Fix It Or Deal

Work weary, you walk into the house and are greeted by softly playing music and dimmed lights.  The dining room table is set with silver, china and flickering candles.  A tall glass of champagne is offered and you accept. 
“What’s all this for,” you ask.
“Celebrating, of course,” is the cheerful answer.
“And the occasion?”
“You don’t remember?”
You try to stall by sipping the champagne.  Your silence betrays your ignorance.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember.”  A quivering lip, a hitching cry, angry footfalls then a slamming door.  You are alone with your confusion.  Something in the oven sure smells good, though. 

Okay, I’ll forgive you for not remembering.  One year ago today, I created this blog.  They grow up so fast, don’t they?  Here’s what I have to show for my first year of bloggy goodness:

Number of posts: 104 (including this one)
Number of comments: 74
Number of views: 2,335
Most views in one day: 74 on 8/16/07
Most popular posts: fun with retro advertisements (105 views) and have a sarcastic christmas (100 views) - you guys love when I goof on those ads, don’t you?

All in all, more than I was expecting, but I didn’t really have many expectations.  Now I do, though.  I’ll definitely post more, and maybe my view counts will increase as a result.  I do believe in quality over quantity, so I will not sacrifice one for the other. 

Thank you for everyone for taking the time to visit me here and leave your comments.  I hope I can continue to be worthy of your time for another year.

Most days, I feel like a hypocrite.  I walk around my office with a forced smile, acting pleasant and being helpful.  What I really want to do is scream at everyone to get a damn life, throw my stapler through a window and slap someone.  No, not slap - punch.  Ball my fingers so tight that my nails dig into my palm then piston my arm so my fist flies out and makes contact with an unsuspecting jaw or nose.  I want to punch someone so hard I hurt my hand.  But, it would be a good hurt, a satisfying hurt, because my victim would be hurt more.  I imagine the object of my rage bent over holding their face, eyes welling with tears and, if I’m lucky, bleeding from a wound that will leave a scar.  Then, I imagine walking out and never going back. 

Now, these violent tendencies are fleeting and are usually quelled by singing loudly with the radio in my car or by indulging in a bitch session with the two people I work with that get as frustrated as I do.  But, my little day-dream makes me wonder what it would be like to actually punch someone.  I’ve never been in a real physical altercation and I wonder how I would react.  In my above scenario, I get the first punch and the element of surprise gives me the upper hand.  In a real-world altercation, it is just as likely that I would be the one left bleeding.  Either situation would be both frightening and more than a little exciting.  Now, I’m not Tyler Durden and I’m not looking to start a Fight Club, but it is interesting to think about. 

Would you ever throw the first punch?  Would you return a punch thrown at you without hesitation?  If you were the one left standing, would you feel victorious or ashamed? 

You may believe that you would be too rational or controlled or even too afraid to involve yourself in a physical fight.  Or, you may think you would jump right in, fists flying.  Of course, it’s impossible to predict exactly what you would do until you are actually standing there in the moment.  When pushed too far, you may be surprised with your actions.

I’ve told my husband many times that one day it would finally be me laying in the hospital bed being pumped full of kick-ass drugs while he sits in the uncomfortable chair watching bad tv and worrying.  Well, without the haze induced by Demerol, Versed, or Morphine (all of which my husband has been administered in copious amounts) laying in an uncomfortable hospital bed in a freezing ER while fully conscious is the most annoying experience of my life. 

Ok, so I passed out in my sister’s bathroom for no apparent reason.  They (my sister, her fiance, my husband and my mother) all inform me, as I still lay sprawled out on the cool tile floor,  that I am extremely pale and my lips are purple.  My future brother-in-law uses his EMT training and starts holding up fingers and asking me questions.  I think I pass his tests, but I’m the one with the purple lips, so what do I know?  I get propped up on some pillows and, while still a little woozy, I don’t pass out again.  I hear someone mention the ER and I want to protest, but my husband’s face looks so worried, that I just go with it.  I get lifted to my feet, which is more difficult than it should be because I managed to wrench my knee all out of whack on my trip down to the floor.  With help, I make it through the bedroom and to the kitchen before the black dots start edging their way into my field of vision and I have to sit down before I fall down.  There is no question about the ER now.  I’m helped back onto my feet, half carried to my car and rushed to the hospital which is, luckily, only about two miles away.  Once there, my husband finds a wheelchair and I am rolled into the chaos that is the ER on a Saturday night. 

Four hours, an EKG, a heart monitor, 20 blood pressure readings, four vials of blood, two cups of pee, and a chest x-ray later I am told by the doctor that my diagnosis is (drum roll please): Syncope (pronounced sink-uh-pee).  In English:  I fainted.  No shit.  All that to figure out that I got “the vapors” and I didn’t even get so much as an ibuprofen for my knee.  Check please!

Later, I find out that my family and every other person they called, had diagnosed me with a raging case of Bun-in-the-oven (pronounced knocked-up) and had already gone so far as to name the baby.  My mom’s boyfriend was already planning on teaching it how to sail.  That was enough to make me want to pass out all over again. 

No, I am not pregnant.  The pee test in the ER and the fact that I am in full “that time of the month” mode totally confirm it.  So, keep your baby names for someone who won’t throw heavy objects at you if you so much as mention them to her again.

A very good friend and I are going to the DC area to visit another very good friend and her baby girl.  Since both these friends comprise about 60% of my readership, I assume they know who they are.  I’ve never been to DC and now I’m going for July 4th.  Kinda cool!  I hope to catch up with old friends, see a few sights and take some pictures.  

Okay, bear with me.  I’m still figuring out how to use my Bamboo and the photo manipulation software that came with it.  So, you get subjected to what I’ve been churning out.  Lucky you!

Presenting Mr. Ball goes to Washington:

Where will that rubber bastard go next?  Who knows!

Ball was quite upset that he didn’t get to go to the Dominican Republic.  So, I made him a picture so he could at least pretend he was there.