I know, I know. Where have I been. Well, the point is, I'm back. For now. For an unknown amount of time. And if I disappear again, all complaints can be directed to Time Warner Cable & Internet Assholes.
My internet and cable went off on October 9th. And since then, it hasn't come back on consistently for more than about an hour at a time. This, to me, is a totally annoying and unacceptable inconvenience. And every time I call for support, they can only offer me mid-day appointments.
"How's Tuesday between noon and four?"
"Uh, actually, I have to work so...how about a weekend appointment?"
"Well ma'am, I'm showing that our earliest available weekend appointment is on November the 12th."
"So, I've had no internet or cable for over two weeks and you want me to wait three MORE weeks to get it fixed?"
"Ma'am, we'd be happy to credit you for the time that you were without service."
"That's not the POINT, Lashonda. The point is I'm dead in the water without internet and I'd like to think you'd do a little more to fix it for me."
And so it goes. I'm left constantly refreshing the local wireless networks for a signal I can pirate for 2 minutes while I get a quick hit of email to tide me over until I can check again from work. And naturally, 2 minutes just ain't enough time for me to write up a blog post for all y'alls.
So, like I said, I'm back, but probably not for long. If I vanish again, don't blame me, blame the assholes at Time Warner. I do.
10.23.2005
10.07.2005
signs of improvement
So far today...
-I've had no blood taken or attempted to be taken.
-I haven't fallen up or down subway stairs or any other stairs.
-I have no (new) severe burns.
-I haven't seen a mouse, cockroach, or centipede.
-I have not fainted or thrown up in a store or on a bus.
-I have not been blown up by a terrorist.
-I've had no blood taken or attempted to be taken.
-I haven't fallen up or down subway stairs or any other stairs.
-I have no (new) severe burns.
-I haven't seen a mouse, cockroach, or centipede.
-I have not fainted or thrown up in a store or on a bus.
-I have not been blown up by a terrorist.
Plus...
-It's Friday.
-It's monthly Jeans at Work day.
-I just ate some toast and it's still in my digestive system.
Overall, I'd say I'm off to a rockin' start.
10.06.2005
healing wounds
Apparently, I was subconsciously worried about the hole in my hand from the blood draw yesterday, because this morning I sealed it shut with a hot iron.
More specifically, I tripped over one of the 18 pairs of shoes on my floor, lunged into the ironing board with force, jolting the hot iron from its upright stance right onto to vulnerable top of my already achy hand.
I hate this week. HATE IT.
More specifically, I tripped over one of the 18 pairs of shoes on my floor, lunged into the ironing board with force, jolting the hot iron from its upright stance right onto to vulnerable top of my already achy hand.
I hate this week. HATE IT.
10.05.2005
every cake has icing
It's barely 10:30 in the morning, and already it's been one of those days.
It started off with a doctor's appointment that, like many of my appointments, resulted in someone wanting to draw blood from me. This is, almost always, a huge problem. You see, I appear to be some sort of veinless mutant, and the typical nurse can never find my veins. This results in, well, a morning like today's.
One vial. Just one vial is all they needed. And as is common practice for me now, I advised the nurse of two stipulations:
1) I MUST lie down when the blood is taken. This is not because I can't watch, or I get woozy. It's because my body seems to think it is under attack by some intruding predator, and it likes to shut down all systems to avoid serious injury or damage. This resulted in the Great E.R. Visit of '99, but has ever since prompted me to aks for a horizontal position when drawing blood.
2) You MUST take it from my right arm. My right arm has hidden veins, but my left arm has INVISIBLE ones. So even though most medical personnel will attempt the right arm, find it difficult and switch to the left, they inevitably return to the right when they see how juicy it is in comparison. So really, let's all save ourselves the trouble and restrict the blood draws to the right arm.
So the nurse Irene nodded at my rules, and started the methodical tap-tap-tap of the elbow crease, looking for a vein. She did the whole rubber-band-on-the-bicep trick, and the whole make-a-fist-and-release trick, and I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn't seeing a vein. I knew I was in for it.
"Let me just...see...your left arm," she says. I sigh, knowing it'll go nowhere. She repeats the tap-tap-tap, the rubber-band-on-the-bicep thing, and the make-a-fist-and-release thing, all to no avail. "You're right," she says...like all the others. "Your right arm is better. So let's just see if I can find something here."
Then begins the much-dreaded "poke 'n dig." This is the process by which, when a nurse or technician doesn't actually see nor feel a vein, they jab a needle in anyway, and move it around inside the flesh in the hopes of catching the bloodstream. Irene, like many others before her, was digging fruitlessly as I reassured her "It's not you, it's me," and "Most people send in their best needlers for me."
With a frustrated snap, she removed her latex gloves and said "I AM the best needler here. I'm gonna have to send you down to the lab, sorry." She filled out the paperwork for my ONE VIAL of blood, and sent me down to the third floor.
The lab was deserted. A woman from across the hall saw my isolation and called the lab phone to send someone to the front desk. I was "greeted" by a cranky bitch who scoffed at my meager lab request and pre-existing flesh-colored band-aid.
"What do you mean 'they can't do it'?" she barked.
"I mean, THEY CAN'T DO IT. See?? They tried. She couldn't find my veins, so she sent me here."
"Well I'm completely backed up," she said, gesturing to the ghost town that surrounded us. "It'll be at least an hour."
"Well, I have to go to work. It's already 10:00. Can I come back later?"
Then the bitch picked up the phone and said into it "What time can you come in sir?" Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "2:30," she said, followed by "Not you sir, hold on." She looked back up at me "Come back by 2:30."
"Fine, but will you still be 'all backed up' at 2:30?"
"Not you sir. And I said BY 2:30. Yes sir."
I snatched my paperwork back out of her hand, and called the elevator to leave. But then I decided I'd be better off going back UP stairs and finding the nurse in the OTHER department who successfully took my blood a few months ago. When I requested this at the front desk, they all looked at me like I was initiating some sort of political coup.
"Well, I don't know if WE can take your blood if THEY requested it," the nurses told me. I showed them my band-aid.
"Please," I begged. "THEY tried and couldn't hit a vein. The lab sent me away. I don't want to have to come back for this." And like some undercover code, they nodded at each other and ushered me into a back room.
There, an entirely different nurse, Rebecca, offered to take a stab at it. (Literally.) But now that my right arm was off limits, it left her only to repeat the tap-tap, rubber-band, make-a-fist, "poke 'n dig" routine in the left arm. I grimaced as she re-angled, retreated, and rotated the needle. Eventually she pulled it out, slapped a band-aid on it, and said "I have to go into your hand."
Ah, the dreaded hand. You know why no one does this? Because it FUCKING HURTS. But sensing my strong desperation to get this taken care of today, Rebecca suggested and I agreed to go into the hand. And so she did, and I stared at the ceiling as coldness and tingling replaced my left hand. When she was done, she stuck a fluorescent orange band-aid on me, and sent me away. I thanked Rebecca profusely for her efforts.
Finally I left the clinic, headed to the subway to get to work. I had that slightly abused feeling that usually follows excessive under-flesh needling, and longed for a cool orange juice to replenish myself. I got on the train, rode the 4 stops to 33rd street, and beat all the people out of the turnstiles. So naturally I was thrilled to be at the front of the pack, bounding up the stairs until...The Icing came.
Without warning, and still without ANY idea as to a cause, I started to fall up the stairs. It seemed to generate first from my feet, which somehow miscalculated or caught an edge. Immediately I thought to the back of my metrocard, which warns "72% of subway customer injuries are caused by slips, trips and falls. Don't be come a statistic." And yet here I was, slipping, tripping, and falling....with EVERYONE behind me on the stairs.
And yet the falling continued. The weight of my schoolbooks in my bag just acted like cement blocks pulling me down, down, down until I was fully laid out on the stairs. I felt immediate burning pain on my big toe, right shin, and right bicep, as well as the gentle tug under my already sore right elbow from the guy next to me who tried to catch me. But, he didn't. And, I totally fell on the subway stairs...in front of all the "slow" people that I rushed ahead of so THEY wouldn't hold ME up. Uh, yeah.
So, that's my day by 10:30. I'm the laughing stock of 33rd street, where everyone is talking about "the girl with all the band-aids, even a fluorescent orange one, who totally wiped out on the stairs for no apparent reason." Good times.
It started off with a doctor's appointment that, like many of my appointments, resulted in someone wanting to draw blood from me. This is, almost always, a huge problem. You see, I appear to be some sort of veinless mutant, and the typical nurse can never find my veins. This results in, well, a morning like today's.
One vial. Just one vial is all they needed. And as is common practice for me now, I advised the nurse of two stipulations:
1) I MUST lie down when the blood is taken. This is not because I can't watch, or I get woozy. It's because my body seems to think it is under attack by some intruding predator, and it likes to shut down all systems to avoid serious injury or damage. This resulted in the Great E.R. Visit of '99, but has ever since prompted me to aks for a horizontal position when drawing blood.
2) You MUST take it from my right arm. My right arm has hidden veins, but my left arm has INVISIBLE ones. So even though most medical personnel will attempt the right arm, find it difficult and switch to the left, they inevitably return to the right when they see how juicy it is in comparison. So really, let's all save ourselves the trouble and restrict the blood draws to the right arm.
So the nurse Irene nodded at my rules, and started the methodical tap-tap-tap of the elbow crease, looking for a vein. She did the whole rubber-band-on-the-bicep trick, and the whole make-a-fist-and-release trick, and I could tell by her hesitation that she wasn't seeing a vein. I knew I was in for it.
"Let me just...see...your left arm," she says. I sigh, knowing it'll go nowhere. She repeats the tap-tap-tap, the rubber-band-on-the-bicep thing, and the make-a-fist-and-release thing, all to no avail. "You're right," she says...like all the others. "Your right arm is better. So let's just see if I can find something here."
Then begins the much-dreaded "poke 'n dig." This is the process by which, when a nurse or technician doesn't actually see nor feel a vein, they jab a needle in anyway, and move it around inside the flesh in the hopes of catching the bloodstream. Irene, like many others before her, was digging fruitlessly as I reassured her "It's not you, it's me," and "Most people send in their best needlers for me."
With a frustrated snap, she removed her latex gloves and said "I AM the best needler here. I'm gonna have to send you down to the lab, sorry." She filled out the paperwork for my ONE VIAL of blood, and sent me down to the third floor.
The lab was deserted. A woman from across the hall saw my isolation and called the lab phone to send someone to the front desk. I was "greeted" by a cranky bitch who scoffed at my meager lab request and pre-existing flesh-colored band-aid.
"What do you mean 'they can't do it'?" she barked.
"I mean, THEY CAN'T DO IT. See?? They tried. She couldn't find my veins, so she sent me here."
"Well I'm completely backed up," she said, gesturing to the ghost town that surrounded us. "It'll be at least an hour."
"Well, I have to go to work. It's already 10:00. Can I come back later?"
Then the bitch picked up the phone and said into it "What time can you come in sir?" Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "2:30," she said, followed by "Not you sir, hold on." She looked back up at me "Come back by 2:30."
"Fine, but will you still be 'all backed up' at 2:30?"
"Not you sir. And I said BY 2:30. Yes sir."
I snatched my paperwork back out of her hand, and called the elevator to leave. But then I decided I'd be better off going back UP stairs and finding the nurse in the OTHER department who successfully took my blood a few months ago. When I requested this at the front desk, they all looked at me like I was initiating some sort of political coup.
"Well, I don't know if WE can take your blood if THEY requested it," the nurses told me. I showed them my band-aid.
"Please," I begged. "THEY tried and couldn't hit a vein. The lab sent me away. I don't want to have to come back for this." And like some undercover code, they nodded at each other and ushered me into a back room.
There, an entirely different nurse, Rebecca, offered to take a stab at it. (Literally.) But now that my right arm was off limits, it left her only to repeat the tap-tap, rubber-band, make-a-fist, "poke 'n dig" routine in the left arm. I grimaced as she re-angled, retreated, and rotated the needle. Eventually she pulled it out, slapped a band-aid on it, and said "I have to go into your hand."
Ah, the dreaded hand. You know why no one does this? Because it FUCKING HURTS. But sensing my strong desperation to get this taken care of today, Rebecca suggested and I agreed to go into the hand. And so she did, and I stared at the ceiling as coldness and tingling replaced my left hand. When she was done, she stuck a fluorescent orange band-aid on me, and sent me away. I thanked Rebecca profusely for her efforts.
Finally I left the clinic, headed to the subway to get to work. I had that slightly abused feeling that usually follows excessive under-flesh needling, and longed for a cool orange juice to replenish myself. I got on the train, rode the 4 stops to 33rd street, and beat all the people out of the turnstiles. So naturally I was thrilled to be at the front of the pack, bounding up the stairs until...The Icing came.
Without warning, and still without ANY idea as to a cause, I started to fall up the stairs. It seemed to generate first from my feet, which somehow miscalculated or caught an edge. Immediately I thought to the back of my metrocard, which warns "72% of subway customer injuries are caused by slips, trips and falls. Don't be come a statistic." And yet here I was, slipping, tripping, and falling....with EVERYONE behind me on the stairs.
And yet the falling continued. The weight of my schoolbooks in my bag just acted like cement blocks pulling me down, down, down until I was fully laid out on the stairs. I felt immediate burning pain on my big toe, right shin, and right bicep, as well as the gentle tug under my already sore right elbow from the guy next to me who tried to catch me. But, he didn't. And, I totally fell on the subway stairs...in front of all the "slow" people that I rushed ahead of so THEY wouldn't hold ME up. Uh, yeah.
So, that's my day by 10:30. I'm the laughing stock of 33rd street, where everyone is talking about "the girl with all the band-aids, even a fluorescent orange one, who totally wiped out on the stairs for no apparent reason." Good times.
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