So, again, it's been a little while. Sorry. I've only recently managed to scratch my way out from under a pile of grading and genius level self-sabotage. And what greeted me in the free and rarefied air?
A tooth extraction.
Now, I've needed to get this sucker yanked for the past year. It's not that I've got bad teeth (best my parents' orthodontist could provide) and I do take care of them, but I have a small jaw. A VERY small jaw in a rather round face. I also inherited my father's enormous teeth, and they just don't fit. My roots poke out through my gums, become infected, and I want to die of pain. Ergo, I had my lower back molars root canaled ages ago. It might have been six or seven years now (holy shit, am I really that old?!) and once the root is gone, the tooth is dead. This effectively means that no matter how precious you are about what you chew and how well you brush, they become brittle and crumble like chalky cement. It's no fun, and if you'd like a story, ask a friend of mine what it's like when yours truly turns to you just before holy communion and holds out her hand with a visible chunk of tooth in it and smiles, leaking blood from the corner of her mouth. Yeah, I have good friends.*
This whole matter is complicated by the fact that I've still not managed to get registered at a dentistry here in the UK. It is almost entirely covered on the NHS, but the demand far outstrips supply. Additionally, I don't have a car, so if I can't easily get there via bus (wherever there might happen to be) I don't go. Luckily, there's the Dental Information and Advice Line and the kind people there sorted me out an emergency appointment at the dentist office here on campus. This is where this gets unfortunate.
The dentist was a tiny little polish woman who clearly knew her stuff but just couldn't generate the leverage or strength to RIP THE MASSIVE, DISINTEGRATING MOLAR FROM MY ACHING HEAD. Pliers only crumbled it further, and even with a very kind, soft-spoken hygienist holding my hand the pain and pressure was dizzying. Eventually the dentist had to cut it out and that's where the trouble lies-- in addition to using the rest of my jaw for leverage, tearing the corner of my mouth with just the pressure of trying to twist it out, and bashing the rest of my teeth to get to it in the first place, I have a raw red cavity where the tooth finally gave it up.
They prescribed me an antibiotic, the most interesting thing about which being the repetitive and numerous strongly-worded warnings from everyone who mentioned it not to drink any alcohol at any point whatsoever lest I be instantly violently ill (and maybe cause a fleet of Chinese mathematicians to divide by zero and end reality as we know it). What they didn't mention was that a FULL WEEK ON I would still be awoken at night by searing, stabbing pain. I've now finished my course of antibiotics and, while shivering in agony in bed in the wee hours of this morning, I decided to call the emergency help number on the paperwork with which they sent me home and see precisely what was up. I get an appointment at 11 this morning. If this is socialism, sign me up.
The good news is that it isn't infected and it seems to be healing well. She referred to it as a "very traumatic extraction" and apparently the gum around where the tooth used to be bore the brunt of the assault and that's what's causing the stabbing pain in what feels like my ear canal. I'd never felt like I'd been shanked with a stiletto in the ear before, and the lance of pain down my neck/throat was a new and exciting twist to the devil's grab-bag of masochism I'm collecting. The dentist flushed the socket for me, repacked it with more antiseptic gauze (half of which has already fallen out) and sent me on my way with an antiseptic mouthwash to use twice daily for the next week or two (but not any longer because apparently it stains the teeth... fantastic).
It's not infected. It's healing well. It may very well and in all likelihood continue to hurt this badly for the next week. Awesome.
Showing posts with label Bad Luck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bad Luck. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
What a craptastic day.
Seriously. There were several occasions when today could have gone well, but decidedly did NOT. On the short list of things not going well, there was the Great Key Escapade of 2007 and the Kiesh Incident. Let me explicate...
The day already wasn't going all that well when I set out from my apartment, dog in tow. Muki and I have been getting along alright, but I get the feeling that her owners aren't all that up on discipline. Or maybe she's just taking advantage of the fact that I'm not her usual walker, I don't know. Regardless, I had her on the retractable leash, you know the kind-- plastic handle, cord which winds out to 15 feet, standard leash material up near the clip that attaches to the collar-- all very standard. This comes in as important later, so bear with me. Now, it takes about 25 minutes to walk to my student accomodation from the house I'm currently minding. This route takes us through Seaton Park, a bit of a shortcut, and with lots of big green spaces and interesting smells for the pup. However, Muki has dominance issues. They'd said that she didn't react well to other dogs while she's on a leash, maybe something happened to her when she was a puppy, they were pretty hazy on the details. But no worries, she's a good dog, we'll all be fine. And we are fine. However, she nearly took my shoulder out of its socket lunging at red squirrels on the walk to the student abode. I was heading back to my place to take a shower (as all the soap around here has bit of kelp and hippie in it, at which the jew-fro outright scoffs) and grab some different clothes, even trade in the long grey wool coat for the shorter blue wool jacket. I take my shower, Muki growls at my one remaining roommate, I grab the newly chosen coat, cell phone and keys out of the door and head back for the house, thinking I might still have time after the walk to get to the grocery store (oh wonder of wonders). We'd made it past several other dogs on leashes without a major confrontation, mostly done because I pull her in so tightly when I see another dog on the horizon and try to point her nose in another direction until they get past. However, we were almost out the park, and I thought the coast was basically clear. Coming down the hill at the far end of the park, near Wallace Tower where the path curves to the street, Muki had out about 12 feet of her leash as a man appeared from around the corner. Now, he wasn't on a bike, he wasn't running, he didn't have a dog with him on a leash or even one off a leash, he was JUST WALKING. (They'd told me that sometimes Muki is attracted to runners or bicycles because of the rapid movement.) It was at this point where she growls, barks, and LUNGES AT HIM. I yell, try to pull up the now fully extended leash, and watch in horror as she continues barking ferociously. I grab at the cord with my right hand and pull back, but Muki is a rather strong beastie, and the cord literally burned through my hand. I'm not sure how, but within 30 seconds she was back at my side, rolled on her back at my feet after several menacing words on my part. I held her on her back until the man walked past as I appologized profusely for what had just happened. He passed without further incident, and we struck out for home. It was at this point when I noticed the blistering burns across the pads of three out of four fingers on my right hand, the palm itself, and the ripped cut on the inside knuckle of my index finger... OW. ow, ow, ow.
It's hard to see, but she totally ripped off the skin in a burn-blister sort of way. So, I kept the leash fully rolled in for the rest of the walk home. We'd made it through the gate without further incident when I put my battered hand in the pocket of my blue coat... and realized that I'd grabbed my flat keys, but forgotten to grab their house keys out of the pocket of my grey coat. There was nothing doing but to walk BACK through the park where she'd just tried to eat a walker, all the way to my flat and get the key. Damn, damn, damn. We head back, myself refusing to allow her more than 5 feet of lead, and all the while cradling my right hand and holding the leash in my left. We were alright until we approached the fountain near the north side of the park, when some stupid chow mix comes vaulting out of nowhere, straight at Muki. I quickly try to turn Muki away from the oncoming, obviously over-friendly flying ball of fur, only to have Muki growl and snap, wrenching the leash nearly out of my hands. Unfortunately, my handedness was against me here, and I transferred the leash to my dominante right hand, despite the now oozing burns. Eventually the chow decided that it wasn't going to make a new friend and took off. We eventually made it back to my apartment, grabbed the key out of my pocket, and I collapsed on the bed for a good three minutes to regroup before walking back across the park for the FOURTH time. After rummaging through every drawer in my room I remembered that I'd loaned my bandaids to a flatmate who is currently in her native land, I swore profusely and struck out once more, patting my pockets repeatedly, trying to ward off any more stupid, stupid mistakes. On the walk back, version 4.0, we were AGAIN hailed by the chow, with similar results. Le sigh. Once we finally got back to the house and through the door, Muki and I weren't really on speaking terms. That didn't last long, I can't really hold a grudge against a dog, but I did try. With all possibility of a grocery run out of the question, I decided to pop over to the local co-op and just grab something simple and probably dreadfully unhealthy. This I found in the form of a kiesh which I bought and summarily placed in the oven. Then my mother called, telling me that I had recieved calls from a financial institution, telling me that I have an account in default and to please call, and Sallie Mae who also needed me to call. After getting all of the information, I called about the account. You see, I only have the one checking account with this particular financial institution, though I did formerly also have a credit card through them. I'd closed the card back in September before leaving for the UK. Only, I guess not. Somehow there was a $2.50 charge for "credit protection" which went on after I'd closed the account but before their records has "matured." And so, through non-payment, it had snowballed to $60-some dollars. Qua? Excuse me? After a bit of talking, they decided to waive the fees and ACTUALLY close the account. Why, thank you. Then I called Sallie Mae, only to have her tell me that my loans from my undergrad had gone into collection. WHAT. "But I sent in my in-school deferrment form that I'd requested from you. You are currently paying my way through my graduate program," says I. "Hmm, I see that. Well, we never got the form back... Oh, wait, I see here that it was recieved but not entered. We're going to need you to print such-and-such form off from our website and have your university back-date it. We'll suspend all action on the account right now and await this new paperwork," says they. Oh, well, thank you so very much. Le sigh. At least I don't have to repay right now, I guess that's a mercy. So, then I call back the parents and let them know that I'm not a deliquent, that everything is alright, and then I smell my keish. Oh, no. I run to the oven, pull it out-- the whole top of it is blackened. On any other day, this wouldn't have reduced me to level of non-verbal rage that I hit, but my hand hurt, my legs hurt, and the only thing I had to eat in the entire house that wasn't organic pumpkinseed loaf made without eggs, dairy or wheat or elderflower juice had just burnt under my nose. "Why are you snapping at me?" asks my mother when I retort that I'll call the bank back and get them to send out a letter confirming the closing of the account. "Because it's been a rotten, rotten day, okay?" I half-scream into the skype headset, "please, just leave me alone!" We quickly made up, I peeled away the burnt layers of egg and cheese, and Muki sat on my feet until I forgave her everything. She can be quite convincing when she's not trying to eat people.
At the end of the day, just glad it's the end of the day.
The day already wasn't going all that well when I set out from my apartment, dog in tow. Muki and I have been getting along alright, but I get the feeling that her owners aren't all that up on discipline. Or maybe she's just taking advantage of the fact that I'm not her usual walker, I don't know. Regardless, I had her on the retractable leash, you know the kind-- plastic handle, cord which winds out to 15 feet, standard leash material up near the clip that attaches to the collar-- all very standard. This comes in as important later, so bear with me. Now, it takes about 25 minutes to walk to my student accomodation from the house I'm currently minding. This route takes us through Seaton Park, a bit of a shortcut, and with lots of big green spaces and interesting smells for the pup. However, Muki has dominance issues. They'd said that she didn't react well to other dogs while she's on a leash, maybe something happened to her when she was a puppy, they were pretty hazy on the details. But no worries, she's a good dog, we'll all be fine. And we are fine. However, she nearly took my shoulder out of its socket lunging at red squirrels on the walk to the student abode. I was heading back to my place to take a shower (as all the soap around here has bit of kelp and hippie in it, at which the jew-fro outright scoffs) and grab some different clothes, even trade in the long grey wool coat for the shorter blue wool jacket. I take my shower, Muki growls at my one remaining roommate, I grab the newly chosen coat, cell phone and keys out of the door and head back for the house, thinking I might still have time after the walk to get to the grocery store (oh wonder of wonders). We'd made it past several other dogs on leashes without a major confrontation, mostly done because I pull her in so tightly when I see another dog on the horizon and try to point her nose in another direction until they get past. However, we were almost out the park, and I thought the coast was basically clear. Coming down the hill at the far end of the park, near Wallace Tower where the path curves to the street, Muki had out about 12 feet of her leash as a man appeared from around the corner. Now, he wasn't on a bike, he wasn't running, he didn't have a dog with him on a leash or even one off a leash, he was JUST WALKING. (They'd told me that sometimes Muki is attracted to runners or bicycles because of the rapid movement.) It was at this point where she growls, barks, and LUNGES AT HIM. I yell, try to pull up the now fully extended leash, and watch in horror as she continues barking ferociously. I grab at the cord with my right hand and pull back, but Muki is a rather strong beastie, and the cord literally burned through my hand. I'm not sure how, but within 30 seconds she was back at my side, rolled on her back at my feet after several menacing words on my part. I held her on her back until the man walked past as I appologized profusely for what had just happened. He passed without further incident, and we struck out for home. It was at this point when I noticed the blistering burns across the pads of three out of four fingers on my right hand, the palm itself, and the ripped cut on the inside knuckle of my index finger... OW. ow, ow, ow.
It's hard to see, but she totally ripped off the skin in a burn-blister sort of way. So, I kept the leash fully rolled in for the rest of the walk home. We'd made it through the gate without further incident when I put my battered hand in the pocket of my blue coat... and realized that I'd grabbed my flat keys, but forgotten to grab their house keys out of the pocket of my grey coat. There was nothing doing but to walk BACK through the park where she'd just tried to eat a walker, all the way to my flat and get the key. Damn, damn, damn. We head back, myself refusing to allow her more than 5 feet of lead, and all the while cradling my right hand and holding the leash in my left. We were alright until we approached the fountain near the north side of the park, when some stupid chow mix comes vaulting out of nowhere, straight at Muki. I quickly try to turn Muki away from the oncoming, obviously over-friendly flying ball of fur, only to have Muki growl and snap, wrenching the leash nearly out of my hands. Unfortunately, my handedness was against me here, and I transferred the leash to my dominante right hand, despite the now oozing burns. Eventually the chow decided that it wasn't going to make a new friend and took off. We eventually made it back to my apartment, grabbed the key out of my pocket, and I collapsed on the bed for a good three minutes to regroup before walking back across the park for the FOURTH time. After rummaging through every drawer in my room I remembered that I'd loaned my bandaids to a flatmate who is currently in her native land, I swore profusely and struck out once more, patting my pockets repeatedly, trying to ward off any more stupid, stupid mistakes. On the walk back, version 4.0, we were AGAIN hailed by the chow, with similar results. Le sigh. Once we finally got back to the house and through the door, Muki and I weren't really on speaking terms. That didn't last long, I can't really hold a grudge against a dog, but I did try. With all possibility of a grocery run out of the question, I decided to pop over to the local co-op and just grab something simple and probably dreadfully unhealthy. This I found in the form of a kiesh which I bought and summarily placed in the oven. Then my mother called, telling me that I had recieved calls from a financial institution, telling me that I have an account in default and to please call, and Sallie Mae who also needed me to call. After getting all of the information, I called about the account. You see, I only have the one checking account with this particular financial institution, though I did formerly also have a credit card through them. I'd closed the card back in September before leaving for the UK. Only, I guess not. Somehow there was a $2.50 charge for "credit protection" which went on after I'd closed the account but before their records has "matured." And so, through non-payment, it had snowballed to $60-some dollars. Qua? Excuse me? After a bit of talking, they decided to waive the fees and ACTUALLY close the account. Why, thank you. Then I called Sallie Mae, only to have her tell me that my loans from my undergrad had gone into collection. WHAT. "But I sent in my in-school deferrment form that I'd requested from you. You are currently paying my way through my graduate program," says I. "Hmm, I see that. Well, we never got the form back... Oh, wait, I see here that it was recieved but not entered. We're going to need you to print such-and-such form off from our website and have your university back-date it. We'll suspend all action on the account right now and await this new paperwork," says they. Oh, well, thank you so very much. Le sigh. At least I don't have to repay right now, I guess that's a mercy. So, then I call back the parents and let them know that I'm not a deliquent, that everything is alright, and then I smell my keish. Oh, no. I run to the oven, pull it out-- the whole top of it is blackened. On any other day, this wouldn't have reduced me to level of non-verbal rage that I hit, but my hand hurt, my legs hurt, and the only thing I had to eat in the entire house that wasn't organic pumpkinseed loaf made without eggs, dairy or wheat or elderflower juice had just burnt under my nose. "Why are you snapping at me?" asks my mother when I retort that I'll call the bank back and get them to send out a letter confirming the closing of the account. "Because it's been a rotten, rotten day, okay?" I half-scream into the skype headset, "please, just leave me alone!" We quickly made up, I peeled away the burnt layers of egg and cheese, and Muki sat on my feet until I forgave her everything. She can be quite convincing when she's not trying to eat people.
At the end of the day, just glad it's the end of the day.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Worst. Luck. Ever.
It's true. I've officially earned the title. I don't know what deity I offended or puppy I kicked, but I'm reaping the sorrowful oats now. But let's start at the beginning...
I work full-time in the summers for a residential theatre company that does only summerstock, and normally I'd say that I've got it pretty good. I've an unbelievably understanding boss, a solid assistant, I'm comfortable with the duties, and I have a computer with internet access. However, there are a couple weeks which I have learned to rue, and this past has been one of them: the week of move-in for the company. Our actors and technical staff come from all over the place, and we provide housing for many of them. This year, there are six full houses to furnish with beds, tables, chairs, couches, lamps, end tables, vacuum cleaners, coffee tables and everything else their little hearts desire. Every year this is more and more of a headache, not to mention backache. We make use of community service labor, but it's still a helluva day. This year, it didn't start off well.
No, this year, my mother decided that I was an alcoholic the morning of the move.
Now, I do occasionally drink. In fact, I've been known to toss them back with the best of them. I drink red beers and stouts, cheap vodka and expensive scotch. I enjoy the good drink at the end of a long day. However, my mother has gotten it into her head that because I keep a well-stocked alcohol shelf in my living area, I must be an alcoholic. This is supremely unfortunate and resulted in a lot of shouting.
After duking it out with my mother, I proceeded to the U-Haul station here in town to pick up the truck. We were supposed to be getting a 17' hauler, but the one that they had for us had some problems-- the TRANSMISSION had FALLEN OUT when the last customer returned it. So what did they do? They gave us the 24' truck at the same price.
A good deal? Sure. However, a 24' truck is basically a TRANSPORT. A Semi-trailer. A BEAST. And I got to drive it. Oh, be still my beating heart. I not usually an easily-daunted individual. There is not much that I will generally shrink from due to intimidation, but this truck was ENORMOUS. However, there was nothing doing other than to climb up into the cab and throw the old beast into gear. The workers were all decent, and the moving went well enough. The crew from community service, the friendly felons, if you will, could only work until 4 pm. That was fine, most of the heavy lifting was done by that point. After we released them, my assistant, let's call him Eeyore due to his general attitude and standard vocalization, and I picked up four more couches and a couple arm chairs from the local St. Vinny's and hit the road again.
Of COURSE there was significant construction on the roads leading to one of the houses, but I only picked off one construction barrel-- I consider this to be a badge of honor in a truck of such ungodly proportions. After that, we came to discover that one of the houses has the most narrow doors in all of America, and there was NO WAY we were getting a couch into the living room. So, we threw the couch back into the cargo bay and I put the key in the ignition. Turn the key.
Nothing happens.
Let me repeat that-- NOTHING HAPPENED. The giant-ass truck DID NOT START.
The battery had died. Eventually a neighbor who somehow knew Eeyore offered to give us a jump. Luckily that worked out, and we continued distributing our remaining couches. I was so flabbergasted that I had a laughing fit. What U-Haul dies on the road? Apparently, the one I touch.
We finally returned the U-Haul to its home on the lot, and I headed home myself. I was pretty proud of myself for driving the damned thing, and I wanted to preen a little for the family and have them acknowledge my automobile superiority. However, it was not to be. Not only was my mother still fixated on my supposedly-doomed liver, but my sister wasn't home, my father was busy with something, and my brother could best be described as an asshat. After a disgustingly humid day of hauling mattresses and couches, at least I could take a soothing bath, right? WRONG. My brother had decided to replace the shower head in the downstairs bathroom, and so I was thoroughly thwarted. I came back to work the next day feeling bruised and abused, but the work didn't end the day before. No, there were still dishes to distribute and lightbulbs and shower curtains and regular curtains and ironing boards. I basically worked the weekend and into Monday getting things around, and the actors attempted to arrive on Sunday.
I say "attempted" because the splatter pattern of their arrival times was a work of postmodern art. It stipulated in their contracts that they arrive between 1 and 5 on Sunday. This TOTALLY did not happen. Which brings us to Monday...
Monday was the company picnic. Monday morning, somebody needed to be checked in at 9. After that, is was to the rental place to pick us a 20' by 30' tent and tables and chairs for 60 people. We managed to fit this all in a minivan, and off to the back yard of a certain board member to set it all up. The people at the rental place said that setting up the tent would be no big deal, that children put up this tent all the time. I don't know who those children are, but I'm guessing they can trace a straight line to Attila the Hun. The tent spikes were easily TWO FEET LONG. When I asked the previously mentioned board member for a sledge hammer with which to drive these spikes into his year, he rummaged around in his three car garage and eventually gave me not a sledge hammer, but a MALLET HAMMER. For those of you unfamiliar with the Hammer family, the Mallet is the wimpy, rubbery illegitimate cousin of the Sledge. This mallet hammer had an 8 inch handle and a hard rubber head. Riiiight. If I were a CLOWN, I might have been able to drive a spike with it. As it was, I can only say that Eeyore did an amazing job driving those spikes.
Two-thirds of the way through driving spikes in 90-degree+ heat, my boss called and ORDERED me to abandon the tent and go out to housing to Lysol some beds, kill some mold, and greet two of our big-time actor/director types. Fine, fine. Eeyore soaked the beds in Lysol, and I swept. We welcomed our peoples and headed back out to the picnic site to assemble the tent.
I think I'm the only campfire girl left in the universe. Or at least the only one who remembers how to tie a barrel knot. My legs and arms hurt from carrying the tables, my back hurt from the beds and couches, and the rope made short work of my hands. By the time I finished the tent and my boss finished yelling about how none of this was my job and I needed to be working on assembling the program, I noticed that the aforementioned board member's THREE GROWN CHILDREN were sitting in his living room WATCHING Eeyore and I struggle in the oppressive heat to get everything set up. Just SITTING THERE.
Once at the picnic, one of our directors who I'd greeted earlier in the day informed me that he was ALLERGIC to the bed Eeyore had so recently lysol'd. In fact, he'd broken out in hives. Well, shit. I don't exactly have beds here there and everywhere, but I would see what I could do. This resulting in spending $160 that we DO NOT HAVE to buy him and new bed. But what you do for one child, you must do for the next, and the actor who lives near him decided that his bed must have been soaked in urine at some point and he needed a new mattress. FINE. I understand not wanting to sleep on those beds, but by this point-- I'm never touching a mattress with the intention of moving it for the REST OF MY LIFE. From here on out, I'll sleep in a hammock like a good little pirate.
Then, on Wednesday, I found out that the Driver's Responsibility Fine that I had been assessed LAST YEAR was in fact a TWO PART FINE and I owed the Michigan Department of Treasury another $200 or they'd SUSPEND MY LICENSE. And I needed to pay it asap. Or else. Yeah, about that-- like I've got that kind of money just to throw at the government. Boo, I say.
And yet, as soon as I'm out of hock regarding the STUPID responsibility fine, I get pulled over for SPEEDING. Me. Speeding. As it was, I was on my way to work from home, and looking around at how GREEN the trees looked in the early morning heat. I came around a curve too fast and there he was-- the cop was actually pretty nice to me, and I'm appealing it in the hope that they'll tell me to pay my fine but not put the points on my license which would jack my insurance through the roof. Why can't I seem to stay out of trouble?
Now I'm working 12 to 13 hour days at the Festival, not just because the Program has hit the Do-Or-Die line, but because the Family Show was short a Stage Manager. Yes, that's right: I was moved by the plight of the kid's show director and said I'd help out. This means that I am at the office from 9:30 or 10 in the morning until at least 10 each night. Monday through Friday. GROSS.
My most recent bit of bad luck is particularly disgusting, so I will officially advise my squeamish imaginary readers to avert their eyes now:
Speaking of eyes, I woke up yesterday morning and realized that they HURT. Now, I'm not shrinking violet when it comes to pain, I don't whine about blisters or paper cuts and I've been known to walk off some serious sprains, so when I say that my eyes hurt, they HURT. I got up and walked to the bathroom, rubbing at them to remove what I thought was sleep-sand. Boy, was I wrong.
Apparently, at some point during the night, my eyes had begun to BLEED. My hand was red as I pulled it away from my face, and my cheekbones and hair were caked with dried blood. I looked like something out of Hunter S. Thompson's flashbacks. I tried to wash out my eyes myself, and then stumbled upstairs to call the doctor. When i pulled down my lower eyelid, my eyes OOZED. [I told you this was gross and not for the weak of constitution.] The bleeding stopped before I left for work, and I had an appointment with the doctor that afternoon.
As it turns out, my body is expressing stress in new and exciting ways. Things are crystallizing in my lymph nodes again, and the blood vessels in the tissues of my eye sockets BURST. Hence, the bleeding. When the nurse asked, "Are you a worrier? Do you have anything big in your life right now that you're worried about?" I lost it-- I had such a laughing fit that I almost fell out of the chair. Seriously.
So, now I look pink and puffy about the eyes, kind of like a mole rat. I'll keep applying the cold compress, but I don't hold out much hope.
I write about the one bright spot in my life next time, I promise. However, I don't feel like such a thoroughly miserable post should be marred by highlights.
I work full-time in the summers for a residential theatre company that does only summerstock, and normally I'd say that I've got it pretty good. I've an unbelievably understanding boss, a solid assistant, I'm comfortable with the duties, and I have a computer with internet access. However, there are a couple weeks which I have learned to rue, and this past has been one of them: the week of move-in for the company. Our actors and technical staff come from all over the place, and we provide housing for many of them. This year, there are six full houses to furnish with beds, tables, chairs, couches, lamps, end tables, vacuum cleaners, coffee tables and everything else their little hearts desire. Every year this is more and more of a headache, not to mention backache. We make use of community service labor, but it's still a helluva day. This year, it didn't start off well.
No, this year, my mother decided that I was an alcoholic the morning of the move.
Now, I do occasionally drink. In fact, I've been known to toss them back with the best of them. I drink red beers and stouts, cheap vodka and expensive scotch. I enjoy the good drink at the end of a long day. However, my mother has gotten it into her head that because I keep a well-stocked alcohol shelf in my living area, I must be an alcoholic. This is supremely unfortunate and resulted in a lot of shouting.
After duking it out with my mother, I proceeded to the U-Haul station here in town to pick up the truck. We were supposed to be getting a 17' hauler, but the one that they had for us had some problems-- the TRANSMISSION had FALLEN OUT when the last customer returned it. So what did they do? They gave us the 24' truck at the same price.
A good deal? Sure. However, a 24' truck is basically a TRANSPORT. A Semi-trailer. A BEAST. And I got to drive it. Oh, be still my beating heart. I not usually an easily-daunted individual. There is not much that I will generally shrink from due to intimidation, but this truck was ENORMOUS. However, there was nothing doing other than to climb up into the cab and throw the old beast into gear. The workers were all decent, and the moving went well enough. The crew from community service, the friendly felons, if you will, could only work until 4 pm. That was fine, most of the heavy lifting was done by that point. After we released them, my assistant, let's call him Eeyore due to his general attitude and standard vocalization, and I picked up four more couches and a couple arm chairs from the local St. Vinny's and hit the road again.
Of COURSE there was significant construction on the roads leading to one of the houses, but I only picked off one construction barrel-- I consider this to be a badge of honor in a truck of such ungodly proportions. After that, we came to discover that one of the houses has the most narrow doors in all of America, and there was NO WAY we were getting a couch into the living room. So, we threw the couch back into the cargo bay and I put the key in the ignition. Turn the key.
Nothing happens.
Let me repeat that-- NOTHING HAPPENED. The giant-ass truck DID NOT START.
The battery had died. Eventually a neighbor who somehow knew Eeyore offered to give us a jump. Luckily that worked out, and we continued distributing our remaining couches. I was so flabbergasted that I had a laughing fit. What U-Haul dies on the road? Apparently, the one I touch.
We finally returned the U-Haul to its home on the lot, and I headed home myself. I was pretty proud of myself for driving the damned thing, and I wanted to preen a little for the family and have them acknowledge my automobile superiority. However, it was not to be. Not only was my mother still fixated on my supposedly-doomed liver, but my sister wasn't home, my father was busy with something, and my brother could best be described as an asshat. After a disgustingly humid day of hauling mattresses and couches, at least I could take a soothing bath, right? WRONG. My brother had decided to replace the shower head in the downstairs bathroom, and so I was thoroughly thwarted. I came back to work the next day feeling bruised and abused, but the work didn't end the day before. No, there were still dishes to distribute and lightbulbs and shower curtains and regular curtains and ironing boards. I basically worked the weekend and into Monday getting things around, and the actors attempted to arrive on Sunday.
I say "attempted" because the splatter pattern of their arrival times was a work of postmodern art. It stipulated in their contracts that they arrive between 1 and 5 on Sunday. This TOTALLY did not happen. Which brings us to Monday...
Monday was the company picnic. Monday morning, somebody needed to be checked in at 9. After that, is was to the rental place to pick us a 20' by 30' tent and tables and chairs for 60 people. We managed to fit this all in a minivan, and off to the back yard of a certain board member to set it all up. The people at the rental place said that setting up the tent would be no big deal, that children put up this tent all the time. I don't know who those children are, but I'm guessing they can trace a straight line to Attila the Hun. The tent spikes were easily TWO FEET LONG. When I asked the previously mentioned board member for a sledge hammer with which to drive these spikes into his year, he rummaged around in his three car garage and eventually gave me not a sledge hammer, but a MALLET HAMMER. For those of you unfamiliar with the Hammer family, the Mallet is the wimpy, rubbery illegitimate cousin of the Sledge. This mallet hammer had an 8 inch handle and a hard rubber head. Riiiight. If I were a CLOWN, I might have been able to drive a spike with it. As it was, I can only say that Eeyore did an amazing job driving those spikes.
Two-thirds of the way through driving spikes in 90-degree+ heat, my boss called and ORDERED me to abandon the tent and go out to housing to Lysol some beds, kill some mold, and greet two of our big-time actor/director types. Fine, fine. Eeyore soaked the beds in Lysol, and I swept. We welcomed our peoples and headed back out to the picnic site to assemble the tent.
I think I'm the only campfire girl left in the universe. Or at least the only one who remembers how to tie a barrel knot. My legs and arms hurt from carrying the tables, my back hurt from the beds and couches, and the rope made short work of my hands. By the time I finished the tent and my boss finished yelling about how none of this was my job and I needed to be working on assembling the program, I noticed that the aforementioned board member's THREE GROWN CHILDREN were sitting in his living room WATCHING Eeyore and I struggle in the oppressive heat to get everything set up. Just SITTING THERE.
Once at the picnic, one of our directors who I'd greeted earlier in the day informed me that he was ALLERGIC to the bed Eeyore had so recently lysol'd. In fact, he'd broken out in hives. Well, shit. I don't exactly have beds here there and everywhere, but I would see what I could do. This resulting in spending $160 that we DO NOT HAVE to buy him and new bed. But what you do for one child, you must do for the next, and the actor who lives near him decided that his bed must have been soaked in urine at some point and he needed a new mattress. FINE. I understand not wanting to sleep on those beds, but by this point-- I'm never touching a mattress with the intention of moving it for the REST OF MY LIFE. From here on out, I'll sleep in a hammock like a good little pirate.
Then, on Wednesday, I found out that the Driver's Responsibility Fine that I had been assessed LAST YEAR was in fact a TWO PART FINE and I owed the Michigan Department of Treasury another $200 or they'd SUSPEND MY LICENSE. And I needed to pay it asap. Or else. Yeah, about that-- like I've got that kind of money just to throw at the government. Boo, I say.
And yet, as soon as I'm out of hock regarding the STUPID responsibility fine, I get pulled over for SPEEDING. Me. Speeding. As it was, I was on my way to work from home, and looking around at how GREEN the trees looked in the early morning heat. I came around a curve too fast and there he was-- the cop was actually pretty nice to me, and I'm appealing it in the hope that they'll tell me to pay my fine but not put the points on my license which would jack my insurance through the roof. Why can't I seem to stay out of trouble?
Now I'm working 12 to 13 hour days at the Festival, not just because the Program has hit the Do-Or-Die line, but because the Family Show was short a Stage Manager. Yes, that's right: I was moved by the plight of the kid's show director and said I'd help out. This means that I am at the office from 9:30 or 10 in the morning until at least 10 each night. Monday through Friday. GROSS.
My most recent bit of bad luck is particularly disgusting, so I will officially advise my squeamish imaginary readers to avert their eyes now:
Speaking of eyes, I woke up yesterday morning and realized that they HURT. Now, I'm not shrinking violet when it comes to pain, I don't whine about blisters or paper cuts and I've been known to walk off some serious sprains, so when I say that my eyes hurt, they HURT. I got up and walked to the bathroom, rubbing at them to remove what I thought was sleep-sand. Boy, was I wrong.
Apparently, at some point during the night, my eyes had begun to BLEED. My hand was red as I pulled it away from my face, and my cheekbones and hair were caked with dried blood. I looked like something out of Hunter S. Thompson's flashbacks. I tried to wash out my eyes myself, and then stumbled upstairs to call the doctor. When i pulled down my lower eyelid, my eyes OOZED. [I told you this was gross and not for the weak of constitution.] The bleeding stopped before I left for work, and I had an appointment with the doctor that afternoon.
As it turns out, my body is expressing stress in new and exciting ways. Things are crystallizing in my lymph nodes again, and the blood vessels in the tissues of my eye sockets BURST. Hence, the bleeding. When the nurse asked, "Are you a worrier? Do you have anything big in your life right now that you're worried about?" I lost it-- I had such a laughing fit that I almost fell out of the chair. Seriously.
So, now I look pink and puffy about the eyes, kind of like a mole rat. I'll keep applying the cold compress, but I don't hold out much hope.
I write about the one bright spot in my life next time, I promise. However, I don't feel like such a thoroughly miserable post should be marred by highlights.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Just a short note
... to tell you, my darling imaginary readers, that M3 returned my e-mail (!) and though it was simply a short ditty to say that he received it and does not currently have a computer (which makes e-mail correspondence somewhat of a less-sure thing), but he replied nonetheless. Distinctly a positive move in an otherwise completely and utterly abysmal couple of days.
I'll post more on just how bad my run of luck has been when I've got more than two seconds between disasters.
I'll post more on just how bad my run of luck has been when I've got more than two seconds between disasters.
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