It's Time for "WTF Is Your Problem Now?"

Oy, I'm kvetching.

....with the queen of complaints: me.
I have to remember, my workplace is a pit of disease, much like a kindergarten play room.

I compromised my attitude for coming into work by promising it'd leave me some time to write in my blog: all the things I've been saving up to finish in my drafts, everything that's been waiting on handwritten notebook pages to be copied into a long column of writing that people will probably groan about having to read through....things of that nature. Including yesterday's journey through Park Slope with the Rybotz, buying comics at Bergen, visiting KingCon, chatting with a bored Jonathan Ames, scoffing at overpriced vintage wares, and switching locations of stifling to frigid temperatures faster than that stupid Katy Perry song. (Like how I just summarized my day in a sentence? I need to try this more often - less bored readers.)

That said, somewhere in between sweating in my coat, freezing because of the sweat caused from excess coat when sprinting outside with my long impatient NY legs, then reverting back to sweating once my coat was recovered with all the winter items I had since peeled away.....I got sick.

This also might have been a result of my skimpy Frosted Flakes + Fiber Bar diet, which was finally topped off with a hasty dinner that I eagerly devoured within 5 minutes, out of fear it might disappear before I could finish. These are the illogical realities of a New Yorker; or just a starving idiot - not sure if there's a difference.

Anywho, walking up and down the subway stairs made me realize that I was dizzy, almost weak, and that my irritation at being slow was not as important as my fear of possibly becoming that loathsome sick passenger responsible for delayed F train service. I'm usually guilty of despising that person, but now all of a sudden I'm guilty of being that person who forgot to eat their Cheerios in the morning and passed out in the middle of the closing doors. (However, rest-assured I'll still be complaining about the asshole who throws himself in front of the train in the near future - some of us have lives you know.)

My answer to this faint feeling was protein in the form of a McDonald's double cheeseburger. I have never glared at a cashier with such pale, sickening intensity. How long does it take to get a pre-made patty slapped on a bun and thrown into a bag? Apparently, longer than it takes me to get angry about it.

Later on at friend's, head still woozy while watching 1977's Tentacle by Italian director, Assonitis (don't think the pun was lost on me, and don't judge my off the cuff selection of entertaining Saturday night fare), I began to retrace my steps in hopes of discovering what the hell was wrong with me.....

OhmygodIhadaTamponinfor8hours. I'm probably going to die.

This provided me with at least 3 hours of pure hypochondriacal panic, as I fretted over my symptoms in relation to TSS, along with the possibility of seeing a giant octopus eye suddenly emerge from the depths of the ocean in HD.

Luckily, as I sit here the next day at work, there are no rashes to be seen; but my stomach is still unhappy with anything I feed it, and my eyes refuse to stay alert enough to focus on my typing. What could it be? What plague hath befallen me this time?

It's not a far stretch to assume I contracted something while working. All week, there have been bodies walking around with the cold, allergies, stomach flu, who knows what else. Come to think of it, ever since I started working here 2 years ago, I've been to the doctor more frequently than ever. Perhaps this is a direct result of the gift of health insurance....perhaps not.

In any case, the condition of my health and those of this morose, dust-filled prison seem inextricably connected. That, and my editor is playing crappy early 2000 Emo music with shrill guitars and thoroughly annoying twentysomething tirades about burying graves, wasted time or some shit.

And I shall continue to whine about it.

‽

The Crochety Crocheter, (or the Pains of Getting Old)

It's a gorgeous Wednesday: the sun is out, the temperature is fair, and instead of being stuck inside at work not really enjoying it all, I am sick in bed, really not enjoying it.

If my immune system were capable of answering me apart from waves of nausea and the secretion of more respiratory-blocking mucous, I would it address it as follows:

Dear Body,
Since when have I had allergies? Why do I feel like an elderly woman that will quite possibly fall and then not be able get up at any given moment?

This bit is getting a little ridiculous. I am 24 years old for god sakes. Let's not continue to be sour about the recent influx of pizza and lack of exercise over the past......year. We need to work together. And I need to get shit done.

Yours sincerely,
Tara (the brain part)

No one warned me that after 21, you literally lose 40% of your health. Where did my energy go? My immunity to nasty, body-invading elements? My ability to climb more than two flights of stairs without getting winded?

Sometimes I really believe that I am becoming an elderly woman. Suddenly the old taunts of "Grandma Tara" are coming true: and this time, it's not just about wearing a shawl everywhere and using phrases out of the 1920's. It's both physical and psychological.

When I started working my 10 hour + per day job, I realized that my ability to concentrate passed 8pm had diminished. So had my physical ability to say, stand up straight and finally, to actually stay awake. I started turning in for the night around 10:30/11pm.

By that time, most people my age haven't even gotten drunk enough to puke yet.

I can't even think about going out late on a weekday unless I want to be a zombie during work hours. And even 7 hours of sleep is not enough to burn the daily oil on. Ten hours of work is a bitch. And so am I, if I don't get my fucking sleep.

Like my lovely elderly grandma (who is nowhere near being a bitch), I have developed a plethora of aches and pains that I had once scoffed at when complained about by older folk. I'm quite certain I'm developing a hunchback from leaning forwards on my laptop all day, and my spine seems to forever be out of place and knotted into god-knows-what excruciating mess of deteriorating muscle. After just a day of walking a little extra than usual, my legs feel like rubber, and they chafe easily in cold weather. I can tell when it's going to rain, as my jaw begins to ache in remembrance of a previously painful wisdom tooth extraction.

Also, I now regret all those times I boasted that I had never felt a headache before. Because I have. And they suck. Best of all are the sinus headaches, which I've been having more and more with the onslaught of allergies. It's as if someone is trying to push a brick wall outwards from inside your face. Constantly.

I NEVER had allergies until last year. I had one bout with sinusitis and from then on my head become a ticking time bomb. At the slightest bit of congestion, I freak the hell out. It could just be a cold; OR it could be an infection that renders me incapacitated in bed, hiked up on antibiotics and having fever dreams with melting clocks. Over the past year and a half, I have feel victim to my sinuses three times.

Now, I'm stuck at home on a spring day afraid to even breath the air, since the record high pollen count has left my throat raw and my head heavy. I tried going to work yesterday, but felt as if there were cartoon-like putrid sick bubbles seeping out from my breath all day. I walked around as if I needed a cane and a couple of pills to make me lucid.

So today I decided to lay low and get the pollen demons out of me; although they are proving difficult to get rid of. I thought maybe I'd get some minor stuff done at home while I have the time; but.....no.

My body simply pines for the comfy bed, a cup of tea, and a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. Throw in some Advair and an over-sized flowery muumuu, and I'm ready to party like I'm 89.

NYPD Smackdown

A funny thing happened at work on Sunday....

First, I pulled the alarm. I was opening that day, and seemed to have mixed up the numbers on the code. At 10:30am it was pretty jarring to experience blaring sirens and flashing lights, but I remained calm (or half-asleep, I couldn't tell) as I called the receptionist. She told me the right code and the jarring ear-rape ceased. "I'm not sure, but the police might be coming," she said.

I should hope so. This is a building with a shit ton of computer equipment, and there's a 24 hour guard right downstairs. Luckily she saw me come in, but, it's NYC...why wouldn't they come? It was also Sunday morning, and dealing with police seemed like the worst thing to start off a week with.

Slightly less droopy-eyed, I bided my time throwing out the stale donuts and putrid coffee from the day before. A rep from the alarm company walked in with a knowing look of empathy. I put my tail between my legs and signed the paper that said "Yes, you guys responded to the alarm, even though it was not a burglar, but a bleary-eyed 24 year old who is apparently dyslexic."

As my crew started filtering in and complaining about the lack of coffee, I felt more at ease and laughed at the incident with some of them. I was already sitting down at my computer (on the couch in an edit suite, which is the location of my ever-changing desk) when I hear an unfamiliar voice outside.

Me, being a high strung producer type, RUSH out from the room,
behind a frosted wall panel,
towards the front office,
(don't want people to get freaked out by police in the workplace at 11am),
and SKIIIIIID to a stop..
right behind a cop.
Who then jumps,
swivels like a top,
and strikes a jujitsu pose like he's going to take me down.

Luckily he realized that I was only a lanky white girl with Lisa Loeb glasses before he could pounce on me (which would have been an even better story). He just managed to exhale a, "You scared the shit out of me."

Contrary to shitting my pants, I was actually quite impressed by the rather short and stocky cop's stellar reflexes. If he had had his pepper spray out I would have been screwed.

This is an accurate reenactment.

I also found out that only minutes before, they had been creeping into the front area, bewildered by the TV playing "Spirited Away" and the lights all on, wondering where everyone was. As animator, Anthony, (who happened to be wearing stripes and a beanie cap, and is also Hispanic), was walking to the kitchen, he saw Mr. Stocky Cop edging towards him with a gun pointed straight at his chest.

We all concluded that this would have been the shittiest way to die.

Luckily we were all able to laugh it off after the cops left, especially after they asked us if our office was a karaoke place. Apparently, having an audio studio and walls painted neon green gives people the notion that we deal with bad singers and alcohol.

At least we can count on our city's best for their brawn. And, that you should never sneak up on a cop. Always a lesson learned.