Both Hands

I could give birth to a pizza baby right now

I just had the best pizza of my entire life. DiGiovanni's--thank you. The wait for a table was slow, the server was incredibly busy, but the food was SO worth it.

Excuse me, I need to lapse into a food coma now.

Helen Wilson

I went to my friend Helen Wilson's art opening this evening. I tried to find some online pictures of her more recent work, but this and this (scroll all the way down) from a few years ago are the best I can do. Currently, she's really into huge (5' tall x 8' wide) babies with knowing eyes and expressions. Originally, her stuff really freaked me out, but now I own a few pieces (NOT giant, creepy babies) that I love more each time I see them.

Go Teresa!

This post sparked a serious debate in the Ensie-Frinklin household. I disagree completely with Frinklin's idea that the wives of high level politicos need to "fad[e] back into the shadows."

Why shouldn't Teresa Heinz Kerry get a say? She should know John Kerry better than anyone else. She probably has more influence over him than anyone else. I want to know the complete package. I realize a lot of people (often men, I've noticed) completely freaked out over Hillary Clinton (who I alternate between admiring and hating, at times) being such a large part of the Clinton presidency. I think First Ladies are a huge part of the presidency, and always has been. Hillary just made it more obvious. Being married means that you are a team, and being the president requires an enormous amount of support, understanding, and inspiration from your spouse, just as anything else does.

I realize in this day and age it isn't fashionable to depend on your spouse, or even to admit to listening to them about important decisions. It's considered codependent and needy to lean on someone. I often wonder if we might just be a little better off if we DID lean a little more on those people we're supposed to be life partners with. Without that sort of commitment, what's the stinkin' point to getting married (straight AND gay couples included, thank you)?

So, go Teresa! (and Laura, too!) Call me sexist, but I want to hear a woman's point of view.

My candidate might be a little dull, but at least he's not evil

Saw Kerry speak tonight and I made up my mind. Kerry it is! (if you listen faintly, you can just hear Frinklin's head exploding)

Amish In the City

I'd like to think I'm better than your average reality show viewer. But I'm so not. I watched Amish In the City last night and I LOVED every minute of it. The Real World with the Amish.

A few notes:

That Reese guy bugs. Lord knows I love my gay men, but he is obnoxious.

Is Ariel the dumbest person alive? Cows from space? Eggs are chicken abortions?

Randy should be a model who never opens his mouth. I don't want to hear that voice or see those teeth.

Kevan. What's up with your name? We all know your name is Kevin. Don't pretend you're special with your "Key-Vaaan."

The rest of the cast will remain on my "good list" until next week when I will reassess.

Intelligent Sex Ed

I love this idea. "Peer pressure" used positively.

No Murder Pact

Living in California (and listening to talk radio like the old person I apparently am), I hear WAY more about the Scott Peterson trial than is probably healthy. My heart breaks for Laci’s family.

And now there’s this Mark Hacking character who bought a mattress before he bothered to call in his wife’s missing person report. Oh, and he completely lied about graduating from college and being accepted to med school.

Can childish men please stop killing their pregnant wives?

When does one come to the decision that killing your wife is a better option then, say, divorce? I understand that divorce can be extremely painful and destructive to all sorts of personal relationships. However, murder and a death sentence can disrupt your life just as well if not better.

Frinklin and I actually had a brief discussion before I agreed to marry him. A “no murder pact,� if you will. We vowed that no matter how terrible our relationship could be in the future or how ugly a custody battle might be over our future unborn children—we wouldn’t kill each other. While we did it in jest (yes, I’m aware I have a dark and possibly evil sense of humor), it’s starting to drive me crazy just how often people see murder as the best way to end their marriage.

Invitations

My Mom came over this evening and spent several hours with me picking out a wedding reception invitation and all the trappings that come with it. Who knew this process was so difficult? We've decided to go with this design because it's simple and pretty. It's all about the casual, and if you don't believe me, please see this entry to review my wedding attire.

In other news...my Mom saw both hands for the first time tonight. And...she liked it! I don't want to edit myself for anyone, so I was hesitant about telling my parents about the blog. But, she liked it. And she liked my writing. And she said she's going to read the archives. So, HI MOM!

I'm so glad I never tried to plan an actual wedding, as this invitation thing alone has exhausted me. I have looked at every hideous wedding theme and design in existence.

Comic-Con International 2004

Frinklin and I attended Comic-Con today at the San Diego Convention Center. We skipped the three hour registration line we stood in last time and were scanned, tagged, and viewing really, really bad amateur art just minutes after walking through the doors (I so wanted to link to some really, really bad fantasy art there, but I’m afraid of the consequences of such a link. There is no shortage of bad fantasy art out there to choose from—feel free to Google “bad fantasy art� and see how many nightmarish images you come up with). Pre-registration is the only way to go.

I love comics. I especially love independent, oddball comics. While Frinklin goes for a lot of the big-tits/big muscles/big explosions stuff I head to the Small Press Pavilion. I buy mini-comics by the handfuls for 50¢ a pop, I search out publishers like Slave Labor Graphics, and I revel in obscure new finds.

A few of my favorites today:

· egg story by J. Marc Schmidt is absolutely fabulous. Who knew eggs went through such angst over their lives? Who knew an egg could have ninja aspirations?
· Domestic Abuse by Jeremy Lambros is genius. The dramas and anxieties of everyday objects are simply illustrated with maximum impact. This is one of those comics you either get or you don’t. I’ve added him to my permanent links with a banner he supplied. He updates his site daily with a new comic. How I love this one.
· Martin's Misdirection by James Burks is just as great as last year. His art is wonderful and I love Thurston. Thurston for President!

I also want to give a round of applause to those who dressed up for the Con. Well done. Well done. Especially that guy dressed as the Green Lantern. And that other guy dressed like Aragorn. And the 17 or so Legolas elves. And the 300 Jedi. Kudos to you all. Except for you, girl wearing the creepy fur-kini. You know who you are.

P.S. Where were you Tyler? I’m waiting for my next installment of Stylish Vittles. I realize you have a life and all, but I need to know what happens!

If we give gay people rights, then everyone will want them!

I love Lynn for posting 12 Reasons Same Sex Marriage Will Ruin Society.

I did not fire Dr. Chiropractor

But he's still on thin ice.

We discussed my treatment and decided to keep going. I figured he would counter my, "I feel worse now that before I started seeing you," statment with the "Your muscles got used to carrying your body a certain way for 27 years, so now they're a little PO'd that you're making them change," argument.

After further talks with Frinklin and my Mom, I decided to stick it out until at least the 6 month mark. It helps that he spent a full half hour with me today. My neck can twist all the way to the left again!

While there, I was asked about a particular torture-device Dr. Chiropractor uses to shake your hips loose from your body (or something along those lines). The asker was a very large black man, well over six feet tall. When I mentioned to the Doc that his office was full today, he said he had begun treating some professional atheletes. I'm not a huge sports nut, but I'm a fan of my local (and traditionally sucky) Padres and Charges, so I asked it the tall black man was a Charger.

"No," he replied, "He's a Raider."

The look of horror on my face must have been significant. I was shocked that he would betray San Diego by assisiting our greatest football rivals. The Doc quickly followed up with, "But he's retired!"

He better be, Doc. He better be.

I'm going to talk about periods now

Is Playtex® trying to piss me off? I love the new ad:

A woman is sitting on a bar stool with men clustered around her. She is laughing and smiling. Apparently, she is extremely confident (you’ll learn just why she is so supposedly confident momentarily). An insert in the top right hand corner of the ad shows a cute little baby in diapers with a clothespin on his or her nose. Next to the baby are the words “Pads don’t just feel like diapers.�

Hello?

So…the girl in the ad is confident because her period doesn’t smell like baby poop? Baby poop? Seriously? I hate to get really personal for a moment but—I’m pretty sure I don’t smell like baby poop—menstruating or not.

Dear Playtex,

Don’t you think acknowledging the fact that women DON’T smell bad during their periods would make women more confident than introducing some bogus “deodorant tampon?�

Oh, wait, how silly of me. That would expose your entire Deodorant Tampon Division as lying rat bastard. Hope I didn’t give away their secret.

Your customer nevermore,

Ensie

Feel free to contact Playtex directly and explain how you (or any women if you don't happen to be one) DON'T smell like baby poop at:

Playtex Consumer Affairs
PO Box 701
Allendale, NJ 07401

888-310-4290

Dr. Chiropractor and Me

I have the day off from work tomorrow. Yay!

I have to drive to an appointment with Dr. Chiropractor at 8:30 am! Right next to my work! An hour away from my house! Suck!

Dr. Chiropractor and I will be having a heart-to-heart tomorrow morning. He doesn't know this yet, but he will, soon enough. Since beginning my chiropractic treatment several months ago I am out several hundred dollars, but I feel as though I'm nothing but one big hurt. If it's not my neck, it's my chest. My back is sore, and I don't see much of a change in the hump. My hips are probably still 3/4 of and inch off.
What am I paying this man for if he's not doing anything? I've become bottom-priority girl at his office. They didn't even bother to tell me that they are no longer seeing patients on Monday mornings. I showed up, and no one was there. I found out a week later.

This is not good.

I don't want to be a quitter, but unless Dr. Chiropractor wants to step up, he's fired.

How I Feel About Big Boobs (by someone who knows)

(I already know I will regret writing this before I even see my Google referrals tomorrow. Megan, this better be worth it)
I've got some big boobs. They're in proportion to my body, so they don't look completely out of place, but they're there. I can't hide 'em. Can't shrink 'em. Can't see my feet.
A lot of people spend a lot of time wishing that they had big boobs. Let me tell you right now - you don’t. Not really. All it would take is just one day (possibly less) of having them to make you realize that you don’t really want them.
Now, let me be clear; I’m not talking about gravity-defying, unnatural, freakish boobs of the silicone or saline variety. I speak of the natural and God-given chest trophies that so many of us are endowed with (often at an unusually early age - thanks for that double whammy!). Fake boobs are a whole ‘nother thing. Trust me. I’m an expert; I live in Southern California.
I’m also not talking about you girls with Cs strapped to your chest, OK? Cs are pretty average from my understanding. I’m sure a few will disagree, just like there will be those Triple-N sisters out there who argue over my classification of my own DDs as large. I feel for the larger ladies, but I can only speak for myself when it comes to this issue.
For those who lament their itty bitty titties, let me enlighten you as to the truth of big breasted-ness:

I have NEVER spilled a single drop of food on my lap. EVER. I do, however, have plenty of splotches and blotches on the chest area of many of my shirts. Do you know how to get catsup out of polyester? I dream of owning snow white T-shirts.

There are about three places I can purchase bras that fit. Lane Bryant, Sears, and JC Penny. Since I began boycotting JC Penny a few year ago (it’s a long story for another day) my options are pretty limited. On a side note to Lane Bryant, why do you carry size 28 underwear (which well over twice the size I need), but you only carry bras with cup sizes of DD or less? Wouldn’t you expect a woman wearing size 28 panties to need something a little more substantial? I’ve always wondered about that.

Can I get a sports bra please? Come on people! We can send satellites to Saturn, but we can’t create a well-fitting and (this is the key) supportive sports bra over a C cup. How am I supposed to exercise without uni-boob (the melding of two breasts into one unit carried at the center of the chest) or quadri-boob (the bra becomes so tight it cuts your boobs off at the top and causes extra boobage to spill out the top)?

Just because I can fit into a size 14 doesn’t mean my boobs can.

Face it, big boobs are like pets. You can’t ever forget about them. You have to take care of them, moniter them, check in on them regularly. If you don’t, who knows what could be going on! Big boobs have a life of their own. If you don’t keep an eye (and a bra) on them, they’ll run away, and you’ll find them years later, hanging at your knees.
I envy the A-Cuppers who can throw on a shirt over bare skin. Revel in that feeling of freedom for me!

Dykes to Watch Out For

I feel like such a rockstar! I wrote to one of my favorite comic authors/artists, Alison Bechdel, who allowed me to use one of her Dykes to Watch Out For images as a link:

Small victories. You have to celebrate the small victories.

How My Memory Works

Earlier today I had a hilariously funny post planned. It was so funny, you would be laughing right now. However, in between the time I watched Hulk Hogan say something weird on VH1's "I Love the 90s" and now, my brain stopped working. So now, the only part of the post I can remember is this:

If I ever see Hulk Hogan say...um...somthing...funny....again, it'll be too soon!

It just isn't the same. Maybe someday I'll think of it, and then it'll be really funny.

Really.

I swear.

Dammit.

Never Ceases To Amaze Me

God, my neighbors are stupid.

Male Neighbor directly across the street seems to have an unlimited supply of money for all sorts of toys. In the past few months he has purchased a (very large) truck, a Spa (still sitting in their driveway), a dunebuggy (to keep the other one company?), and a brand-new BMW 325xi. Approximately one week after purchasing the shiny, silver Beemer, it disappeared and has not reappeared.

I heard that shortly before the car disappeared Male Neighbor was bragging that was happy to "scare the crap out of anyone willing to take a ride."

Since the car vanished, I have seen Male Neighbor hopping on crutches several times, apparently nursing a broken femur. Ow. His wife broke three ribs and needs plastic surgery.

Apparently the BMW 325xi doesn't corner quite as well as he hoped at 110 mph (or so a little bird told me).

And the Other Half

All archives are posted, although I was more than a little embarrassed over the first few posts. I've tried to remain faithful, however, and I have not edited them (much).

Half the archives are moved

And it only took me and hour and a half. I'll do the rest tomorrow.

There's something special about the first time

Big ups to Miss Apropos for giving me my very first referral on MuNu.

Fancy Me!

This evening was very exciting in the Frinklin-Ensie household. Frinklin sat with me for a couple of hours going over the differences between MT and...um...everything else. I even managed to teach him a thing or two, so you may see some updates his site pretty soon.

I'm most proud of my "Frink-i-link" title. I crack myself up.

Another word created this week was "MuNumentum," which was used in reference to the excitement I felt when my MuNu blog became a reality. Frinklin asked if I would be posting to the new site immediately and I replied that I needed to get my layout up first. His response, "Aren't you concerned you'll lose your MuNumentum?"

The lamest injury EVER

Every time I think I'm fixed, I find out I'm still broken! I've turned into quite the athelete this weekend. Frinklin and I took the dogs to the beach this morning and walked couple of miles. We came home around one and I went swimming for a half hour, and then I went horseback riding this evening with my sisters.

As the sisters and I ended our ride this evening the LAMEST injury in the world flared up again. I'm big on breathing, and when it began to be painful, I was not pleased.

Excuse me, I need to go ice my chest again.

Movin' On Up...

I'm moving!!!

Even though you see three (count 'em all you grammar Nazis) exclaimation points above, I'm actually sad about leaving Diaryland. It's been a wonderful home and I love the easy format and the friends I've made here.

In just a short while, you'll need to come visit me in Munuvania, just a short distance away at bothhands.mu.nu. Don't judge it yet--I haven't had a chance to put the site together yet, so it's just an empty shell currently. Hopefully this weekend it'll get better.

It was really quite a nice ego-boost, being invited to move, as you must be nominated and voted in by the current members. Pixy Misa hosts the site, and Frinklin as been there for some time. I forbade The Mister from nominating me (no nepotism, thank you), but I was lucky enough to be noticed by Susie. Thanks again Susie!

I'll keep posting here until my Gold Membership is expired (which won't be for a couple of months), but eventually I'll stop communting between the two and permanently settle in Munuvania.

"We finally got a piece of the pie-i-i"

Coming Attractions

I'm so excited to be moving!

I'll be here soon!

The Adulteress

Yep! That's me!

After the memorial service on Saturday, Leonard took me out to lunch, as we hadn't seen each other in some time. We stopped by my house to see if Frinklin wanted to come with us, but he was all wrapped up playing Knights of the Old Republic on the computer (as opposed to the X-Box, which apparently wasn't good enough, was it, Nerdy-Nerderson?). Being the good wife that I am, I asked Frinklin what he would like me to bring home for him and Leonard and I went off to the best Mexican place in town.

Before I go any further, let me point out that our favorite place is really my family's favorite place We moved to this town 19 years ago and we've eaten dinner at this same restaurant EVERY Friday night for every one of those 19 years. I skipped a few meals when I lived too far away or was busy going clubbing in my early twenties, but I could only escape so long. Now that I actually enjoy spending time with my family I make sure I'm there for each and every free Friday night meal. The waitresses and owners know us, they reserve a table for us without a phone call, and they recognize me with or without blue hair (on a side note - when I had blue hair, a lady at the DMV offered to change my official hair color to blue on my driver's license if I still had it when my old license expired, too bad I didn't take her up on the offer. Woulda been cool, huh?). My father and I are also the only two people in existence allowed to write checks at this restaurant. After 19 years, you get a special priveledge or two.

As soon as we arrived, the waitresses started whispering. Finally, they brought us our menus. Leonard and I ordered our iced teas, all the while observing the staff staring at us. I know I had gotten a weird tan line at the memorial service, but couldn't figure out what exactly the issue was. Finally, our waitress asked me, "Aren't you here on Friday nights�"

"Yeah, my family and I come in. You're new right?"

"Well..." She glances at Leonard and leans in conspiratorially, "That's not your husband...right�

I was so surprised that the waitresses would notice, or even care, that I was there with another man, I didn't know what to say. I realized I was making myself look guilty, so I busted out with, "OH NO! He's just a friend! We actually just left Frinklin and are about to order some food to take home to him!"

She looked at Leonard and then back to me with the "Of course you are" head nod and raised eyebrows. Obviously she had a connection with Frinklin and wasn't going to let this issue go. When I actually did order Frinklin's usual meal, she relaxed a little more. When Leonard and I left a big tip and walked up to pay the bill, we finally seemed to convince them that we weren't having a torrid affair. The owner of the restaurant even told me, "You won't believe what, and who, we see in here. People in every day of the week with a different person!"

All I could think was how stupid do you think I am? Would I really take my new man to the same place I've been to a thousand times with my family and my NEW HUSBAND?

I mean, I would at least go to Sizzler or something?

Thanks Howard

It was a long weekend.

Saturday morning I awoke for my 7:30 am Weight Watcher’s meeting and found a note on the door reading, “Leonard called. Someone you two knew died. Call him back.�

I hadn’t heard from Leonard in months, possibly a year.

How random. And rather frightening.

I had been having a strong feeling that I needed to call Leonard for several days…since Monday or Tuesday. I rarely get those premonition/sixth sense sorts of feelings, but when I do, I make sure I follow through with them. I was nervous about a friend driving a few months ago. She totaled her car. I called another friend I hadn’t heard from in over a year to find out he had been arrested…crap like that. Anyway, back to the story…

I returned Leonard’s call and arranged to go with him to the memorial service of Howard, a guy we had grown up with. I didn’t know Howard well, but remembered riding the school bus with him—a class clown type, always willing to do anything for a laugh. He graduated two or three years ahead of me from high school, and I only saw him once after my own high school graduation.

We lived on the same country road. He on one side of a poorly banked curve in the road, I on the other. They always say that car accidents are more likely to occur within a few miles of your own home. It was 8 years ago, about 9 pm; I was driving the Bronco II my Dad had given to me just a few months earlier. As I rounded the curve, a white cat streaked across the road in front of me. I immediately hit my brake and pulled my wheel to the left. I missed the clutch and the engine died. I lost my power steering, and my power brakes. I couldn’t steer out of the skid. I looped twice around the middle of the street and tipped over onto the passenger’s side of the car.

I still remember so clearly the images though my windshield. Everything was at the wrong angle. So wrong. My ancient seatbelt had held, although it had spent the last several weeks coming unfastened at random moments without my consent. I noticed the telephone poles and trees lining the road. I marveled at my luck at ending up smack in the middle of the road, and not split by any one of the numerous tall targets. My headlights, now creating a vertical line instead of the usual horizontal, beamed down the road, alerting oncoming drivers of my dilemma. I pondered how I would get out of the car. How I would get all four wheels back on the ground.

I became aware of voices a moment later.

“Are you OK?� A head appeared near the windshield. My door was opened by several hands and arms. They continued to hold it open as I literally climbed out my door, now facing upwards. I stood in the middle of a small crowd, made up mostly of slightly older boys and girls, all breathing hard from running down a long dirt driveway to get to me.

Howard asked me again, “Are you OK?�

I was. I told him so. I wasn’t crying. I was overwhelmed and possibly in slight shock. He sat me down on the side of the road and called the other young men to him. Moments later they broke their huddle and surrounded my car, checking for glass and blown tires. Amazingly, the car was in relatively good shape. Nothing serious broken. The tire rack had taken the brunt of the weight. All the tires appeared to be whole.

Following Howard’s lead, they grabbed my car and pushed. Creaking and banging, they lifted my car upright. It bounced on the heavily scraped tires.

“Can you drive?� Howard asked.

“I think so.�

“Good! How about giving us a ride back to my party?�

“OK.�

The crowd opened my doors and grabbed on tight. I restarted the engine and we bounced down the dirt driveway to Howard’s house. I dropped them off (all 15 of them or so) and thanked Howard and his friends for their incredibly timely assistance. I drove home and burst into tears.

I never saw Howard again. He drowned on July 2nd while celebrating the Fourth of July weekend at the Colorado River.

Over 200 people attended his memorial at his house, the favorite gathering place for he and all his friends. At least 50 people spoke of his kindness. Howard was willing to stop whatever he was doing to help whoever needed him. He was a mechanic and a construction foreman. He built houses, repaired cars for free, and appeared to be ever-ready to crack open a beer with his buddies, just to talk.

I wasn’t one of Howard’s friends, but he helped me just the same.

A Drinking Song

William Butler Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

Alien!

Oh my God! The Bunny Troupe has done it again at Angry Alien. Click here to see the bunnies' 30 second version of Alien (it may take a little longer than usual to load, as they've had a lot of traffic lately).

Enjoy! I did.

PS--make sure you stick around for at least 30 seconds after it ends--foreshadowing!)

Charity Work For the Lazy

This is really cool. Charity work for the lazy--it only requires the movement of your index finger.

Good news today! I have only eaten 5 of today's Weight Watcher's points and it is 7:21pm. I was in one L-O-N-G meeting today that lasted 4 hours...no lunch breaks.

Bad news today--payday isn't until tomorrow so even if I wanted to eat those points in Wendy's chicken strips, I can't.

Damn.

I like my job and I'd kinda like to keep it

Yesterday was one of those days I REALLY wanted to sleep in, forget that I had a HUGE meeting at Bob’s Hogs, and mostly forget that I have a job. How can I have a week where two of the most important meetings EVER occur on either side of the day off I have today?

They actually sent someone out from the Bob’s Hogs HOME OFFICE, which located in a place that gets ASS COLD (thank you, mzthang12), to investigate some things here in So Cal. God, I hate being so vague, but I’d like to stay employed for a while. I’ve been so crazed about this meeting; I haven’t had much of a bloggable life in the last couple of days. This is all I’ve thought about, so I’d feel a tad dishonest if I don’t write about it a little.

Now, from the perspective of this side of the first meeting, I know I’m damn good at my job. There wasn’t a single problem with anything I’ve done. That makes me feel pretty damn good, as I bust my ass (with the help of many others) to make sure it’s perfect.

Now, I just need to survive tomorrow’s second meeting. The meeting with my biggest customer and the possibility of losing my biggest customer if things don’t go well. Oh God. Wish me luck!

Gotta Get My Google On!

The two most popular Google searches that show up in my referrals are �pee dance� (both hands is #8) and �best deodorant� (#6).

Other random Google referrals that resulted in unknowing searchers being directed to both hands include:

�posture orthopedic shoe�

�Dowager’s Hump�

�hands in pants� (?)

�Indigo Girls bootlegs 2004�

�Brad Pitt feminine� (a German Google search)

And, my favorite—�how to put air in tire at gas station�

Not that this is very interesting to anyone but me (and maybe Frinklin a little), but my bloggable experiences have been limited as I am still �injured�.

Voodoo!

Today I was standing at the registers ringing up orders. I put a sign at my register that read, “SORRY-THIS REGISTER IS CLOSED, PLEASE PROCEED TO NEXT REGISTER� (or something along those lines). A woman in a red shirt wearing sunglasses (inside! A pet peeve of mine) approached me. Being the customer-service oriented person that I am, I asked if she needed assistance. Our conversation progressed as follows:

Customer: “Yeah, do you have voodoo dolls here?�

Me: “Ah, actually, I don’t know. I know we have carried them in the past, you’ll need to go to the help desk located in the center of the store and they can take you to it if we have any voodoo dolls.� (I point to the help desk)

C: (giving the “are you retarded?� head tilt and facial expression) “Don’t you work here?�

Me: (giving the “my, you are quite a bitch!� smile) “Yes. For seven years. In fact, that’s what I’m doing right now. However, since we are such a large store, I don’t have a running inventory in my head of what we currently carry. As I said, the help desk can assist you further.�

Hm. I can’t imagine why this woman might need a voodoo doll. I kinda thought about looking for one shortly after our conversation ended.

I broke my...chest?

Keeping with my promise to blog each day this week, I will continue to type through the pain. The horrible chest pain!

Okay, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. Just a bit.

I stayed late today to try and get some boxes packed up, and while lifting a particularly heavy box, I strained some muscles. In my chest. I had a moment of fear, thinking, this is a new chest pain I've never had before, I hope it's not serious, before realizing that my heart was beating just fine and I could also breathe. I've heard that having a heart-attack makes you feel as though an elephant is sitting on your chest, and this didn't feel like an elephant. More like a large dog. Or maybe a goat. Possibly something as large as a pygmy hippopotamus (interesting fact on that website under the subtitle Special Adaptations; Skin Secretions: The pygmy hippo does not swear [sic]. I think they mean to say that it does not sweat. But I could be wrong. Maybe it has a heightened sense of morality).

The point is - it fucking hurt. I went to the closest urgent care to make absolutely sure I hadn't seriously injured myself. They were really excited to see me, as they had closed just 5 minutes before I arrived. And I got to fill out some really fun patient information forms as it was my first time there. I got all of 1 minute with the actual doctor, who diagnosed me with a chest muscle strain from five feet away by never touching any part of me. He said the first couple of days will be painful, but I should expect about an 80% reduction in pain after that time. If I'm not feeling better after this weekend, I have to go in for X-rays. Whoopie.

What really sucks is that my job lately can be broken down into two important areas: paperwork and moving heavy boxes. I have a lot of heavy boxes to move, and no chest muscles to do it with. I wish I had an assistant. Then I could delegate my responsibility to him/her. Maybe they can just appoint me a valet, or something. I'm not very good at delegating, but I'm sure with practice I could get much better.

I also saw a new homeless man today on that same corner. Nothing really remarkable about him, but his sign sign now said: WAS LIVING THE GOOD LIFE UNTIL A DRUNK DRIVER HIT ME. NOW, BACK AND LEGS ARE FUCKED UP. ANYTHING WILL HELP. GOD BLESS.

God bless you sir. And your fucked up back and legs.