The Corpse Artist

So, yeah, this Christmas will be pretty good after all in terms of being able to get presents for everyone I'd like to. I still can't splurge and by tons of stuff for each person on my list, but that's ok - that would just be icing on the cake. The boy and I just got back from our second (and hopefully last) round of christmas shopping, and I figured now's a good a time as any to update the ol' blog. So, without further ado:

School
Managerial Finance (the class I'm taking this term) officially sucks, and I now have one more occupation to add to the list of occupations you couldn't convince me to have even if you had $100 billion in one hand and a gun in the other, and gave me the choice. I will never ever be a financial analyst.

Part of this is the tediousness of the tasks. Part of it is that my brain wants to (and usually does) shut down after one simple formula becomes twenty simple formulas, all of which are needed in order to calculate twenty other simple formulas, all of which are needed to get one lousy percentage that will tell potential investors if they should buy stock in a company.

Part of it is my professor. She's been in the financial business for longer than I've been alive, and so knows what she's talking about. The downside of this is that after the first week she began teaching us as if we, too, knew what she was talking about, and for most of us this is only our first or second class that has anything to do with financial data, period. On top of that, she's one of those people who, smart as they may be, should not be teachers, because they don't know how to teach. I have been exceedingly frustrated and at times downright pissed off with her lectures and the incredible lack of information, which we are left to figure out for ourselves.

Don't get me wrong - I know that learning things on our own is part of the deal, but this is the equivalent of telling a three-year old they can't breathe underwater because that's not how the human body works, then leaving them to figure out the major details of creating a high-tech underwater living system for the entirety of humanity in less than three days because a meteor or somthing is going to hit the earth and cover it in water.

No, really. This woman gives us point A and expects us to find points B through Y to get to Z.

I have accpeted the fact that I may not be on the Chancellor's list when this term is over. That's not to say I am now or will fail the class - I just highly doubt I'll be getting an A. It's sort of a bummer, but I'm not the only one having troubles with this professor, so I know the lack of an A won't be because of my lack of trying or intelligence. That helps, and I'm not really upset anymore about it, but it still sucks. I've been on the Chancellor's list from my first term, for the first time in my life. I'm sort of proud of that.



Work
It never ceases to amaze me how stupid people can be. I know, I've said this before. But really, I'm astounded on an almost daily basis at work by the stubborn dumbness of some of the people there.

Take Crack Hen, for instance. This is the woman who works at the front desk, and I call her Crack Hen because her personality is that of a mother hen on crack cocaine. Go ahead, giggle. The image this conjures is a funny one. Unfortunately, the reality isn't.

Just a quick example of her amazing tencaity when it comes to not grasping the obvious:

Just the other day Crack Hen came back to the Production Department with an obituary to be typed up (the coordination of obituary publications is one of her many tasks, but the real work - typing it all up - of course falls to us). There was, as is often the case, some something about this particular obit that she felt required deep explaination, and since my boss is usually the one to type up obits she asked if he was at work that day, as he wasn't at his desk. I gave my daily reply that yes, he is at work today, just not at his desk at the moment. As she walked over to his desk to put the obit on it, she asked if I would tell him when he got back that she had put the obit on his desk.

Because, you know - when he returns to his desk, and sits down at his desk, and picks up the obit to move it off of his keyboard so he can type, he just might not see the obit that was placed on his desk, on his keyboard where he can't miss it, which he had to pick up and move to be able to continue his work.

I nodded.

I watched her leave the room, and when she was gone, looked at both of my coworkers who rolled their eyes as I rolled mine. We shook our heads, sort of laughed soft, amazed, derisive laughs, and muttered in soft astounded voices.

This is an almost daily occurence, by the way.

About twenty minutes later, my boss returned from lunch and we all had a sarcastic laugh as I informed him as soon as he sat at his desk that Crack Hen had put an obit on his desk, and that it was right in front of him. He sarcastically pretended not to see it. We sarcastically told him that's because he was soooo stupid. He sarcastically agreed, rubbed his eyes, and searched for the obit.

Not long after this bit of fun at Crack Hen's expense, she called my boss, at his desk, to ask him specifically if he had seen that she had put an obit on his desk.

Seriously.

More eye rolling and amazed and sarcastic muttering followed.

I had a small victory with her the next day, though. My boss worked a half day that day so that I had to put together page A-1, and we had a story that would be late and caused our press deadline to be pushed back an hour. Now, at the new deadline, when I and the editors were scrambling to get that last big story and all its photos to fit in the space alotted and I'm snarling every time the phone rings and it's the press wondering where the pages are (even though they knew of the later deadline for days, but planned their Christmas party for that evening anyway), Crack Hen walked in, obit in hand.

Crack Hen, seeing that my boss wasn't there, turned to me. At the time I had an editor standing at my shoulder watching and directing me as I pulled the story and photos together. Obviously, I was just a wee bit busy at the moment. Still Crack Hen stood like a good little junkie yardbird, at the end of my desk, obit clasped in hands, looking at me.

I ignored her, not just out of sheer irritation at her very presnece but due as well to the fact that, well, I was just a wee bit busy at the moment.

Crack Hen cleared her throat and opened her mouth to speak - probably to explain that she had an obit that needed to be typed up (nevermind the fact that the inbox for obits that need to be typed up was right next to her).

I held up one finger (not that one, though I'd have liked to) and said, quick, simple, and to the point: "On deadline right now."


Case closed. End of discussion. Go away.



And she went away.


It was ... beautiful.



Medical stuff
Remember my mentioning in my bitching about finances that all the medical bills I had were for simple little everyday things that just kept adding up, not for big bad scary stuff? Irony just might be the end of me.

The boy and I are doing much better than I had expected we would at this time of year, and just two days ago I paid off, in full, my last medical bill. Big relief that was, as yesterday was my yearly check up. You know, the girly check up? With the special equipment and lab tests? Yeah, that one. Oh, joy, thought I, and the lab tests will cost an arm and a leg and I'll be right back where I was and speaking of legs ...

After I had been thoroughly prodded in places I really don't wish to be prodded by just anyone, my doctor wrapped up the session with the typical question, "Is there anything else you need to have checked out?"

I was about to give my usual answer of "No," but then remembered something.

This summer I gave in to fashion a bit and bought shorts and a of couple skirts. This required that I either A) get a serious tan, because my skin could put Snow White to shame, or B) wear nylons. In summer. In California.

Needless to say, I opted for a tan. However, having been thoroughly scared shitless about the dangers of skin cancer at a young age, I loathe being out in the sun unless absolutely necessary (part of this is just that it's fucking HOT, but skin cancer doesn't sound fun either). This left me with the classic dilema: to tan or not to tan?

I opted for a nice spray-on tan. Go ahead, laugh. I did. But, it beats being hot for a long time just to cook your skin to a darker tone because someone somewhere said that's what's pretty, and risk skin cancer to boot.

Tanning-spray in hand, I stared at my unfasionably white legs, sighed, and began the process of spray-painting myself beautiful. Now, anyone who has tried spray-on-tans can attest to the mess, the streaks, the splatters, and the overall aggravation and humiliation that results. In the end, I think I only wore each pair of shorts and each skirt once, just so they wouldn't end up being a complete waste.

My legs - tanned, most definately - were streaky, slightly orange-ish, and bore random spots of darker tan where the original spray didn't take so I sprayed again, and it turned darker than the rest (of course). I hid my monstrosities in pants and just dealt with the heat, fashion-craze firmly snubbed.

After the fake tan had faded I noticed one of the darker spots didn't fade with the rest. Remembering those additional spritzes where it had appeared necessary, I didn't think much of it until a few months later when the spot was still there, just as nicely tanned and more noticable now against my whiter-than-Snow-White leg. I wondered a bit about it, but still wasn't much concerned. I wrote it off to the spray staining my skin more than it was supposed to - perhaps permanently - and with a sigh promtly forgot about it again.

Since then I've occasionally noticed the spot in the shower, still tan as it was in summer. It's approximately four inches around, and still fades nicely at the edges to my normal white skin. Each time I'd notice it, and notice that it wasn't any lighter, I'd wonder a bit more, until the wondering bordered on worry. Being as I'd forget all about it within a few days, worry never actually kicked in.

However, in the last month or so I've begun to wonder if I shouldn't worry about it, and have it checked out. These tanning sprays aren't supposed to permanently stain your skin, and the rest of it faded completely long, long ago. There's just this one strange area that never faded, leaving me to ask myself in a disquieting voice if maybe the spot wasn't from overzealous spraying at all, but something else.

So, when my doctor asked me the usual "anything else" question, I mentioned the spot and showed her. And my heart sunk a little when she nodded and said "Yes; it is very definately darker than the skin around it, and it's a big patch of skin too."

She said it might be a good idea to have it checked out.

In two weeks, I go back to my doctor to have a chunk of that nice, tan skin removed for testing. A week after that I'll go back to have the sutures removed. I don't know how long it will take to get the test results, but I'm hoping not too long because while I'm totally calm about it now, I might not be if I have to wait and wait and wait.

I'm actually suprised I'm so calm about it. I'm not usually the type to be calm about medical stuff. I tend to worry myself sick, usually over nothing. Now that there may very well be something to actually worry about, I'm not. Maybe it's because the patch of darkened skin doesn't hurt or feel weird to give me something to pay attention to, so that it's easy to tell myself it may very well be nothing more than accidentally permanently stained skin. And there's nothing scary about that - I'd just feel like the ultimate fashion dork.

It doesn't look suspicious at all. No lumps, or bumps, or spots or patches. It just looks like I have a nice tan - not even a dark one - only in that one place on that one leg.

In two weeks, it will be one patch of a nice tan with a chunk taken out and replaced with sutures. I could say I'm going for the Corpse Bride look, so that I'm still utterly fashionable. You know - pale as death, stitches ... It could work.

Ok. Maybe I'm worried a little. But only a little. I mean, it doesn't hurt, so it can't be that bad, right? (Here's where you humor me by nodding and saying "right.")

Sigh. Time for an abrupt subject change.


Hair
It's official: my hair is now the longest it's been in seven years, and it's mostly healthy, I think. Not fried. Not dried out. Dying hasn't killed it this time. It's a bit frizzy if left to it's own devices instead of being tamed with leave-in conditioner, and I have a mysterious chunk that is much much shorter than the rest -right on top of my head, to the right a bit. Looks sort of like someone cut off a lock of it and didn't tell me. Nevertheless, it's usually not noticeable, so I don't feel the urge to break out the clipper and buzz everything down to an eighth of an inch again.

Amazingly, that urge hasn't hit for a long time now. It used to be a frequent thing (hence the seven years of short hair that I'm only just now getting past). I can pull most of my hair back into a (dorky, admittedly) little ponytail, with only a bit tucked behind my ears falling loose. It works, actually. I think if the urge to buzz rises again, all I'll have to do is grab a hair tie to remind myself how long my hair is getting, and the urge will pass. But I doubt the urge will rise again. It usually only did so when I was outraged at the total unruliness and mess of my hair, due to the fact that it was just long enough to need taming (styling), but not long enough to be tamed. Now it is, barely, so the "fuck it - just shave it off," urge has no reason to rear its ugly head (and bare mine, heh heh ...)

Ok. I've promptly run out of things to say, and dorky attempts at wittiness to drag out simple things. So, goodnight then. And happy holidays.

- The Corpse Artist