Take 18 of these and if you're still conscious in a month, call me

So I went to the doctor today. Never a fun experience, going to one's doctor.

She started scribbling vigorously in her little prescription pad. She upped my dosage and threw in some Trazodone for good measure because I've been having trouble sleeping. And then a referral for an ENT doctor, and a referral to a dietitian because my BMI is borderline underweight. Visits to my doctor are like Christmas. Giving, giving, and more giving. Fortunately, she is the one doing most of the giving. Who am I to say no to a prescription?

As I'm scooping my long face up off the floor, she asks me if I'd like a flu shot, as if she's handing handing out candy to eager kids. Now not to sound like a 3-year old, but I am terrified of needles. Then I figured winters here are bitterly cold and I don't want to spend weeks in bed feeling death warmed over, I say okay. Sensing her victory, she decides to push her luck:

"While we're at it, would you also like a Pneumonia shot?"

Oh I know, while you're at it, why not just send me to a freakin' acupuncturist, why don't you?! What do I look like, lady? A pin cushion? Easy of the needle happiness there! My arms themselves look like to needles, so watch where you jab that thing.

Four pieces of paper. Two jabs. $10. I love it.

"See me in a month," she says. "Or if they don't work, call me and I'll call you back."

Ya ya, let's see. Just keep those injection things in the drawer. And try not to make your needle glee so obvious.

How about this one?

The next time someone tells you house hunting is fun, beat them for telling lies. For this is not a small white lie. This would fall under the category of large, gargantuan-sized lies.

I have been searching for a new home. And let me tell you, it is NOT fun!

Sure, my current residence is spacious. And modern. It is also a drain on the pocket when it comes to paying my gas bill in the winter. Also, I would not consider fending off the lasciviousness of 'ladies of the night' to be one of my favorite past-times. Neither is smiling and saying "Thanks, but I'm trying to cut back," when propositioned by drug dealers. The final straw that didn't just break the camel's back but rather ripped the poor beast in half were the gun shots I heard. It's like living in the wild, wild west while living on the east coast.

No thanks.

So I have cast my search net wide. I saw an incredible apartment with hard wood floors, a real, genuine fireplace, and a small deck. Unfortunately, the monthly rent and pet deposit was anything but small. Next.

Then I saw two apartments that while it was stipulated had been recently refurbished looked as if they lacked something. Namely security. Since when does a fireplace come with a bedroom? Next.

Then I found it. Perfect. And as I try not to get my hopes too high, I remember its tall ceilings. It's light hard wood floors. Its bay window. Its "all included" headline in the 'For Rent' ad. And it's in a nice tree-lined neighborhood, with a park, and old Victorian houses. And no gun shots. And no prostitutes. And no drug dealers. Too good to pass up. I want it. I must have it. And hopefully I shall.

Stay tuned.

You haven't done your time sheets? Lashings for you.

I've decided that whoever first invented the notion of time sheets was an evil, evil person. An evil, sad, lonely person.

This is, without doubt, the most tedious task of my day. Or as the days pass by, the task becomes the most tedious of my week. And were it not for the constant reminders from my peers and 'higher ups', I probably wouldn't complete my time sheets. It's not that I'm insubordinate, but rather my attention remains focused on the job at hand.

Yes, okay, I realize that clients need to get billed if I expect to get that little deposit slip every two weeks that says my bank account has been brushed with the magic wand of gold-plated tin. For verily, I use those coins to pay my landlord, and the super-friendly folks at the gas and electric companies who also send me little friendly reminders that they too would like some coins dropped into their collection plates. And yet even more coins dropped into the tin plates of the food markets, and the clothing markets, until alas, the coins are all gone. Until my bank account is brushed once again by the magic wand of gold-plated tin. Then it's just like a never-ending cycle.

But I digress: time sheets remain the vein of my existence. Horrible, nasty, time-consuming things.