something to the effect of doing so would insure your unwilling participation in a gang ritual and you would be killed?

It was one of the very first urban legends that my FAM fell for. Obviously this joke was far more effective back when most vehicles didn't have automatic lights or daytime running lights.

I can still remember the day she called me to "warn" me of this deadly trap. And how she made me a copy or three - one for me and others for me to pass along. I gently took the wad of paper and so was born my newest bottom desk drawer file entitled:

I'm Not Ready to Tell Her It's Not Real.

Because honestly? Telling her the truth would be like informing a cute little 5 year old child that Santa/Batman/Retirement/the Easter Bunny/Great Pumpkin/Tooth Fairy and Fairness just don't exist in this world. And there's more, but I need to give you this helmet to wear first.

There would be angry denial and then debate. Oh the debate. And she's a lot better at holding on to the mouse than I am, so I'd never get to prove my point by showing her any number of websites that document just these things.

It's been a long road to the technology embracement. However flawed it might be, I don't want to crush that.

Which is why the other day when she called to tell me she saw a news story on the internet that was funny, I went into minimal conversation mode and started flipping through the rolodex of "reasons to get off the phone with Mom because I can't talk about the make-believe with her".

Her news story was about a screech owl that had been found in some couple's Christmas tree, AND that this particular owl was stoned. She finished that story with "And you simply must see the expression on this owl!"

Into the file went the conversation. Although invisible, that's where it went.

Imagine my shock when I actually found this story on some credible looking news website:



Wednesday, December 14, 2005

When Moms Google

What's scarier than Banana Guy walking toward me with a baggie full of trail mix? My formerly Amish Mom calling to tell me she tracked down an elementary school chum of mine. USING GOOGLE.

You'd have to know her to understand the true shock of the fact that she did it pretty much on her own. There weren't any fights between us in front of her computer where the winner of the fight was the one who was still holding the mouse after the insults flew. Because she who still has control of the mouse is the one who gets to talk.

At least that's what her computer manual says.

I still can't get FAM (Formerly Amish Mom) to understand her MSN account, nor can I get her to actually get any e-mail out of it because her computer is hooked up to a stone tablet and a chisel - also known as dial up net service...

Yet she called me to say "Oh, hey. I found _____ childhood friend of yours on the internet! Want to know what he/she is up to? I sent him/her a letter.

It should be noted that she didn't send an e-mail. She sent an honest to goodness, antique, ink pen to paper, snail mail.

And I checked up on her research (without telling her, of course) and she had indeed found the person she was looking for. And their e-mail address was right there in really large, let me help you contact me type type. *sigh*

And since I'm well on my way to being disowned by my FAM, I might as well add nearly divorced to the list as well.

Hopefully what appears below are two links to some, um.....video that I took of Mr. Zoom.

When he didn't know I had figured out that my camera had video, and how to use it. He's much more carful about that now. In this first one, the audio outruns the video for some reason...so it ends up being totally out of sinc. But you still get the idea:

Mr. Zoom:

Supply Brow Monster - Custom videocodes by MyWynk

And just in case I haven't insured my sleeping arrangement of sofa out in the cold:

Mr. Zoom:

Slap Dat Ass - Custom videocodes by MyWynk

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Vertigo. Isn't That a U2 Song?

Vertigo. As of Thursday, December 8, 2005, I beleived it to be 1. a recent U2 Song; 2. an old lady condition that didn't really mean anything - because it had something to do with an Alfred Hitchcock film; and 3. Another name for fear of heights.

Well, what can I say. I don't always track down the proper meaning of things. My head just creates a definition and most times I run with it.

Turns out that Vertigo, or Positional Vertigo, or Labrythitis is actually the sensation that one has imbibed ALL the booze, and the spinning of the Earth at 60 rpsecond isn't going to stop anytime soon, if ever. Oh, and it makes you want to barf the entire time.

Friday after lunch, I made Mr. Zoom take me home. I felt like the top of my cranium was going to spin off and I would have welcomed it. I would bet that if you looked me in the eyes, you would have seen Tom and Jerry type pupils going in little circles.

By Saturday nothing had improved. In fact, the more I laid down to try and sleep it off, the more spinning the world would do. I finally agreed to go to the emergency walk in. After a 4 hour wait, the dr. gave me a prescription for a motion sickness pill and sent me on my way. "Oh, and the pill will make you drowsy." More like out cold, actually. The receipt said diagnosis: Labrythitis. Wasn't that a David Bowie movie in the 80s?

I've never been so scared in all of my life. I realize that sounds all kinds of mello-dramatic in the face of what it actually turned out to be. BUT, prior to the hangover disease (that's exactly what it felt like to me, so that's what I call it) I had never known anyone to have this condition, nor had I ever bothered to learn about it as discussed above. When it first started and wouldn't let up, I was sure I'd be out of work for a very long time and that I was in for all kinds of neurological testing. Isn't bizarre vision a brain tumor thing?

And back in my 20s, I had been through years of brain chemical testing and really REALLY didn't know if I could do it again. Or if they did it again, if they could find another answer like they did the first time around.

When I would start to overreact by letting the what ifs fly, Mr. Zoom would give me a shut up pill and within an hour I'd be snoring and drooling on myself just like any other day. Guaranteed 4.5 hours of peace in each tablet. For both of us.

I got the final word and a lot of helpful information from my Gatekeeper Physician (I have an HMO) today. It is just Positional Vertigo. He even gave Mr. Zoom and I a little piece of paper with a manuever on it that should "make the sand in my ear go away so that the gyroscopes in there can work properly again." I was incredibly annoyed that the walk in physician didn't mention that. But whatever. It is what it is.

Gatekeeper Physician did the move and noted my shimmy eyes. He did it again and all seemed to fall into repair.

I now feel like a huge ninny for all the worring I did. And all of the grr I flung at the t.v. Every healthy individual I saw in a commercial got a telepathic message from me: "You like that steady eyesight? Better not take it for granted. You might end up like me someday."

And actually, the lesson isn't lost on me. I'm still a little woozy, but at least I don't feel as if I'm on beezlebub's merry-go-round...and I won't have to go through this Christmas saying "Happy Holidays!" and then running to the loo to call the seals. Because running while dizzy makes me miss the doorway unless I line up on it like a bowler with a mean hook in her throw.

I don't know if it's Thanksgiving late or Christmas early, but either way I'll take it and appreciate it.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Have You Met My Wife? Chevy Chase?

I swear, Mr. Zoom has said that.

I am hopelessly and painfully clumsy. I think the first sign of clutzocity to come was when I was 6, and walking home from school. I don't remember the incident itself, just the part where the doctor was stitching me up.

Apparently I went to take a step off of a curb, and landed with my chin in full contact of said curb - legs out behind me in the street.

How I managed to take a step and 180 around AND fall with my chin on the cement? I don't know. The woman who was walking me home from school that day couldn't even tell my mom how I had managed this. After gathering me up from the ground, I guess she saw the blood and knew it was not good.

All that time, I had no idea anything was amiss. Other than the fact that I had fallen down and my Mom was here "early". But it wasn't until I was horizontal on a steel table while the doctor poured antiseptic into my cut that I started to scream.

The rest of my life has been peppered with incidents of doh. There weren't any more stitches, but probably should have been:

The time I was playing with neighbor kids and managed to cut my palm with a rusty nail head that was in a fence I apparently tried to bounce off of. Right on my life line. Good thing I'm not into palm readings.

The time I was riding a motor scooter with a friend and we took a corner too tightly. I left ALL of the skin on the right side of my body there on the road. I also picked up some nice bits o' asphalt that Mom pulled out of my arms.

The time I was roller skating and fell down, chipping one of my huge front teeth. This wasn't much of a surprise, as I had the biggest overbite known to exist in such a tiny head. Ever.

Those were the big ones.

Since then, I've graduated to less mess of the bodily fluid kind and more mess of the items in my path of destruction kind.

And the bruising. I'm a leopard! Mr. Zoom is always asking me "where...what...how did you do THAT?"

My response is usually something like "Might have been when I walked into the wall and then rebounded into the corner of my desk two days ago?"

When we go into frou frou stores, or even regular people stores, I have to walk with my hands behind my back. I'm convinced my hands have a nefarious mind all their own and will fly out to knock over expensive items. As if the entire store were set up in a hidden domino style, just waiting for my hands to arrive and break free of my concentration.

And whoever thought all that convenient hyperlinking all over my computer desktop (either in e-mails, documents I'm working on or whatever else is clickable) at work was a good idea needs to be forced to administer computer support when I've accidentally clicked my way to either a frozen computer screen, or e-mails to the whole office that have nothing to do with anything.

OOOO! Or when Theresa or Rev. Brandy post some wonderful post, which links back to an older post. I suddenly forget where I am and leave a comment on the old post. Which is more appropriate for the recent post. And then I say:

"Of course I did that. Of course I did. It's me."

Other Chevy Chase Moments:

"Of course I hooked my scarf on the gate and nearly strangled myself. How could I possibly think wearing a scarf would be safe?"

"Of course I just came to a stop and my purse flew out of the passenger seat and landed contents askew all over the floor. Of course I can't reach it." Followed by "Of course my cell phone magically fell into this compartment in the truck door and I couldn't find it. There's only a 1 in 1gillion chance of it perfectly flying into that space, I had to know it was going to happen."

"Of course I just hung up on that caller while trying to answer my cell phone. I've only had this cell phone for 3 years, it's perfectly understandable that I still can't keep from hanging up on the people who call me."

"Of course I spilled coffee on my sweater not 30 seconds after buying it. There's already a coffee stain right about even with the girls where the coffee landed the last time I wore this."

I am human bumper cars. Enabled by Mr. Zoom, who unconditionally loves me, and occasionally laughs at me. Which keeps me from taking it all too seriously - because it reminds me to laugh at myself.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Weekend: History Channeling at The Christmas Party / Fear Factor Dinner With Friends

I am forever fascinated with religion. Having no association with any specific religion of my own, I love learning about all of them.

Last week sometime I watched a show on the History Channel about the *woo woo* forbidden or rejected books of the Bible.

Saturday, Mr. Zoom and I accompanied two of our friends to their office Christmas party. And I should probably call it a Holiday Party, but the thing is, I just don't care what it's called. Christmas it is. Hold on, the connection is coming...

Towards the end of the evening, the dessert was being served. Mr. Zoom, the knower of knowing things immediately identified the goo as Cherries Jubilee.

This caused me to say to him with authority: "JUBILEES! The discarded book of the Bible!!" He gave me the look. I said "I shlaw it on de History Channell! Jubilees ish one ov thosh books they illishimated from sha final version of sha Bible!" He understands my drunk dialect. I'm so lucky!

He gave me the "ooooooh, all clear" nod and said "That was going to be so much more impressive when I thought you made it up and were just talking out of your butt."

Sunday we were at another friend's home for a little Christmas open house type thing. We were partaking of stew and sandwiches, and all of the cookies and brownies I could get my hands on.

During the stew part of the meal, one of our other friends was commenting on how it needed some spice. Mr. Zoom and he were talking back and forth when the following words slapped me upside the head: "Rabbit Stew".

That's when I realized that what I thought had been chicken, was actually rabbit stew. Rabbit = Bunny. Bunny stew.

I had only gotten a few spoonfuls in at this point. I then had an inner fight with myself:

"Just eat it. You were eating it 3 seconds ago and it was fine when you thought it was chicken. Come on. Nothing has changed. What is wrong with you? Other people around you are eating it and they are fine. Don't be an ungrateful guest. EAT IT. You eat beef. You eat chicken. You eat shrimp and sometimes weird sushi rolls. Why is this such an issue for you?"

But I couldn't. I tried, but it wasn't going to happen. Mr. Zoom noticed I couldn't get it down and without even having to ask, knew it was the cooked bunny revelation that had quashed my appetite.

The mind is a serious enemy when you least expect it. Especially when most of the time it appears you've lost it.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

I'll Show You Wrinkled.

This was a document that was placed in my "work to do" box, by one of the attorneys I work for:

Pardon my inept use of the "blur" tool in photoshop, but I must make sure no confidential client information is accidentally revealed on the net.

Anyway, you will see the little stickie note which is the usual place of "instruction" for my assignments. Unfortunately for this particular attorney, this assignment was imbecilic:

This was not/is not a joke.

First of all, HE was the one that wrinkled them. Second of all, it's a flippin FILE copy. Who cares if it's wrinkled? Third of all, GET UP AND MAKE YOUR OWN REPLACEMENT COPIES...FUCKWIT.

So this is how I returned the assigment: