The ongoing battle between Calgon and Chuck E.

I have the feeling that I may have to escape the office during lunch.

I have been fighting a sore throat and general malaise since yesterday. This morning, I woke up with a cough that leaves my throat feeling raw, along with the unmovable urge to stay in bed. I went to work anyway, where I was greeted with at least six e-mails all asking for the impossible, along with the distinct stench of coffee burnt to tar at the bottom of a coffee pot.

After tending to the coffee pot (by turning off the burner) and the e-mails (half I replied to, the other half I flipped the bird at), I made every attempt to let my dear co-workers know that I would rather not try to speak today, despite the fact that I sound just like Selma Diamond. Most were sympathetic; the small gaggle of idiots that constantly raise my ire proceeded to ignore my ill health and send calls and patients back to my office, left and right.

Excuse me? Let's send oncology and hematology patients, who are more than likely either already sick or highly susceptible to illness, to the sick-ass person suffering in the small, enclosed office in the back!

More patients coming in right now. Goodness. On goes my SARS mask.

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Dirtbag.

Lately, instead of calling perturbing people fucksticks or douche nozzles (or just "nozzles," for brevity's sake) under my breath, I'm calling them dirtbags. It's just been in the past few days, and I think it's because I can't get the following joke out of my head:

What's the difference between a Harley and a Hoover?
The location of the dirtbag.

Oh, well. It'll probably pass when the word "fucktard" gets back in my good graces, which is probably right after I've called people "dirtbags" twenty times before I clock out today.

Today's going pretty well. It's a slow Friday, which is almost how I prefer them. I'm not running around the office like an idiot trying to put out small fires like I often do on Wednesdays, which is the day all the doctors are here, and everyone's scrambling for room. And air. And sanity. Most of the patients coming in on Fridays are regularly scheduled for treatment on those days, and they're usually all set, just chilling in their chemo chairs, reading, talking on their cells, watching a movie, or sleeping.

Oh yeah, if I've neglected to mention it before, I got a new job last April. The fact that I'm approaching a full year at this "new job" is just crazy. I work for a bunch of oncology/hematology doctors now, and strangely enough, I really, really enjoy this job. I get to interact with patients a lot less than as a therapist, but a whole lot more than when I worked at Eviltown, USA (one of my many pet names for the job before this).

The people I work with are pretty cool, except for one person who has made it her mission in life to make her job seem more important than it actually is; and who, by her actions, makes it less and less meaningful in the process (now, that's some talent). I don't want to waste precious time on her, as it wastes my energies...

Oh, now, here we go. She just walked into my office, sat down next to my desk, and proceeded to stare directly at this screen for fifteen seconds before making up some lame excuse that she was trying to find out what music I was listening to. Oh, so it's not being a nosy, nicotine-soaked idiot who wants to pretend she has any say over me or what I do?

Now I have to cut this post short, before she comes back in here, snoops some more, then reports some tall tale to someone who actually has authority.

Effing dirtbag. I swear.

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Agony, thy name is bronchitis.

So, it turns out that the horrid hacking, congestion, and lung spasms I have been enduring for the past week or so wasn't the black lung after all. Well, shit. A sick day from work (which I hate taking only three weeks into a new job) and a fabulous visit to the walk-in clinic later (where, no lie, the guy ahead of us in line was daubing at a wound on his knee with a paper towel, and looked as if he had fallen into three feet of water, as he was soaked from his jorts down so badly that one of the nurses removed the chair he was sitting in from the waiting room because the cushion was soaked through), I now sit here, full of antibiotics and possibly addiction-forming cough medicine, trying not to cough and pee myself at the same time.

(Looking back at what I just wrote, I apologize wholeheartedly for the above catastrophe of images. I mean, honestly: jorts. This is where I live, people!)

Anyway, besides neglecting the blog, I've been sick for the past week or so. I've spent all weekend in a haze of medications and being able to do absolutely nothing but hydrate myself and find the following gem, which was the result of stopping for but a second to link the concepts of jorts, mullets, Z. Cavariccis, and Tyler Benchfield:

HEART ATTACK
Tommy Puett
Singingfool.com

I know, I know. It's almost as if I'm trying to make you suffer right along with me. But honestly, if you can make it past the minute mark in that video, well, you are much, much heartier than I. And didn't he sing this on one of the LGO episodes, whilst attempting the Running Man? Christ, I need to get out of my head sometimes.

I'm off to plot the purchase of Life Goes On: Season One on DVD so that I may be able to cleanse myself of this ridiculousness and go back to when Kellie Martin was my hero.

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Thirty and flirty and... oh, who am I kidding?

I swear, my main mission for the day was two-fold: get through work without killing anyone, and ending my evening watching 13 Going On 30, because, well, dammit, the day's here, and I owe it to myself. I also miss seeing La Garfleck on my tele on a regular basis, but that's neither here nor there.


Oh, come on. You know you miss them.

Alas, things didn't pan out exactly the way I had hoped. I did manage to complete my workday sans casualties, but I didn't have the time to watch La Garfleck "spectacularrrr" (imagine Uncle Jimbo from South Park during the episode when he went to Mexico with Ned to get illegal fireworks, and you've got it). Oh, well.

I did, however, manage to have a great dinner whilst sitting in a booth behind who had to be the strangest couple I have ever witnessed eating together (ever), and across from a booth occupied by what I could only conclude was a rehearsal for one of those "real-life" dining scenes on Laguna Beach.

It did get weird, however, when Mr. Pretentious (half of the Strangest Eating Team Ever power-couple) started to talk louder, thus drawing the attention of the LBers. This somehow encouraged him and he started what I guess was his style of flirting, which consisted of him getting even louder and having his two-person conversation heard by the whole restaurant, along with openly mocking the LB Rehearsal Girls. The two LBers (and the rest of the joint) grew increasingly uncomfortable, while I was just glad Ben and I were sitting behind the guy, so he couldn't really turn around and engage us in his general dickery.

Did I neglect to mention that when the Eating Team got up in the middle of their meal to burn one, it was only then that I noticed that Mr. Pretentious looked to be as tall as Danny Devito, and his female counterpart was a fucking Amazon? Sorry I forgot. But enough of my Birthday Dinner Theater.

So, this is thirty. Not much different from twenty-nine, except I referred to myself as thirty today, and the reality of those words coming out of my mouth somehow startled me. I'm not sure why.

As long as I keep getting carded for R-rated movies, however, I think I'm good.

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