Back in the saddle...

My return to the workforce was today.  Of course, the day I return, we have executives visiting.  Probably not the best day to sport Crocs, so I wore some sandals that were the least offensive to my mending toe.  I pulled off an acceptable ensemble.

I arrived at work to people welcoming me back, hugging me and advising me how they were happy to see me.  What is the appropriate thing to say when someone says, "It's so good to see you!  Are you glad to be back?"  It was too soon to be bitter, so I said I was happy to be back.  A small part of me was actually a little happy to be interacting with humans again.  It was getting kind of old to be with the "kids."  "Spanky, get off me.  Spanky, you want to go outside? Spanky, you wanna come inside? Spanky, are you getting out of bed or not?  Spanky, don't eat that crayon."  And then, one of the managers came up and said, "it's good to see you, I know you don't really like to be hugged, but I want to give you a little hug."  She then stood off to the side and gave me a kind of side hug that allowed for her to flee to safety if things went wrong.  I likened it to someone petting a tiger at the zoo that was allegedly tame, but that everyone was scared of just in case it wasn't tame.  I told her, "I am too a huggy person.  Everyone thinks I'm not...but I am..." She didn't look like she believed me.  It's just one of those things I have to live with, I guess.  Of course, it is true I don't want just anyone hugging me...it's so hard to keep the riff-raff off, sometimes the interpersonal signals just overpower me.  Probably a self protection mechanism.  I should welcome it, I suppose.

Anyway, Valerie has been filling in for me and showed me several piles of papers, all of which were important to some degree.  She had my email up, which contained a butt-load of emails and then I was advised of multiple things that needed to be handled, pronto.  I mean, my God, we were out of white, gold and pink balloons.  I needed to get that order in immediately. Plus, some people needed Post-its.  I know where the Post-its are.  I'm like, way important. My boss informed me that he has a lot of lost time to make up for and would be harassing me extra to make up for it.  Oddly, this comforted me to some extent.  The universe was as it was when I left a month ago.  And so, the day went on like this.  It should be documented that I start work at 8AM.  It took until 9:03AM before I uttered my first, "This is the stupidest thing I have heard of..."  I think that showed remarkable restraint.  I've really grown during these last few weeks while I was at home watching HGTV, coloring and napping.  Case in point, today Lizard Lick shows up at my desk and informs me that the copier in his department isn't working.  I ask for the serial number, he provides it.  I go to put in a trouble ticket for it, but the system can't find it.  I ask Lizard if the number is correct.  He assures me it is.  Hmmm.  I go about three rounds with the company that is contracted to fix the copiers.  I'm about to get western with them and then I thought, "you know, I'd better check this out."  I go limping down to his department and check the machine, and there, clearly marked on the lid, is the serial number Lizard gave me.  Well, this isn't my first rodeo.  I pull up one of the menus and sure enough, there it is, the real serial number.  Another case solved by Inspector Admin.  I asked the previous person that used to care for the machine's service calls about it.  She informed me that yes, she did recall something about the wrong serial number being on there.  I informed Lizard Lick that his department had just been down-graded and renamed from the Technology Center to the Non-Technology Center.  Seriously.  He said he would remove the sticker.  The point of this silly little story is that I never even got mad and I didn't call anyone stupid.  This rest period has really done wonders for me.  Why, it's like having your ears rubbed!

I'm not going to lie, at about 1pm, I was thinking it was nap time and at about 3pm, I was thinking that this was my designated coloring time, but I pushed through and achieved a full work day.  A proud day, indeed.

Now, let's talk about my plants.  The orchid I was given for Admin Professional's day is pretty much a plant skeleton with a couple of dying buds.  Valerie says this is normal.  She says it is going into a state of hibernation.  I look at my other plant and it is pretty sad.  Dead leaves everywhere.  Valerie says, "I know it looks dead, but I did water it.  It will be fine."  I have no choice but to believe this.  It's at this point I see that my lip gloss is on a different part of the desk.  I said, "did you use my lip gloss?"  She said yes, she used that, tried on my glasses once, and then used my deoderant one day. I guess a girl has to do what a girl has to do.  I'm just glad I didn't leave my toothbrush in the desk.

I guess that is pretty much the recap.  Can't wait for more fun tomorrow. 

Last Day of Captivity

Today is my last day of captivity, aka, approved medical leave from work.  I have vacation tomorrow and then another day after Memorial Day, so I will be back to the grind next week on Wednesday.  Kind of mixed emotions about it, because who really wants to go back to work, but then, who wants to be trapped in their home with a bum foot with nothing to do? 

Due to my boring little life as of late, I haven't really blogged much.  Last night I was called out on Facebook for not blogging for a while, so, as I laid in bed last night, I tried to think of what has happened that I could blog about.  I have had a few things that were blog worthy, but I can't really blog about them due to the key players might not enjoy my version of the story.  Anyway, I got a mini flashlight, a piece of paper and a pen and jotted some things down before falling asleep.  I woke up this morning, and here is what I had on the post-it:
 - Sex after 60
 - Betty White
 - Hugh Heffner
 - Walking farts

Ok, so clearly I have some explaining to do.

So, the other day, the presence of Cosmo magazine in my home led to another discussion about sex.  I was informed that by 60 years of age, sex will be just a thing of the past.  I was kind of saddened by that, if it is true.  I mean, I don't think that Will and I will be like Betty White or Hugh Heffner being the face of elderly virility, but still.  I have had a lot of time to think about what getting old looks and feels like as I sit on the couch day in and day out not being able to enjoy the beautiful weather and being in pain with every move I make.  But none the less, I'm holding on to the hope that I can get healthier and party like a rock star well into my 80's at least.

For example, take a look at my grandma.  She is like, 84, I think, and she runs around her little farm taking care of her goats, chickens and cows and her significant other is 20+ years younger than her.  Try keeping up with her!  However, I have been told by my mother and others around her age, that somewhere around 60 is about the time that the walking farts kick in.  I don't care what scenario you create, the walking farts are not sexy.  Apparently, you get to be of a certain age where you just can't keep them in.  Thusly, you are just walking along and "toot" there it is.  I can picture it now...I've got my walker, I'm shuffling it along, seductively gyrating my hips (or the gyrating could be because I have a bad hip), heading for Will.  He pops a blue pill and then reaches for his oxygen.  As I get closer, an attack of the walking farts kicks in and it's like magic, you know why?  Because Will can't hear anymore and his hearing aid is off.  That's right, when his walker collides with mine, it's as if we weren't elderly anymore, it's like we are spring chickens again....and then, it's back to watching Wheel of Fortune for post coitus cool down.

I know women can do kegel exercises for their girl parts, surely there must be some sort of butt clenching exercise to stop the walking farts?  I can picture the workout now, "Squeeze...and hold....good, now squeeze and hold, that's right, you're working up a sweat now! Buns of steel are in your future!" Instead of it being called "Sweating to the Oldies" it can be called "Sweating with the Oldies."  I don't know, just a thought.

Anyway, clearly, as I spend hours coloring in my My Little Pony coloring book and watching daytime TV, the monotonous hours have taken a toll on my brain activity.  I'm hoping that someday I will be able to fully walk on my foot again and once again join society as a functional human being.  I don't exactly know what I am going to do about foot wear when I return to work.  I can't wear anything other than some single strap flip-flops.  I can kind of wear Crocs.  Maybe I'll get some Crocs and bedazzle them!  See what happens when you spend too much time coloring?

Well, I guess that is enough blogging for today, I think most of you probably agree.  Some people have been spared today and for that...you are welcome.

Before I go, a shout-out to my good pal's Valerie and Dan for coming to visit me in my primitive state while in captivity. Also, to those that brought me ice cream, you saved me. We won't talk about what happened on the scale this morning, but this too shall pass. And, to Will...for better or worse...till death do us part.

Here's to being back to kicking ass next week!  woot woot.

Staple #2...you. bitch.

Today I had a follow-up at the doctor for my foot.  It was time to change the bandage, check out my progress and get the staples removed.  Will and I discovered last night, due to the "foot-in-bag, shower gone wrong" debacle, that I had staples in my toe.  We were not supposed to touch the dressing, but since my foot got soaked, Will was changing it for me. I'd already been warned about the pitfalls of infection, and quite frankly, I don't need that kind of drama, so against doctor's orders, we removed the bandage. My eyes got wide in horror as I saw the skin graph area and the toe incision area.  One of the staples was actually piercing that dressing on my toe, so when Will gave it a little tug, I gave a little scream.  We mutually agreed the bandage would have to stay until a doctor intervened.

Which brings us to today.  The nurse brings me in and starts unwrapping my toes.  She gets to the part where the bandage is stuck to the wound.  I advised her this was a sensitive area. I said, "do I need something to bite on to bear down or some sort of sedation?" She says, "No, it shouldn't be bad...you know what? I'm just going to leave that for the doctor."  And with that, she left the room.  Mom had brought me in to the doctor today and was sitting with me. She says, "it's probably going to hurt a little, your brother screamed when they took the staples out of his head."  Note to self, adjust thinking on her Mother's Day present. I knew it was going to hurt a little.  My money says it was going to hurt A LOT.  The doctor comes in and assures me it will be fine.  He uses the staple cutter thing-a-ma-bob and yeah, that first one hurt. Manageable, but yeah, felt that.  Now for staple number two.  Holy-love-of-ice-cream-and-My-Little-Ponies, THAT HURT!!!!  The doctor apologizes, it wasn't his intent to hurt me.  He digs at it again.  At this point, I'm panting, I'm crying, I'm gripping the table.  This just turned into natural child birth where a 15lb baby is coming out side-ways.  The doctor stopped and investigated.  It turns out the staple was bent/crooked up inside the toe.  Must have been a staple malfunction during the surgery, I guess.  The doctor says this is not normal and he's sorry, but this bad boy is coming out.  Mom volunteers to hold my hand, but then notices the death grip I have on the table and says, "never mind, I see your hand is already bright red from your grip on the table."  A few seconds longer and the staple is finally out.  Wow.  That was epic.  And we had two more to go.  At this point, the doctor is not a credible source of information about my anticipated pain level for the next two.  I kept my grip on the table firm and my breathing erratic.  I felt staples three and four, but luckily they lacked the punch of good 'ol staple number two.  If I were a smoker, I totally would have needed a cigarette or possibly some marijuana.  You know, the marijuana might have been a good idea before the staple removal.  Too bad I am not a smoker.  Now, "special brownies," that I could do.  If I would have  had a special brownie I would have been laughing and pissing myself the whole time the doctor was screwing around with that bitch, staple number two.

In the end, appointment survived.  I put my knee on my little knee scooter and off I went.  You know, that knee scooter is a great way to pick up geriatric men.  I had at least three different guys say, "hey, nice scooter, where did you get it?"  It was like I had a Corvette knee scooter.  One lady pulled her husband away and said, "YOU will NOT get one of those, you will fall off and break your neck!"  When my life story plays out on the Lifetime network someday, that scene is going to go down like this:  Hot Blonde enters hallway and her long blonde hair flows behind her as if the wind was in her face and the song Wild Thing plays in the background. She smiles and all the 50+ crowd starts drooling as their little blue pills start kicking in.  That's right, she was the hottest thing on a knee scooter they'd ever seen.  This was a day they would never forget...

Ok, that's enough for today, I think, this is getting scary.  More adventures with my My Little Pony coloring books and daytime TV are waiting for me on the couch...

Day Four of My Captivity...

Day four of my captivity, a recap of recent events.

Well, my toe surgery was done last Friday. I strolled into the waiting room in my pink pony pj's, my pony socks, flip-flops and a sweatshirt.  No make-up, no jewelry, no lotion, just squeaky clean.  I was a vision.  They said to dress comfortably, but as I walked into the waiting room, I don't think everyone else got the memo.  The room was packed and everyone looked at me like I had just escaped from the mental ward.  Whatever, haters. I guarantee no one else in that room was as comfortable as I was.

The surgery itself was the easiest thing ever.  I get on the table, Bob, the anesthesiologist guy, comes over and asks me why I'm here. At this point, at least 10 other people had asked me why I was here.  I even had to mark the toe with a marker that the doctor was supposed to fix.  I should have marked my boobs with specific instructions on what cup size I wanted to be, but they don't give you much time to mark yourself and put that gown on before you do your runway walk through the surgery center. Anyway, I start to tell Bob why I was there and then it was like, "Whoa."  I said, "Bob, that's some good stuff...." and that was the last thing I remember saying until I was in the recovery room trying to remember to swallow and lift my head up.  Holy crap, did anyone see the truck that hit me?  I didn't feel a thing, this was cake.

After coming fully awake, the nurses just really wanted me the heck out of there.  They kept saying, "you can  go home whenever you want to."  Okay nurse Betty, if this is the case, then take this damn IV out of me and could I have my pony PJ's back?  The nurse gets my pj's out and says, "oh, my granddaughter would love these...." Probably lucky for me her granddaughter wasn't fat, otherwise I would probably have had to go home half naked.  They emphasize how you are not supposed to wear anything of value.  Nurses must have a real problem with sticky fingers.  I guess. I feel like I got away with murder as my pink pony pj's are one of the most valuable and coveted items I own.   Anyway, as I am sitting there waiting to be sent on my way, they inform me that I cannot drive (duh), I cannot sign any important legal documents and I need to keep my foot above my heart for several days.  Oh, and I'm supposed to keep weight off my foot.  They ask me if I have crutches.  No, I don't.  I figured someone would provide me some if I needed them.  The nurse gave me a dirty look.  Perhaps someone could have advised me pre-surgery that I needed crutches, a walker or some sort of hover-round scooter. It wasn't a big deal during my pre-op appointment, but now, apparently, I get the dumb-ass of the year award.  Oh, I don't know, let's see, list of things to tell the patient pre-surgery, "tell her she could die, tell her she can't sue us, tell her she will be put under....tell her she will need some sort of support to walk after the fact...nah."  I didn't give it much thought because, hello, it's a bump on my toe, it isn't an amputation....well, it was for the bump, but not for my foot!

The nurse angrily rolled me outside to where Will had the truck waiting.  As I go to get up she says, "Now, no weight on that, hop, hop, hop..."  I turned and looked at Will's 4x4 truck with side rails to get in and then the nurse.  I wasn't hop, hop, hopping anywhere.  I stand up so I could attempt to get in the truck with the least amount of trauma.  I got in, but it wasn't pretty.  I hoist my foot up on Wills dashboard so I look like a soft flour tortilla  folded in half waiting for some taco filling.  Yeah, this is comfy.  So, off we go to get drugs and rent a little knee scooter thing so I don't have to put weight on my foot.  Fun times. 

I probably should have unfolded myself from the truck and tested the knee scooter because upon arriving at home and crawling up the stairs into the house like a drunk, I tried to use it and it hurts my knee.  I have bad knees, I should have known. I also have tendonitis in the shoulders, so thought crutches would be bad, a walker is kind of stupid, how is that going to help?  So, here I sit in my house realizing that my body is so broken that I am truly an invalid if I can't put weight on my foot.  A wheel chair seems extreme for a stupid toe surgery.  My Mom brought over all the stuff left over from Dad being ill.  I have his walker, his crutches, his cane and then the knee scooter we rented.  None of which are helpful in my shoebox size home.  I'm not even going to tell you how I get up the stairs at night to get to bed.  It's too traumatic. You add the heating pad, the ice packs and all the drugs, my home is now a convalescent home.  I just aged myself 40 years.

All this got me to thinking, this is how people give up and then end up 800 pounds and lying in bed with nothing other than a sheet over them and then their family and friends bring them McDonald's meals and then they end up on some sort of news program or health network. THIS is how that happens!  The drugs make me sleepy, I have to keep the foot up or it throbs in agony and I watch TV all day in between naps.  I'm going mad.  Mad I tell you.  And I want ice cream.  How long is this going to last?  How long before Oprah,  Jillian Michael's and Bob Harper show up and start having me do hand exercises so that I can attempt to lose weight?  How long before I can shower? Like a real person?  Sponge baths are severely over-rated and I almost got stuck in the splits position trying to shower with half my body in and half my body out of the shower.  It was just a toe surgery, it wasn't a knee replacement!!!  It was just my big toe, it wasn't a limb amputation and yet here I sit, an invalid.  A dirty, stinky, crabby, hungry invalid.  I may never walk again for all I know.  What if I don't?  Is this all I have to live for? Is it? 

I know, I know, calm down.  I think the Oxycontin is making me crazy, but I can't help but think that ice cream could be the antedote to craziness.  I mean, it can't hurt to try, right?  I better get back over to the couch and settle down.

Cake vs. the fat girl

I've been eating really healthy for the last couple of months.  I mean, like seriously.  People have tried to pull me down with their sugar, carbs and glorious concoctions of sinful deliciousness, but I have prevailed.  I have been strong.  Until this past weekend.  I don't know what happened, but it all fell apart.  I mean, I do know what happened, kind of.  Due to my impending toe surgery, I can't have any medication of any sort, so as not to thin my blood and bleed out through my toe...and die.  I mean, I already told you about how they won't resuscitate me if things go south, so I can't take any chances.  But, as in many things in life, timing is everything.  It turns out the very week I need to be medication free, it's PMS week.  I don't want to get graphic, but a girl needs her meds.  Without them, I am a raging, eating, cramping nightmare.  I know that was a way overshare, but you know what, kiss my ass, this is my blog and I will say what I want! <=  see what I mean?

Anyway, the weekend resulted in a few indiscretions.  I felt bad.  I felt like a failure, but in the end, it was what it was and it was over.  It is now Monday, time to buck up and get back on the wagon no matter how much my body was fighting it.  However, as I arrived at my desk, there was that stupid chocolate cake that my "friend" had left on Friday.  I had ignored it on Friday because Friday I was a weight loss rock star.  Friday I was in charge.  Friday I was in the zone.  Monday, I was a tired, pissy, hormone-infested mess.  I made it until 10:30am, otherwise known as "cake-thirty."  I cut a small piece.  I wouldn't over-indulge.  I just needed some chocolaty goodness.  I just needed a fix.  I just needed...something.  It was delightful. My body protested a little and then I told it to shut the **** up and eat the damn cake and I didn't want to hear another word about it.

The morning progressed, then it was lunch-time.  Stupid grilled-chicken salad and over-ripe apple.  Who wants that?  Not this girl.  This girl wants cake.  I cut another piece, another small piece.  And that is when weight-loss karma Kicked. My. Ass. I should start by saying that it had a really rich, very creamy, thick frosting, almost with a syrupy texture and a moist two layer chocolate cake, with more rich chocolaty goodness between layers.  As I said, it was a smallish piece.  I went to take a bite and it proceeded to fall apart and land front and center on my chest.  In my effort to catch the cake, I smooshed it against my chest and smeared it down the front of my shirt.  I tried to wipe it off and it smeared even further.  Two napkins and two Shout Wipes later, the entire front of my shirt is soaked.  It was a silky shirt I wore today.  I doubt it will recover.  I am pretty sure the oil from the frosting has stained it forever. 

To add insult to injury, my shirt also reeks of chocolate frosting.  With every breath I take, I inhale chocolate.  I smell like I bathed in it.  And now all I want to do is eat cake or vomit.  The remainder of the cake is sitting over on the other side of my area.  I want to teach that cake a lesson. I want to show it that it isn't going to screw with me.  I want to show it what the inside of my guts looks like.  Take that chocolaty goodness.  You bastard.  The other side of me knows I should take the high road.  My friend "Smarty Pants" tried to talk inspiration to me today and told me that you learn the most about yourself when you are at the lowest points in your life. You learn who you really are and what you are made of.  What I have learned in my darkest hour is that, I want cake and that I am primarily comprised of cellulite.  And, that I have a bad attitude.  I think that pretty much takes care of my dose of inspiration today.

Ok, it's time to go home now because I have to get this shirt off.  I'm like the biggest scratch and sniff sticker EVER.  I could be brutally raped if I went to a Weight Watchers meeting tonight.  It's that bad.

Now, what am I going to put that cake in to transport it home....?

Do not resuscitate

I had to be at work at 7AM this morning due to some high maintenance people were going to be there and they needed breakfast and they needed lunch and they needed projectors, flip charts....blah, blah, blah.  I won't go into all the details, because, who cares?  Anyway, it was a stressful morning, especially since I had to be to a doctor's appointment by 11:30AM.  Because I am a rock star and because my good pal Valerie is super helpful, I was on schedule.

I arrive at the doctor's office and take a seat.  My appointment is at 11:45, but I had to be there at 11:30 for paperwork or whatever, you know, because time is of the essence.  If I don't get there on time, I would get a reprimand, a charge for missing my appointment and I'd have to reschedule, so like I said, I was on time.  The same cannot be said of the doctor.  I sat there for 45 freaking minutes.  I watched as the waiting room filled and cleared, filled and cleared and still, I was there.  I was mad.  I was drumming my fingers, tapping my feet, I was doing the elaborate heavy sigh.  There was no question I was unhappy.  I saw the receptionist look at me and then scurry down the hall.  She came back and slunk down low in her seat so I couldn't see her face over the computer.  It's safe to say, she was aware I was pissed. 

Finally, with two minutes left before I walked up the the counter and got in their face, the door opened and some girl says, "CASSANDARA?"  I stared at her and said loudly, "CASSONDRA."  She took me in the room and asked me the usual questions and I answered with non-friendly, curt answers.  "Is all your medication the same since we saw you two weeks ago?"  I said yes.  Then she asked how tall I was.  I looked at her incredulously and said, "I don't know, I guess 5'6", what does it say from two weeks ago?"  She wasn't sure.  I said, "Why do you ask me how tall I am.  I'm forty friggin' years old, it isn't like I'm going to go through a growth spurt!?"  She gave me some lame excuse about how it's all charted on a timeline.  I said, "Well, I doubt I will sprout up anytime soon." 

I should pause and explain why I was there today.  And, don't worry, it doesn't involve my uterus, my "hoo-hoo," my butt or my boobs.  It's pretty G rated this time.  I have a cyst thing on the inside of my big toe, it needs to be removed.  It's so big, they have to take a skin graph from another part of my foot.  Glamorous, right?  Well, this is my "pre-op" appointment to go over the details.  On a side note, I forgot to ask him why they wouldn't take my skin graph from someplace where there is plenty of extra skin, like my ass.  Maybe on the day of surgery I can ask.

So, anyway, the medical assistant gives me the run down of what the hospital is and is not liable for during my procedure on the first form.  The second form is where it gets a little dicier.  They inform me that if anything should go wrong, they are not going to attempt any heroic measures to save me, they won't resuscitate me.  Well, first, thanks for nothing Asshole.  Secondly, it's a cyst on my toe, not a four-way heart by-pass.  Good Lord, how deep are they going to go on that toe?  What exactly are they going to do, put me so far under I can only recall that I'm a blond Caucasian woman when it's over?  I mean, I'm sure I probably won't necessarily die, but if I do, I have to agree not to hold them liable.  Hey, Space Cowboy, if I'm dead, I'm pretty sure my signature is irrelevant.

The doctor finally comes in and looks at the form in my hand and the look on my face.  He says, "oh no, you've read the form.  What is worrying you?"  How do I answer that question?  I said, "Well, first of all, let's talk about me dying from toe surgery."  He went on to explain while it is highly unlikely, complications could arise at any time.  Why, my toe could get infected, my skin graph area could get infected.  I could have to lose my leg if this sort of thing gets out of hand, and well, let's be honest, I could die. We finished talking about the procedure, how drugged up I would be and how I would have to be severely bandaged because, as the doctor said, "you never know where you just put your foot, it could be somewhere a dog defecated on the ground."  Well, that could be anywhere in my home surroundings.  I'm screwed.  I didn't tell him about the horses, I don't think he could have handled that imagery.

I finally finished and stopped at the bathroom before I left.  I looked in the mirror and my whole face and neck were beat red.  Yes, that wait in the lobby did itself proud.  I can only imagine what my blood pressure was.  Pity they didn't check.

I returned to work and informed everyone of my dire situation.  If things go south during my surgery, I have signed and agreed that I'm OK with them not resuscitating me.  Valerie asked which of my desk toys I was leaving to her.  I don't think anyone is taking this serious.  It is my toe for crying out loud!!! 

You will all be sorry if I do actually succumb to the white light.

A lot about nothing

I took the day off yesterday. When I woke up, I thought, I can't do this today.  Monday came too soon and I am ill prepared to handle the drama of the day.   If I go to work, something will happen that will send me over the edge. And so, the 'ol "Anal Glaucoma" (can't see my ass going to work) card was played.

It was a glorious waste of a vacation day, but I am okay with that.  It was windy and rainy and so I was stuck in the house.  But it was a good stuck.  I'd like to recap my day.  I watched five episodes of America's Next Top Model that were waiting on my DVR. I can't express how much I love skinny girls in turmoil.  I watched four episodes of House Hunters and three episodes of Love it or List it.  It was an amazing day of nothingness.  I did do some laundry and  I did cook dinner for my man. After all, it was the anniversary of our first date and it was Spanky's birthday.  It was a special day.  I made meatloaf and  cauliflower "mashed potatoes."  For those of you thinking, "What the heck is that?"  Well, let me tell you, it isn't much.  We are trying to eat healthy and we can't have potatoes and someone told me about steaming cauliflower and adding a few minor ingredients and presto! mashed potatoes.  There was no "presto!"  What happened was I had to add cheese to it to make it edible.  I should have added bacon bits, sour cream and butter, LOTS of butter...and then I should have had some ice cream.  Wait, ice cream? Where did that come from?  I'll tell you where, it came from the girl that had turkey bacon earlier in the day.  Bacon comes from pigs.  The End.  I don't know what the hell people are thinking making it out of turkey.  It's not okay.  Anyway, this healthy lifestyle is making me crazy.  For the love of God and all that is holy, someone give me a friggin' french fry...and some bread...and pizza....and chocolate cake.  Wait, don't, it's just the cauliflower talking.  Please, go about your day.

Anyway, I enjoyed my day of nothing.  It felt magical, like a unicorn ride.  And then today came.  The problem with today is yesterday.  All I could think about was lying on the coach, under a comforter, with my good dog Spanky.  Instead, I had to get back into the grind.  I walked into our office and it was as if I had walked into the circus.  Not the normal mental circus, but literally, a circus.  You see, we are doing a contest in our center that revolves around the Hunger Games theme.  Maybe you've heard of the Hunger Games? Kids killing kids, it's a great book and movie, so I hear.  Anyway, each team picked a "district" or theme for their team and decorated their area.  I wish I could post pictures, but I probably shouldn't. 

My favorite team decorations had to be the group that was representing "animal husbandry."  I don't exactly know what their definition is of animal husbandry, but the following is what this admin witnessed.  A black curtain surrounding their area.  Inside the area were various stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling.  They had a horse and a unicorn hanging from the ceiling, I might add, and that is not okay. And then, there was blood.  Blood everywhere and then stuffed animal carnage.  They had cut up and de-limbed these poor stuffed animals and added fake blood all over them.  It was as if the Texas Chainsaw Massacre had met Toys R Us.  Splatter marks everywhere.  It was sick, it was twisted, it was genius. I went and grabbed my camera to take some pics. Sadly, upon my return, much of the carnage was cleared away.  As it turns out, HR is not too fond of stuffed animal sacrifice.  I wish I could have helped tear those little animals apart, it would have been good therapy.  I mean, I like stuffed animals and if anyone touches mine, their toast, but stuffed animals that I don't care about? No problem.

So, that was the highlight of my day.   I got to take badge pictures for our newest new hire class.  It never ceases to amaze me how I take someone's picture, I show it to them and they are all irritated that they don't look like Miss America.  Are you kidding me?  My camera is not a magical device, it doesn't morph people into superstars.  Or people won't like their expression.  Well, genius, you're the one with the stupid look on your face, exactly what am I supposed to do about that?  These people wear on me.  You know who else wears on me?  People that  talk on their cell phones in the bathroom and go on and on about their drama.  Look, I just want to pee, I don't want to listen to you go on and on about your personal life.  It almost made me want to pretend I was on the verge of explosive diarrhea  and start groaning and then start going on and on about how I couldn't get my underwear off and that I think I crapped myself.  Someday, I'm gonna lose my mind and I'm going to do it.  I'm going to do what I dream about doing.  Someday.  But today wasn't that day.

It's kind of sad that when I finally live my dream, it will be me pretending to crap myself.  Such is my life.