Tagged by the Rat Crips

I've gone back to editing old entries so I can post them on another weblog and, if I'm going to be funny, I'll have to do it now. Any reflection on my early life can only end badly. Some days I can be funny about that, too, but mostly not. And even when I am, you have to wade through all of the horror to find it. I'll spare you.

Besides, I'm really furious. I got this lovely pair of impeccably creased black pants back from the dry cleaner yesterday and, when I glanced down a little while ago, I saw a couple of white marks running across the front of the left leg. Mind you, I have no idea at this point who's responsible for the affront to my tidiness. It could just as likely be me as anyone else.

Wait a minute. It just occurred to me that it could be the work of one of those nefarious rats that seem to hang around in gangs downstairs in the kitchen. One of them probably tagged me and I'm the official property of the Rat Crips now. I'm going to have to get right over to the other side of the building and warn Money Man and his family to avoid the downstairs altogether. My kitties have once again attracted all of the rats fleeing sewer repairs and property development. That damn kitty cabal!

Having noticed the imperfection of my pants, I started searching for my recently acquired Tide pen. It was nowhere to be found, so I tried a damp paper towel. Whatever it is, it's not coming off. This is Kelly Ripa's fault. She convinced me on her wildly annoying commercials to buy one and now look what's happened. I've relied on it and it's missing in action.

I'll just have to remember to keep my right leg crossed over my left for the rest of the day. Maybe I could try to only let people see me from the side. I might be able to sidle in through doorways and then casually drape my left hand over the offending marks on the front of my left thigh. Or right hand. Whichever seems more jaunty at the time.

Of course, that's not to say that I have much interest in how I look at work these days. Lately I don't even use any makeup. I wash my hair and arrive at the office while it's still wet. (Thank you breast cancer that made all my hair fall out and then grow back curly!) Sometimes I put on a little blush and mascara after I get here, but I don't see any point in even doing that. My genial co-workers have gotten accustomed to seeing me in much worse condition than this.

For several months, I had an incredibly white, moon face with dark shadows under my eyes. I was bald and had sores on my hands. My fingernails were black and deeply ridged. I weighed 20 pounds more than I'd ever weighed in my life. I only had one breast. Compared to that, I look positively fabulous now. I carry makeup around with me in my cancer tote bag, just in case I feel inspired. I rarely do.

My Meyers-Briggs personality profile notes that I'm strategic thinker. Comes in handy when you've been rat-tagged. I'll let you know what I come up with, you know, in addition to the walking sideways thing.

I'm A Uniter, Not a Divider

I've somehow managed to thoroughly confuse myself. That in itself isn't uncommon, but this was a huge medication error. I take Ambien every night so I can sleep. (It's difficult to sleep through the night when one has post traumatic stress disorder because of hypervigilance.) I've recently begun taking another medication during the day to address chronic depression and anxiety (ptsd, again). Cutting to the chase: I mixed up the two drugs, took the Ambien during the day and the other drug at night. I have no idea how long I've been taking the antidepressant twice a day.

I only slept about two hours last night and I'm pretty revved up now, but my doctor says things should stabilize soon. I suppose that means I'll stabilize soon. I'm a joy to be around right now, being very high on the Perky Scale. I suspect it's a little like being around someone who's had too much to drink; it's great if you're high, too, but annoying if you're not. Being ever so considerate as usual, I have not tested my fellow employees by interacting with them. That's so me.

On the Crazy Land front, Money Man is working his way up to either a massive stroke or coronary event. Since his return from vacation, he's been happily enraged every day. You know how he loves that. It's like mother's milk to him. I can only hope that I've played some part in it because it's important to me to contribute to the happiness of my co-workers, especially Money Man.

If I had to speculate (and you know I do), I'd say he's lumped me in with all the other "idiots" and "morons" (his favorite words) who work here. I think he's been harboring at least a little bit of hatred towards me for years, believing that I'm virtually useless here in Crazy Land. The Kitty Wars have raised my status in that regard. Now I'm totally useless. Of course, as far as Money Man is concerned, it appears the only people he believes aren't useless are him, his daughter and his son. Go figure.

Loathsome will be making a 12-week return engagement soon. The project he's been working on (and I use that term loosely) has been postponed. You know, he offices in my wing of the building. It can only be good news for me, because everything and everyone looks better when they're in close proximity to Loathsome. A little bit of his astoundingly good looks are bound to rub off on me as we pass each other in the hallway.

He's been here from time to time, but Owner has chosen to meet with him downstairs. I don't think there's any way we can make Loathsome stay downstairs for 12 weeks. My solution to the problem? Move Loathsome over to Money Man's wing and, just as a bonus, move Useless One and Shoe Lady over there, too. Or they could all move downstairs. It will be an all-day love fest, five days a week. As an added attraction, I'd be happy to drop by and make Money Man chat with me for an hour or so from time to time.

Much like our President, I'm a uniter, not a divider. And I'm a hell of a problem solver. I've fixed the entire office situation in one fell swoop. Let the love fest begin.

Holding Functional Brain Hostage

Here's a good decision: This morning as I was putting breakfast and lunch items in my tote bag (extra large bagel and 8 prunes for breakfast, apple and yogurt for lunch), it occurred to me that maybe I'm not eating enough. I'm sure that's a correct assumption. (No! Stop throwing stuff at me, people! I admitted I'm wrong!) What's missing here? I know. I'll take some dry-roasted nuts with me in case I need a protein infusion. Do I really want to do that? Once you start eating them, it can be difficult to stop. I was sane enough and awake enough to remember I've compulsively eaten stuff at the office as a means of coping with stress.

I should just measure out an acceptable quantity and take that amount. The thought crossed my mind, but ultimately time was not on my side. I had about 8 minutes to get to work. I live close to my office, so 8 minutes is no big deal. However, there was no way in hell I was going to figure out how to measure the stupid nuts, find a suitable container and stash them in said tote bag in time to make my 7:00 a.m. curtain call. So I just left. I did not bring any extra food with me.

Right about now, as I near the end of the day, the body is feeling terribly misused and has taken the brain hostage. The brain can not work until some sort of acceptable fuel is provided. Crazy Employee next door has M&M's. As a matter of fact, I think virtually everyone here has a chocolate stash. I don't think the body will consider that an adequate ransom to give the functional brain back.