Single-Airity

Today, I was pondering the token single person amongst my minions... er, ummmm.... on my team. I was wondering what she does each evening after work, since she's single and doesn't have the same ties that the rest of us have. Then it occurred to me....

Aren't I single?

Having nothing better to do, I pondered why I would have lumped myself with all the married people on the team. I realized, then... I have a child. I mean, I already knew that I had a child... but I realized that because of my child, on some level, I considered myself to not be single.

I realized that although I'm single, my ambitions were skewed by the fact that my actions and choices affect someone else as much as they do me. I plan my weekends based on whether my child will be with me, and when I think about moving I think about how far I would be from my child, and for six weeks during the summer I even plan meals around my child.

Suddenly, I don't feel so single. Still, I wonder what that single lady at work does in her free time...

The True Meaning of Friendship

So, I was sitting in the living room with my roommates, and we were discussing the disposal of a human body.

No, it's not what you think.

We were watching this television show wherein a woman accidentally killed her husband's friend, and in a panic the two of them worked to get rid of the body. I might have accidentally started things off with a comment such as, "That's what marriage should be all about. Two people willing to help each other, no matter what."

I should mention that my roommates are married. To each other. I like things to work all out symetric-like.

Anyway, so male roommate, Giordi, looked at female roommate, Anna, and said, "You would help me, right? If I had a body to get rid of? You would help me throw it from a plane?"

Anna, who, for some reason, expresses concern over our (Giordi's and my) behavior, pursed her lips, thought a moment, and said, "That would depend on why the body was dead."

"What? Why? I'm your husband."

"That doesn't mean I'm gonna help you hide a body."

Well, I felt the need to come to my friend's aid. I've known Giordi for many years, and we've been through a lot together. He was there when I accidentally set the kitchen on fire while trying to learn to light candles with my mind. And I was there when he was rewriting the standard Gnu C math libraries to speed up large arithmetic so that he could write a custom Linux X/desktop applet to predict phases of the moon. We're like siblings, only without the DNA and weird personal history. So I spoke up.

"I would help you get rid of a body, no matter why the bastard died."

Anna seemed unhappy with this announcement. "What?!?"

"I would help him. I mean, partly because I'm borderline psychotic, but mostly because he's my best friend."

Giordi spoke up... "See? Even a borderline psychotic would be more helpful than you."

Suddenly, I reallized why Giordi and I have been having trouble getting into contracts that require a security clearance. And also why Anna locks the bedroom door at night. That is, why she locks my bedroom door at night.

Art imitates life, and all that...

So, some friends of mine were sitting around playing Dungeons and Dragons, each with a laptop so that they could all send each other instant messages, even though they were all in the same room. Well, this just wasn't quite nerdy enough for me, so I started poking around the Internet and stumbled across a webcomic that looked interesting.

I was looking at the cast of the comic, and found an interesting passage character description:

Ashley is the world's next great super-villain. Some day. For now, she is the little red-headed terror of a daughter to a single mom.

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I can't help but be creeped out by this... It's like the comic writer was peeking into my life. Kinda. I mean, when I was the apparent age this character, I didn't want to be a supervillain, but I guess I had it in me, becuase when I was a child I never had imaginary friends. I only had imaginary enemies. And I wasn't red-headed then. But my single mother was. Hrm.

Neo-politics

So, as I sat here this evening, watching my cat defend his favorite napping spot against invisible tribbles, I thought about politics.

Now, this isn't a political blog. I hate politics even more than I hate McDonald's food. But politics are on a lot of minds, right now. So I think about them.

There seem to be two main sides in most American politics: Democrats and Republicans. I've given a great deal of thought into the differences.

A Democrat is a Republican who wears pinstripe suits and believes in welfare.

A republican is a Democrat with shorter, darker hair who receives campaign donations from oil companies.

Both sides make my teeth itch.

I'm a registered podophile, and I've recently found a podcast which I enjoy listening to. It's called The Rush Limbaugh Lie of the Day. The podcaster is a rabid liberal democrat. That means that he believes everything that every democratic candidate says and wants all conservatives dead. There's a lot he says that I agree with, but there's a lot that I don't agree with. That's alright... he doesn't mind people disagreeing with him.

But the reason I like it... It's not that I can side with the Democrats. As I said, both sides make my teeth itch. But Rush Limbaugh... I hate that guy. I can't stand him. Even my cat wants him dead, and my cat is a virtual fount of love and happy wishes.

Of course, if I had to pick a side, I would pick Obama.

No, hear me out!

I don't know him... I don't know the issues, really... I know he has made some good promises, and that some of those good promises scare people who wouldn't benefit from them, but that's normal. What I do know is... He's black.

No, really, hear me out!!!

He's black. Ish. That is, I'm told he's mixed, but I guess that just means that he really is an American. But he's still black. Now, I don't consider myself a racist, so standing on its own, the fact that he has dark skin isn't an issue. The important additional detail is that my mother would die.

She always told me when I was growing up that the Bible says that if the US ever elected a black president, the world would come to an end. She honestly believed that. It should be obvious at this point that she never actually opened a Bible, but that didn't sway her... ummm... faith. Anyway, she's very, very hardcore set against a non-white man, or any kind of woman, being elected. During Kathy Whitmire's term as mayor of Houston, my mother cried almost daily, and still complains about the effects, decades later.

So if Obama is elected president, she'll just die. Maybe literally. I want him elected, so that I can call her and ask her opinion. It'll be fun.

Shortest... blog...

ever!

Recently Diseased

So, I've made the tough decision... I've decided to go to the doctor. But there's a reason this had to be a decision and not just something I did.

You see, I've been in pain ever since my appendectomy. This is normal... at least, pain is normal for the first few days or so. But I didn't experience any pain from the wounds. Minor irritation from the wound that became infected and didn't close for a month and a half, but no real pain.

No, I've been having a persistent pain in areas that have nothing to do with the surgical area.

It's annoying, too, because it's a distraction. Also, it hurts. Picture this...

You're walking down the sidewalk. You see a sexy hunk of man-meat. (This example assumes you're a heterosexual female.) You smile. He smiles. You decide to show off your best... um.... asset. So you put on your sexiest walk and proceed to pass Thor (we'll call him "Thor"), hoping to be able to glance over your shoulder and catch him checking you out. The possibilities for your future married to a thundergod lookalike are endless. You're on your game... you're sexy... you're gliding past....

Suddenly, a sharp pain enters through your rectum. It travels forward to your bladder, then takes a left and heads up toward your kidney, making a quick detour to stop at your spleen for gas and smokes. The pain finally stops in your lung, with some periodic flirtation with your liver.

Your first thought is, I'm hit!!! But you manage not to say that... Instead, you oh-so-coolly shout, "God! My ovaries!" Yeah. Really smooth. You look to see that Thor has decidedly turned away and is studying the house he was building (he was building a house... construction workers are just so... Rowr!) and is no longer showing any signs that you exist.

You can see how this could complicate your life. And it's darned inconvenient.

Oh, plus, it hurts.

So you can see why I would be going to the doctor. The problem is, I've been going to the doctor. That is, I've been going to the surgeon who allegedly (yes, I said it) removed my appendix. I was going back once a week to deal with the open wound, but once that finally closed they were willing to drop it. I (not for the first time) brought up the subject of the pain. When I described how it was spreading, the surgeon and his intern (a very nice woman) started looking nervous. Not like they necessarily care about whether I have this "minor" pain to deal with forever... I'm under no illusions... They looked like they were deer and I was driving a lawyer with my headlights pointed straight into their eyes.

Or something like that. You know what I mean.

Anyway... So, they decided to finally do some tests. They poked, took some blood (I think they just threw that away, because it's black and they don't like testing black blood) and urine (ick) and scheduled the CT scan which I previously wrote about.

The results of the CT scan showed nearly all the organs present that one might expect. They noticed, and noted, the conspicuous absense of my gall bladder, which was removed a couple of years ago. After I left the doctor's office, though, I realized that they didn't mention a missing appendix.

Considering that the radiologist who analyzed the CT knew nothing about my prior surgeries, and, indeed, took time to make note of the gall bladder thing, it seems odd that he didn't note the missing appendix. Unless...

I see three possibilities. One, they missed the appendix and removed something else that I still needed. This isn't terribly likely, because I would be dead by now.

Two, whatever caused my appendix to rupture continued to grow, and has now filled the appendix-shaped hole in my abdomen. This is slightly more likely, because, as far as I know, the doctors didn't check to see what caused an appendix to go from zero to rupture in three hours.

The third option, which seems most likely, is that an alien entered my bedroom in late September and implanted an egg in my abdomen, most likely through my anus. The implantation process probably busted my appendix open, and the resulting infection kept the egg warm. The wound under my navel didn't close because the alien fetus was sucking up my life force, preventing most forms of healing. And the growing pain is caused by Junior growing and eating my fresh, juicy organs.

So the problem I mentioned... I don't like to go to the doctor. She's nice, and the office is pleasant, and really close to my office, but I have (thanks, Mom) a complex that tells me that if I'm seeking medical help, I'm a hypochondriac. But if I let the alien grown, it will eventually burst out of my abdomen and attack my cat. Now, even though I'll be dying, this alien is still my baby, in a sense, and I need to protect it from the horrible death it will suffer if it tries to attack the little bastard.

So I have to go to the doctor.

Hyperassociativity Scene

So, I was reading an article about Spasmodic Dysphonia, and that got me thinking... If I lost the ability to speak, and explained this to people (perhaps by writing notes), but indicated that the problem was only my voice, would they then, when speaking to me, speak more loudly, perhaps over-enunciating? I think so, and so do all the people whose opinions I asked. It's funny how people associate things.

For example, I've noticed a tendency for some men, mostly the less-evolved breeds, to associate a woman's lung capacity with the shape of her lips ("I'll bet she could suck-start a motorcycle") or her height with her athletic abilities ("Those legs don't quit").

Not that this phenomenon is restricted to the harrier gender... I once had a woman tell me that I look like a lesbian. Hrm. I wanted to ask her which lesbian, but I was afraid of the answer.

I'll never understand why people make these associations. I mean, I understand why people look at me strangely when I'm walking past and I hear someone say something like, "...brand-spankin' new wife..." and I reflexively say, "Kinky" and start laughing, but when someone leans over my cat and says, "What a pretty boy! You must be so sweet," and they reach out to touch him, they're almost inevitably surprised when he tries to take off a finger. Is the fact that he has coloration which humans find aesthetically pleasing supposed to be an indicator that one has permission to touch him? I don't see the connection.

But I know the connection exists. At least, in the minds of the insane people who run the world. I know that a responsible driver with a red car will pay more for insurance than a half-attentive driver with a brown car. This is because, in the minds of those who make rules, red cars like to get in wrecks. I also know that if I wear black pants and a black shirt at the same time people will think I'm depressed. Even if I try to explain that it's laundry day.

I know that the lyrics to one popular song indicate that the speaker associates another woman's butt size with her level of promiscuity. After all, there have never been any skinny sluts.

I know a transsexual who tried to donate blood. She was turned down because they said that any sex she could possibly have would be gay sex. She was a virgin who didn't use drugs and had a rare blood type.

I was told that I couldn't possibly be an engineer because I drive a standard and don't wear glasses and have XX chromosomes.

The list goes on, but the point is this: When I hyperassociate, I'm told that it's because I have a neurological disorder (ADHD) and need to take a pill. When someone else hyperassociates, it's because they must be right. After all, "How could a woman with such bodacious ta-tas be a Catholic?"

Oh, and for the record... I'm definitely not lesbian.