Okay, I'm not sure why, exactly, Blogger keeps changing its posting design, but it totally screwed with my Internet Explorer at work. I mean, it looked all confusing, and I couldn't do any posting from work or anything. It was heartbreaking. Truly heartbreaking.
Then I realized I could try using Netscape Navigator. A funny thing about IBM. The company is no fan of Microsoft. It openly embraces Linux and thumbs its nose at Gates and Co. at every opportunity. But, it begrudgingly acknowledges that most people only know Windows, so they have to install it on all the PCs. Still, they get a sucker punch in on Microsoft by installing Netscape on all the PCs. Of course, most users instinctively still use IE, but Netscape is always there if needed. And, damn it, I needed it.
Voila! I'm blogging at work. It's not perfect, mind you. I have to hard-code in the bold and italics and, as for hot links: fah-get about it. But, i'm able to brain dump, and that's the important thing.
Boring weekend. I was supposed to go to the cities to see Melissa and we were going to take in the Renaissance Festival Saturday. Alas, Friday morning I get a call from the girlfriend. And she's crying. Not good. Apparently, her dad experienced problems following tonsil surgery of all things. His body reacted unfavorably to the anesthetic and his intestines unexpectedly shut down. Not that the intestines ever EXPECTEDLY shut down, but you get the idea. He bloated up like a dead horse and was in horrific pain. Imagine the worst case of gas ever, multiplied by 500. Well, things looked grim, and in the heat of a gas attack of magnificent proportions, he told Melissa that she had to contact his lawyer so he could change his will.
Melissa, understandably, expected the worst, and the tears did flow mightily. So, she came back down to Rochester to see her dad, and that's how we spent our weekend: sleeping and laying around all day, and then visiting the hospital. Not me, of course. I only tagged along for one hospital visit. I hate hospitals. They give me the willies. All those sick people laying in beds or shuffling around with tubes snaking out from under their gowns as they push an antenna of liquid-filled bags in front of them. *shudder*
I always feel guilty for being so healthy, as if I should at least fake a limp or run a tube from my nose just so I fit in a little better. It wouldn't do me any good. The patients would still recognize me as a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness and I would feel their scorn even more.
Sunday, with her dad in far better condition, Mel drove back to the cities to work at Restoration Hardware. She had to work at 8 a.m., which meant the alarm clock was set for 6 a.m. An alarm clock should not spring to life at such an hour on a weekend. It should simply not be allowed. It went off and I immediately started getting ready for work. I had just squeezed a snail of toothpaste on my brush when I realized, "Hey, wait just a damned minute here. It's SUNDAY." Back I went into the bedroom to roust Mel. I went back to dreamland and didn't wake up until 1 p.m.
Sunday afternoon, a friend of mine came up to Rochester from my hometown of Harmony. He needed to get away from Harmony for awhile because his life just sucks hard-boiled eggs right now. For some reason, his wife has taken it upon herself to personally boink every male in Harmony and, being that she's probably the most exciting thing to hit Harmony since James Lileks visited the sleepy little hamlet in the early 90s, most of the males oblige.
I don't understand it. I CAN'T understand it. She had a devoted husband, a beautiful three-year-old daughter, a newly-remodeled home, and a future as happy as anything Harmony can provide. Yet she opted for cheap sex with cheap men, including a 40+ year-old with a Harley. What's the matter with people? It's enough to make me want to stay single for eternity. Maybe even longer.
Anyway, on a happier and totally unrelated note, Melissa bought me a little water-proof writing tablet and a pen with an impossibly bright light on the tip so I can write down thoughts that may snake their way into my gray matter as I slumber. Granted, the few other times I've tried to capture my nocturnal musings, the scribbled nonsense makes the literature of 50,000 monkies seem coherent by comparison. Still, I got a real kick out of the idea that popped into my head last night. Apparently, I was having a morbid bit of dreaming, owing primarily to the whole thing with Mel's dad. At some point, I woke up and wrote:
Cool funeral home name: The Good Mourning Funeral Home.
Damn I'm funny when I'm half asleep. Bring on the valium.
Posted by Ryan at September 15, 2003 12:54 PM
Stumble It!
