|Have you seen my mind? Wait, let me leave it a note...
||[Jun. 21st, 2011|09:33 am]
Dear Arthritis, |
Thanks for acting up this weekend. The first weekend I had to myself -- no obligations to anyone except what I needed to get done. Which was putting stuff away, cleaning and yardwork. So, thank you for making every joint in my hands hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, that was awesome. BTW, it's now workweek time, so you can stop now.
What the hell made you volunteer to make a cake for the boss's birthday on Monday? The first weekend you had no obligations to anyone and you just COULDN'T STAND IT, could you? You could have been laying around on the couch, or cleaning the bathroom and instead you were making a cake for your office mates. Your mission to alert everyone to the horrors of storebought cake and evangelicalize homemade cakes, re-awakening palates to the joy of real butter, sugar, and actual cream CAN TAKE A GODDAMNED REST, ALL RIGHT?
Dear Poison Ivy,
I found you. With my extra-sensitive poison ivy alert senses, I found you BEFORE the Captain ran you over with the mower, aerosolizing you, spraying you all over half the yard and putting me in the hospital and ensuring that I could never use the lawnmower or any of the tools with cushiony handles again. And wrapping myself up in double layers of clothing, plastic bags pulled over my arms and legs, double kerchief across my face, safety glasses and triple layers of gloves, I pulled you out. Every last bit of you. You are gone. HA!
You are such a moron. Seriously. You gird up for battle against the poison ivy, carefully wearing two complete layers of clothes, choosing shirts that can be unbuttoned and shrugged off, inside out, to avoid contamination, pants and boots that can be stepped out of, before being thrown in hot wash or alcohol bath. Three layers of gloves. So that you can remove two possibly contaminated layers of gloves and still have a glove on to get your possibly contaminated clothes off with and you pull all three off at once, get sloppy putting a new one on because your hands are all sweaty and wet. And the cuff of your sleeve just taps the inside of your wrist. And instead of running in and pouring alcohol all over, you shrug it off. So now you have a mass of oozing blisters right where your wrist rests on the desk as you type. Nice. THIS is why they won't let you work at Fort Detrick.
What, work wasn't hard enough? I gave up 6 hours of my life on Sunday to come in and chip away at it. So, you have to get infected with Malware on Monday, freaking Monday, and essentially be down for nearly 6 hours...because you didn't want me to get ahead? Next time, send me a damn e-mail telling me to not bother coming in on the weekend. And wear a condom. Christ on a T-pin!
Dear IT Guy,
Thank you for exorcising my computer. Although it would have been nice if at the very beginning, when your colleague said "This will just take a few minutes"...if she'd been right. OR, as soon as you realized that it was going to take you 2-4 hours, THAT would have been a good time to suggest that I get a loaner laptop to use. Because by the time we got there -- an hour before I had to leave, and got the laptop and got it set up and found an empty room to work in, I was sort of mentally beyond being effective. Oh, and when I sent you the e-mail telling you that my password was on the sheet of paper facedown on my desk, since you had to finish up after I left...I didn't think I would have to include a reminder to LEAVE that paper facedown on my desk, or destroy it or pretty much anything that didn't include leaving it FACE-UP for everyone else to see. Seriously.