I have had this weird frontal headache for the past couple days, just enough to be nagging and annoying and make it a little difficult to read.  I can’t help but thinking that if there is more serotonin floating around in there, wouldn’t it need more space?  It only seems logical.  Anyway, it’s a funny sensation.  I’m having second thoughts.  Why would I take pills that change my brain chemistry?  (Cue the “uh oh!” music.  You know what I’m talking about.  “Dun dun DUN!”)

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Jack discovered this digital station that shows old TV shows and commercials without regard to  intrinsic quality or timelessness.  He loves The Incredible Hulk, Mary Tyler Moore, and this one weird spy show that is kind of cool in small doses.   The thing is, he is glued to the set for hours every night, whining that I’m on the computer too much (hilariously illogical!), which is only because he won’t do stuff with me.  Like, this spy show, it’s from 1968 or ’69.  Last night the protagonists went to a party that was like those scenes on Laugh-In– the party scenes.  There was a band, the extras were all dancing, and I wanted to dance, right?  Of course!  But I could not get that man off the couch to dance with me, leaving me to dance “at him,” as Gidget would say.  But who was going to see?  Who would know?  Nobody.  The cats only. 

 

The cats are black and white like most of these shows.

 

One other thought: how many episodes of The Incredible Hulk does a person have to watch to realize that…all of the episodes are the same?  Three, I reckon: two to suspect that this is indeed the case, and a third to confirm.  Jack and I did have a spirited philosophical discussion about the nature of The Hulk- is he really just a metaphor for David Banner’s righteous anger?  We concluded that no, he really does transform into a green beast.  I do continue to watch sometimes, hoping that *this* time Mr. Banner’s pants button will also pop- perhaps The Hulk did extra ab work that week in prep for his scenes.  No.  Never- boot leather tears, pants turn to shreds, the shirt is torn asunder- always, the waist stays intact.

I went to a different grocery store the other day.  Same kind of store, different location.  They didn’t have the beer I wanted (Pabst, 30 pack, in cans), so I didn’t buy any.  Then when I got to the pasta section, I swear it was as though I was on another planet.  There were no “small elbows” anywhere to be found.  The pasta was all in disturbing shapes never before seen.  Large elbows…somewhat familiar, but wrong.  Ziti? Radiatore?  All wrong.  What the heck is “Farfalle?” 

 

I only eat small elbows.  Sometimes, small shells are ok, but only in a mayonnaise-containing salad.  Spaghetti is pretty ok too with spaghetti sauce.  But everything else?  Small elbows and only small elbows.  Logically, I know it is the same subtance in a different shape.  And that’s just wrong.  Illogic won.

 

Digging through the display, though, I found some of the prize booty and made them last night: small elbows with spaghetti sauce.  Also, the beer I bought elsewhere ended up all in the fridge at Secondhand Thong rehearsal, and I am once again beerless…

My friend pulled a hamstring and I called her up so she could tell me aaaallll about it.  She said, “It feels better when I rub my butt, but I can’t do that at work.” 

 

I said, “I rub my butt at work.”  You know, if it hurts or something.  (Seems logical to me, right?)  Maybe I shouldn’t do that.  Nobody ever says anything about it, but people are funny creatures.  Nobody will ever tell me if my deodorant isn’t working (or if I forgot to put it on), even if I ask.  Maybe I just need a better internal editor.

 

Or a backspace button.

Today was an ok day at work.  My boss was gone.  Days always go better when she is gone.  She micromanages me:  she only allows me to use one certain restroom in the building.   She has actually followed me to ensure that I was not planning to urinate elsewhere. 

You see, we have two groups of  coworkers: those that don’t have the decency to poop at home (alright; it can happen to anyone, but don’t plan it into your daily work schedule and get freaking paid to do it every day, ok?  [don’t get me started on the daily bagel rituals]) , and others  who cannot tolerate the scent of poop.  Therefore, we have automated dispensers in all but one of our tiny restrooms that spritz the horrendous  Amrep product Snappy Apple at regular intervals.  Snappy Apple has its own MSDS (Material Safety Data Sheet.  I looked it up: it “treats up to 6,000 cubic feet in high occupancy areas.”  These are single-seater bathrooms, maybe 400 cubic feet each, and definitely not “high occupancy.”  (You know, not clown cars.  Really.)

 

So, one time I was minding my own private business in the restroom, and Snappy Apple automatedly dispensed a puff of Snappy Apple poison, and I had an asthma attack.  On the toilet.  In a locked single-seater bathroom.  Oh, the filling out of forms that was involved once bronchospasm abated (near-death=lots of paperwork).

 

 An action plan then had to be created.  Logic would indicate, dude, smash the damn Snappy Apple dispenser with a hammer.  I’ll clock out and joyfully do this for the benefit of all- (asthma is a common diagnosis; perhaps the 18th most common).  I actually used to remove the cans from the dispenser and throw them away, but locks then mysteriously appeared on them- funny how change occurs quickly when it is to human detriment.  My online research and subsequent letters to occupational “health” went unheeded. My guess: MY BOSS IS THE CLOCKED-IN POOPER  WHO CAN’T STAND THE SCENT OF HER OWN SHIT.  Is this a benefit of middle management? 

 

But getting rid of an unnecessary, toxic, too-concentrated, life-threatening product in a health-care facility was not the plan.  Once my survival was assured, I had to visit every restroom with my boss and find the only one that didn’t conveniently dispense poopsmell “disguiser”.  That is the only one I am allowed to use. Ever.  If someone else is using it (to poop, perhaps); or worse, if the adjacent rooms are locked (as often happens),  I just have to suck it up.  Like grade school.  Yeah, I’m ten years old again, raising my hand or waiting for recess.  I drink a lot of coffee to cope with work.  I pee, you know, a few times a day.

 

But, on a nice day like today, I could hold my breath, pee anywhere I liked, and feel free.  Free!  How wonderful is that?  Ah, the little pleasures of life. 

Why does it amuse thoughtful irreligious people when they discover that there are thoughtful religious people?

It’s part of a comment by Jag (whose own blog, The Day that Dawns, can be found here), left on this post at Althouse…worth a look.

It’s always an interesting discussion at the Alt-House.

WordPress has a fantastic spam blocker.  Well, it needs to- I have gotten so many spam comments in such a short time;it’s unbelievable to me. They’re all pretty much the same. “Kim Kardashian nude.”  I didn’t know who she was, so I looked her up online. It looks like she’s famous for some sex tape scandal and did some nude modeling.  Gee, if I wanted to, I could look at her girlhole all day long without spammers suggesting to me that it might be a nice idea.  Come on, losers, dream up something more creative.  Porn is addictive.  People want something new and different.  (Not me.  Jack- hot, hott, hottt Jack- hasn’t bored me yet.  Not once.  Partially because of his extreme hotness, but partially because porn is not a part of our lives.  We don’t think about what we don’t have.  Why should we?  Give me one rational reason why.)

Oh, now my imagination is running amok.  Maybe I should start making my own spam.  (I don’t know, though.  What are the hours? )