So, I go to the grocery store and I deal with Honey Girl.
I go to Subway and get stuck with Alternate Girl.
Today I went to Swiss Chalet for take out (long story which, in the end, led to "There's no way I'm going to go home and spend the time making something to eat; I have to eat NOW and I should avoid the McDonald's so, hey, the Swiss Chalet's right there across from McDonald's so why don't I go in there and grab something instead?")
And whom do I get to serve me? Inattentive Listener.
I sauntered up to the counter, waited a while ... and was finally approached by a young woman (who would later be identified as the aforementioned Inattentive Listener), who offered to take my order.
I ordered a Santa Fe chicken sandwich.
"With fries?"
"With a salad and a side of fries. And can I also get a dipping sauce?"
"Small or large?"
At this point I thought, "I had no idea it came in small and large," and so I said to the young woman (I still didn't realize it was Inattentive Listener) "I had no idea it came in small and large. I'm sure a small will be fine."
Then I asked, "And can I have a little tub [gesture with hands showing little tub] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?"
"Sure."
And off goes the as-yet-unidentified Inattentive Listener to deal with life, love, and chicken.
After a ridiculously long wait, she finally brought my order and, for some unknown reason, I asked, "And there's a dipping sauce in there?"
"No. That doesn't come with the meal."
Mildly confused, I responded, "I know. I asked for it extra."
Now Inattentive Listener's telltale signs start emerging.
"You asked for extra mayo."
"Yes, I know, but I also asked for dipping sauce."
Now, at this point, the correct answer would have been, "Oh, I'm so sorry, I must have missed that." or even "Sorry, I misunderstood." Instead, I got:
"No you didn't."
So I responded, "I asked for both. I don't really care. I'll pay for it. I just want it for my fries." As she rang me up for my $0.41, I probably should have said, "Remember how you asked if I wanted small or large and I said, 'I had no idea it came in small and large'?" but for some reason -- probably my complete bafflement at this Inattentive Listener -- I didn't.
In any case, she brought me some dip and off I went.
It wasn't until I was home that I realized how Inattentive a Listener she really was. Useless really.
Scroll back up there in this tirade of a transcript and reread my initial exchange with the Inattentive Listener. Go ahead, I'll wait while you do.
*******
Okay, so did you notice that I asked for "...a little tub [gesture with hands showing little tub] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?" Please note, also, that I did not ask for extra mayo on my sandwich. I did not even use the phrase extra mayo. No, I asked for "...a little tub [gesture with hands showing little tub] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?" I do this EVERY TIME I EAT THIS MEAL, though if I'm in the restaurant, I ask for "...a little ramekin [gesture with hands showing little ramekin] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?" because that's what they'd use if you're eating in. Why don't I just ask for extra mesquite mayo? Because I don't want extra mesquite mayo on my sandwich! I want to (and this is a little gross if you think too hard on it) dip my little corn chips in it. I don't know how that started.
You see where I'm going with this, right?
That's RIGHT! Inattentive Listener didn't pay attention to my very specific request for "...a little tub [gesture with hands showing little tub] of the mesquite mayonnaise with that?" and so I had no such little tub. Instead, I had a sandwich slathered in the stuff and nothing in which to dip my wee chips.
And that's why there should be an idiot screen for people going into food service.
Finally, and on a completely different subject, go here and have some fun!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Anatomy for Dancers
Having had my first dance rehearsal last night, I'm now being reminded of some things. Namely muscle groups.
Today I am ... aware of the work done in some areas, but I know that tomorrow will be far worse. Why? Because let's be honest, doing the types of movements that I was doing last night aren't all that common in everyday life. How often do I have to go from being slumbed over forwards with my hands on the ground into an arch backwards to lay across somebody else who is also arching backwards? How regularly do I walk with my arms flung back behind me and my feet far ahead of me, requiring that my beleagured abs support my upper body in this crazy position? Not often, that's how often. Even when I went to the gym and actually worked out, I'm not sure I worked as many muscle groups as I did last night.
Still, the choreography is going to be great (I've already warned my parents to be ready for it). I've also discovered that I'm the oldest dancer in the show (so soon?) so I figure I'd better not let myself be shown up by them youngsters.
Mercifully, I've got until Friday to recover before I'm back at it again...
Today I am ... aware of the work done in some areas, but I know that tomorrow will be far worse. Why? Because let's be honest, doing the types of movements that I was doing last night aren't all that common in everyday life. How often do I have to go from being slumbed over forwards with my hands on the ground into an arch backwards to lay across somebody else who is also arching backwards? How regularly do I walk with my arms flung back behind me and my feet far ahead of me, requiring that my beleagured abs support my upper body in this crazy position? Not often, that's how often. Even when I went to the gym and actually worked out, I'm not sure I worked as many muscle groups as I did last night.
Still, the choreography is going to be great (I've already warned my parents to be ready for it). I've also discovered that I'm the oldest dancer in the show (so soon?) so I figure I'd better not let myself be shown up by them youngsters.
Mercifully, I've got until Friday to recover before I'm back at it again...
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Nervosity
I am a person of contraditions. I know it, my friends know it, but there it is. I'm outgoing, friendly, I work in jobs with very high levels of human interaction, yet I have a shy streak when off of my own turf.
I also perform regularly in plays, musicals, and a dinner show. Slap me in a show in front of an audience and I'm fine. I've yet to have an episode of stage fright in my performance career. Ask me to sing in church, though, and the nerves appear.
And then there are auditions. I hate auditions. I'm fine before I go in. I'm fine when I come out. In between, though, I'm pretty much a freak.
On Saturday I had a vocal audition for Chicago and, although I felt good about the singing itself, my body was uncooperative and I was more than a bit noticeably quavery. Since it was a director with whom I've never worked, I was worried, of course, that he would believe I might be a wreck on stage.
Then this morning I had a dance audition. You want to talk stress? Picture me in a room packed with dancers (some of whom are dancers to the hilt), and ask me to learn the choregraphy (with no clear sightlines to the choreographer's feet) in a hurry. Yeesh! Still, I was doing reasonably well until the tap part. YIKES! Humiliation ran rampant. I have a little tap experience but there was NO WAY I was going to identify the sounds/steps/sequences/routines at full-speed on the fly. HUMILIATION, I say.
In the end, after a lengthy and nerve-wracking callback period, I've wound up as a dancer/ensemble member in the show, which should be wicked fun. Based on the short Fosse-esque routines we worked on as part of the audition today (do NOT include the horrendous tap segment in that), methinks it's going to be mighty pickin' fun to do.
Let's be honest, though. If you'd asked me a couple of years ago, "Do you expect to be cast as a dancer in a show anytime soon?" I probably would have responded, "No, no, no. Be not so very silly ... " (I spoke quite dramatically a few years ago, apparently) "... though I will likely be dancing in a show, I don't foresee being considered a dancer exactly."
All I can say is that I'm going to be Fosse-ing all over the place for the next while. Jazz hands in the produce aisle. Rolling shoulders while taking out the recycling. That sort of thing. I'll likely be unbearable.
I also perform regularly in plays, musicals, and a dinner show. Slap me in a show in front of an audience and I'm fine. I've yet to have an episode of stage fright in my performance career. Ask me to sing in church, though, and the nerves appear.
And then there are auditions. I hate auditions. I'm fine before I go in. I'm fine when I come out. In between, though, I'm pretty much a freak.
On Saturday I had a vocal audition for Chicago and, although I felt good about the singing itself, my body was uncooperative and I was more than a bit noticeably quavery. Since it was a director with whom I've never worked, I was worried, of course, that he would believe I might be a wreck on stage.
Then this morning I had a dance audition. You want to talk stress? Picture me in a room packed with dancers (some of whom are dancers to the hilt), and ask me to learn the choregraphy (with no clear sightlines to the choreographer's feet) in a hurry. Yeesh! Still, I was doing reasonably well until the tap part. YIKES! Humiliation ran rampant. I have a little tap experience but there was NO WAY I was going to identify the sounds/steps/sequences/routines at full-speed on the fly. HUMILIATION, I say.
In the end, after a lengthy and nerve-wracking callback period, I've wound up as a dancer/ensemble member in the show, which should be wicked fun. Based on the short Fosse-esque routines we worked on as part of the audition today (do NOT include the horrendous tap segment in that), methinks it's going to be mighty pickin' fun to do.
Let's be honest, though. If you'd asked me a couple of years ago, "Do you expect to be cast as a dancer in a show anytime soon?" I probably would have responded, "No, no, no. Be not so very silly ... " (I spoke quite dramatically a few years ago, apparently) "... though I will likely be dancing in a show, I don't foresee being considered a dancer exactly."
All I can say is that I'm going to be Fosse-ing all over the place for the next while. Jazz hands in the produce aisle. Rolling shoulders while taking out the recycling. That sort of thing. I'll likely be unbearable.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Something Fishy
You need to know two things about me:
1. It took me a LONG time to psych myself up enough to get a tuna sub at Subway. To some that may sound like an unappealing sub to begin with, but tuna's almost the only seafood that I'll eat (in addition to fish-and-chips style fish with plenty of tartar sauce). Still, the point is that it took a great deal of self-talk and a bucketload of faith for me to trust that the tuna in that (slightly creepy) table would be suitable for consumption. So far I haven't died. Or broken my 20-year record for vomitlessness.
2. I'm notoriously easy-going and seldom speak up even when I should. When I was a gardener, I ate many, many, many sandwiches with tomatoes in them even though I loathe tomatoes. Why? I just didn't want to make the lovely woman who was making the aforementioned sandwiches feel bad.
That said, I reached a pivotal point (important to today's tale) a few days back when I stopped at ye olde Subway for my tuna sub. I approached that little glass-enclosed counter and saw it. What I didn't want to see. The tuna scoop resting on the lid of the tuna tub. Sitting there caked in tuna. Not caked in pleasant "Mmm. Doesn't that look tuna-rifically tasty" tuna, but in "Sweet Mother, I'd forgotten that mayonnaise turns into that creepy amber glass-like substance when left out and the tuna mixed in just makes it all the more unappealing" tuna that has been aged beyond appropriate.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat a sub which had come into contact with that. Besides, shouldn't there be some sort of submarine sandwich protocol to prevent that from ever happening?
So I did what I had to. I said, "Excuse me. I don't want to be a pain, but could you please wash that scoop before you use it?" The Sandwich Artist (though it's been some time, to be honest, since I had a sandwich there that resembled in any way a work of art) was very pleasant about it and even replaced the scoop entirely with a sparkling clean one. I felt good about the situation and about my choice to speak up in the name of my immune system.
Then today, I returned after a long day at work, knowing that I didn't have the patience to make anything. A sub it would be.
And there it was. The creepy scoop, just as before. Ack.
Cooperative Subway Worker was in back. I had Alternate Girl.
Having had such a positive and productive experience last time, I made my request again. Unlike C.S.W. (who was in back), A.G. (who was serving me) didn't seem to appreciate my request. She went and gave it a quick wash and my (perhaps irrational) faith came back into play. It appeared clean, but the scoop didn't actually travel in back to the official dish washing area, just to the up front sink. For the rest of my journey down the line ("Lettuce, cucumbers, and pickles, please. Just one little squooge of mayo and some salt and pepper.") A.G. seemed unwilling to converse with me more than absolutely necessary, as if my request somehow personally affronted her.
If that little window counter wasn't there, would she have done my sandwich harm? That's always my concern when making even the slightest stink when it comes to food. If they think you're being petty (though in no way do I think asking for non-yack utensils to be used is petty), will they take it out on you in secret and horrible ways? Will they spit on it or, worse, immerd* it in the unspeakable?
I need to grocery shop more often. Of course, as we already know, grocery shopping has proven to have its own risks.
Incidentally, I'm doing laundry. In my own home. Woohoo!
----------------------------
* immerd (im-MURD): to cover in dung, as in "Do wee..see some eminent professor..immerd himselfe in the dung of worldly wickednesse.." (spake by William Ames in 1652).
1. It took me a LONG time to psych myself up enough to get a tuna sub at Subway. To some that may sound like an unappealing sub to begin with, but tuna's almost the only seafood that I'll eat (in addition to fish-and-chips style fish with plenty of tartar sauce). Still, the point is that it took a great deal of self-talk and a bucketload of faith for me to trust that the tuna in that (slightly creepy) table would be suitable for consumption. So far I haven't died. Or broken my 20-year record for vomitlessness.
2. I'm notoriously easy-going and seldom speak up even when I should. When I was a gardener, I ate many, many, many sandwiches with tomatoes in them even though I loathe tomatoes. Why? I just didn't want to make the lovely woman who was making the aforementioned sandwiches feel bad.
That said, I reached a pivotal point (important to today's tale) a few days back when I stopped at ye olde Subway for my tuna sub. I approached that little glass-enclosed counter and saw it. What I didn't want to see. The tuna scoop resting on the lid of the tuna tub. Sitting there caked in tuna. Not caked in pleasant "Mmm. Doesn't that look tuna-rifically tasty" tuna, but in "Sweet Mother, I'd forgotten that mayonnaise turns into that creepy amber glass-like substance when left out and the tuna mixed in just makes it all the more unappealing" tuna that has been aged beyond appropriate.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat a sub which had come into contact with that. Besides, shouldn't there be some sort of submarine sandwich protocol to prevent that from ever happening?
So I did what I had to. I said, "Excuse me. I don't want to be a pain, but could you please wash that scoop before you use it?" The Sandwich Artist (though it's been some time, to be honest, since I had a sandwich there that resembled in any way a work of art) was very pleasant about it and even replaced the scoop entirely with a sparkling clean one. I felt good about the situation and about my choice to speak up in the name of my immune system.
Then today, I returned after a long day at work, knowing that I didn't have the patience to make anything. A sub it would be.
And there it was. The creepy scoop, just as before. Ack.
Cooperative Subway Worker was in back. I had Alternate Girl.
Having had such a positive and productive experience last time, I made my request again. Unlike C.S.W. (who was in back), A.G. (who was serving me) didn't seem to appreciate my request. She went and gave it a quick wash and my (perhaps irrational) faith came back into play. It appeared clean, but the scoop didn't actually travel in back to the official dish washing area, just to the up front sink. For the rest of my journey down the line ("Lettuce, cucumbers, and pickles, please. Just one little squooge of mayo and some salt and pepper.") A.G. seemed unwilling to converse with me more than absolutely necessary, as if my request somehow personally affronted her.
If that little window counter wasn't there, would she have done my sandwich harm? That's always my concern when making even the slightest stink when it comes to food. If they think you're being petty (though in no way do I think asking for non-yack utensils to be used is petty), will they take it out on you in secret and horrible ways? Will they spit on it or, worse, immerd* it in the unspeakable?
I need to grocery shop more often. Of course, as we already know, grocery shopping has proven to have its own risks.
Incidentally, I'm doing laundry. In my own home. Woohoo!
----------------------------
* immerd (im-MURD): to cover in dung, as in "Do wee..see some eminent professor..immerd himselfe in the dung of worldly wickednesse.." (spake by William Ames in 1652).
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Attempted Murder
Today I (with Mike's assistance) moved the washer and dryer I was lucky to get hold of into the basement. Washers = heavy and cumbersome. To so so, we had to move the stove, but luckily it went off without a hitch. Or so it seemed.
Allow me to now pause to extol the virtuous prospects of being able to do laundry in my own home. That's a luxury I have not enjoyed for over a decade and I'm greatly looking forward to it. Just think: no more trying to schedule the trips to the laundromat; no more loud/bratty/scampering children underfoot whilst at the laundromat; no more getting to the laundromat only to discover the change machine is empty/out of order; no more spending $20 or more per visit at the laundromat ... smell the spring fresh freedom!
Back to the scandalous events of the day.
It was quite a bit later that I returned home after a jaunt out in the real world, but it took mere moments to realize that something was up. Someone had plotted to kill me. To do me in. To bump me off. To deal with me once and for all.
You see, I turned the key in my back door, heard the familiar click, and swung the door open, stepping casually over the threshold. As I reached for the light switch, my nose sent a warning to my head. There was a strong smell of natural gas in the air. I withdrew my hand to my side and sniffed again. Definitely a smell of blow-the-house-sky-high gas. I immediately went downstairs (in the half-light of dusk) and turned off the gas supply to the stove. Returning upstairs, I went to move the stove out from the wall, theorizing that we may have loosened the seal to the gas supply hose in back when we moved it in order to make room for the laundry machines (which, incidentally, will make trips to the laundromat a thing of the past). That's when I saw it. Evidence that someone was out to get me. To do me in. To bump me off, etc., etc.
The gas supply to the front right-hand burner was on.
Now, I won't mention the name of my attemped killer (murderer, hit man, assassin), but his name starts with M and rhymes with IKE. (He's also married to Betsy and the father of her three children.) Oh, he denies it, but I'm not convinced.
Still, he did offer to drop by while I'm at work tomorrow (since I'll be gone from about 7:30 in the morning and won't get in until about 10:00ish) to pop all the hoses and such on the machines so I don't need to. I guess that means I'll forgive him his homicidal tendencies.
But I will check the gas before I leave and again when I return.
Allow me to now pause to extol the virtuous prospects of being able to do laundry in my own home. That's a luxury I have not enjoyed for over a decade and I'm greatly looking forward to it. Just think: no more trying to schedule the trips to the laundromat; no more loud/bratty/scampering children underfoot whilst at the laundromat; no more getting to the laundromat only to discover the change machine is empty/out of order; no more spending $20 or more per visit at the laundromat ... smell the spring fresh freedom!
Back to the scandalous events of the day.
It was quite a bit later that I returned home after a jaunt out in the real world, but it took mere moments to realize that something was up. Someone had plotted to kill me. To do me in. To bump me off. To deal with me once and for all.
You see, I turned the key in my back door, heard the familiar click, and swung the door open, stepping casually over the threshold. As I reached for the light switch, my nose sent a warning to my head. There was a strong smell of natural gas in the air. I withdrew my hand to my side and sniffed again. Definitely a smell of blow-the-house-sky-high gas. I immediately went downstairs (in the half-light of dusk) and turned off the gas supply to the stove. Returning upstairs, I went to move the stove out from the wall, theorizing that we may have loosened the seal to the gas supply hose in back when we moved it in order to make room for the laundry machines (which, incidentally, will make trips to the laundromat a thing of the past). That's when I saw it. Evidence that someone was out to get me. To do me in. To bump me off, etc., etc.
The gas supply to the front right-hand burner was on.
Now, I won't mention the name of my attemped killer (murderer, hit man, assassin), but his name starts with M and rhymes with IKE. (He's also married to Betsy and the father of her three children.) Oh, he denies it, but I'm not convinced.
Still, he did offer to drop by while I'm at work tomorrow (since I'll be gone from about 7:30 in the morning and won't get in until about 10:00ish) to pop all the hoses and such on the machines so I don't need to. I guess that means I'll forgive him his homicidal tendencies.
But I will check the gas before I leave and again when I return.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Dubble Dubble Toil and Trubble
Know what I hate? Commercials in which there has been clear (and poorly executed) rerecording of voices. They've been around forever. Some seem to have been dubbed from the get-go, as though they'd accidentally cast some beautiful face with a voice like sandpaper and had to replace the sound, not unlike Singin' in the Rain
The latest offenders include a commercial for Bam cleaner, in which it appears the name of the product has been changed. The spokesman is ranting along about the product and all seems well until he names the cleaner and then *Bam!* it's like watching a kung fu movie. I know, I know, it would cost a lot to reshoot the commercial, but it drives me nuts. Are we not supposed to notice? Could they not have settled on the name before shooting?
The other offender I've noticed is an ad for Toronto's 104.5 CHUM FM. The original version of the commercial featured some fine fellow looking out his window across to a facing building. He notices people dancing, singing into a brush, and the like. His female companion (I don't wish to make assumptions about their relationship) enters, turns on the radio (to CHUM FM, of course) and he realizes that everyone across the way is listening to CHUM, too. How does he know? Because their dancing and lipsynching match the music! Now that they've substituted more current music in the commercial, it just doesn't make sense. "Hey! It's Toronto's most popular station, but judging from their actions, those people over there are listening to something else!"
What's that all about? It causeth me distress.
The latest offenders include a commercial for Bam cleaner, in which it appears the name of the product has been changed. The spokesman is ranting along about the product and all seems well until he names the cleaner and then *Bam!* it's like watching a kung fu movie. I know, I know, it would cost a lot to reshoot the commercial, but it drives me nuts. Are we not supposed to notice? Could they not have settled on the name before shooting?
The other offender I've noticed is an ad for Toronto's 104.5 CHUM FM. The original version of the commercial featured some fine fellow looking out his window across to a facing building. He notices people dancing, singing into a brush, and the like. His female companion (I don't wish to make assumptions about their relationship) enters, turns on the radio (to CHUM FM, of course) and he realizes that everyone across the way is listening to CHUM, too. How does he know? Because their dancing and lipsynching match the music! Now that they've substituted more current music in the commercial, it just doesn't make sense. "Hey! It's Toronto's most popular station, but judging from their actions, those people over there are listening to something else!"
What's that all about? It causeth me distress.
Everyday
I came across this a while back. Maybe it's because I'm getting older and discovering that the trite thing everyone says about time flying faster the older you get turns out to be true, but I found it so affecting that I've decided to share it for those who haven't yet seen it.
Dining
This evening I was at a banquet and was faced with one of my aversions. Well, two of them, to be honest.
Most of those who know me well know that I have a thing about public eating. I can eat in restaurants and such without problem, although I do have strong seating preferences -- do not seat me at a table in the middle of the dining room if there's a wall table or booth available -- but in banquet / wedding reception / gathering-style eating situations, I am not at my best. I just don't like it. I think it has to do with the whole "behaving oneself" thing. Oi. The pressure.
That said, the food was good and the company was pleasant, so I certainly can't complain. And, of course, my aversion doesn't keep me from just dealing with it and eating anyway.
The second thing I faced was being forced (which is italicized for a reason, not for sensationalism) to put in an appearance on the dance floor by my dear friend Satan, er, Alison, that is. I dance when I'm performing. I don't really just ... you know ... dance. I just don't do it and I don't particularly like to do it. That said, slap me in a show and ask me to dance and I'm there. Needless to say, I was cursing Alison most of the time, while putting on my best Travolta. Then, to make matters worse, I was hot afterwards. Oh, the sacrifices I make for my friends....
So there you have it. My evening really was very enjoyable, seeing all kinds of friends and acquaintences many of whom I haven't seen in a while. Still, people, I have some issues! Can't you accept them as I have?
Have a nice evening.
Most of those who know me well know that I have a thing about public eating. I can eat in restaurants and such without problem, although I do have strong seating preferences -- do not seat me at a table in the middle of the dining room if there's a wall table or booth available -- but in banquet / wedding reception / gathering-style eating situations, I am not at my best. I just don't like it. I think it has to do with the whole "behaving oneself" thing. Oi. The pressure.
That said, the food was good and the company was pleasant, so I certainly can't complain. And, of course, my aversion doesn't keep me from just dealing with it and eating anyway.
The second thing I faced was being forced (which is italicized for a reason, not for sensationalism) to put in an appearance on the dance floor by my dear friend Satan, er, Alison, that is. I dance when I'm performing. I don't really just ... you know ... dance. I just don't do it and I don't particularly like to do it. That said, slap me in a show and ask me to dance and I'm there. Needless to say, I was cursing Alison most of the time, while putting on my best Travolta. Then, to make matters worse, I was hot afterwards. Oh, the sacrifices I make for my friends....
So there you have it. My evening really was very enjoyable, seeing all kinds of friends and acquaintences many of whom I haven't seen in a while. Still, people, I have some issues! Can't you accept them as I have?
Have a nice evening.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
I'm Such a Spaz
All day long, I've been having tiny muscle spasms on the inside of my right arm, just below my elbow. It's that strange mix of creepy and intriguing. The kids were fascinated by watching it quiver now and then. (Right now it's going nuts.) It's been happening on and off now for more than 12 hours. Why do you suppose that is?
Well, according to Medline Plus, this could be "common and normal" nerve firing, which is kind of vague, or it could be a nuerological disorder, which is kind of alarming. WHAT?!?!
So, let's go down the list of potential causes, shall we?
Benign twitches (not caused by disease or disorders)
Often affecting the eyelids, calf, or thumb
Normal and quite common, often triggered by stress or anxiety
Hmmm. Nope. Not my eyelids, calf, or thumb. It's my arm. And let's be honest, wouldn't my years upon years of stress and anxiety have produced something by now? My entire body from tip to toe should be twitching!
A diet deficiency
Okay, I won't lie. I suppose that's a possibility, although another site specifically identified a potassium deficiency as a cause and I ate plenty of bananas in the past week.
Which brings us to:
Drug overdose (caffeine).
Curiously enough, I think I've had less caffeine than usual lately. Could I have a drug underdose?
Drug side effect (such as diuretics, corticosteroids and estrogens)
Again, I'm not thinknig this is an explanation. As far as I can tell, I'm not hopped up on estrogen, unless I'm starting to absorb it from the all-female staff I work with every day!
Exercise
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Maybe that leaves "neurological disorder", but I still have my suspicions that it's really best explained by "hmmm, isn't that odd?"
I'll let you know if it continues or grows out of control.
Finally, and basically for Keltie and her hair-fixation, here's a wee link.
Well, according to Medline Plus, this could be "common and normal" nerve firing, which is kind of vague, or it could be a nuerological disorder, which is kind of alarming. WHAT?!?!
So, let's go down the list of potential causes, shall we?
Benign twitches (not caused by disease or disorders)
Often affecting the eyelids, calf, or thumb
Normal and quite common, often triggered by stress or anxiety
Hmmm. Nope. Not my eyelids, calf, or thumb. It's my arm. And let's be honest, wouldn't my years upon years of stress and anxiety have produced something by now? My entire body from tip to toe should be twitching!
A diet deficiency
Okay, I won't lie. I suppose that's a possibility, although another site specifically identified a potassium deficiency as a cause and I ate plenty of bananas in the past week.
Which brings us to:
Drug overdose (caffeine).
Curiously enough, I think I've had less caffeine than usual lately. Could I have a drug underdose?
Drug side effect (such as diuretics, corticosteroids and estrogens)
Again, I'm not thinknig this is an explanation. As far as I can tell, I'm not hopped up on estrogen, unless I'm starting to absorb it from the all-female staff I work with every day!
Exercise
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Maybe that leaves "neurological disorder", but I still have my suspicions that it's really best explained by "hmmm, isn't that odd?"
I'll let you know if it continues or grows out of control.
Finally, and basically for Keltie and her hair-fixation, here's a wee link.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
A Day at the Races, A Night at the Opera
After a long and reasonably productive day at work, I was off to Shaw for a rousing musical performance of High Society.
Have you ever noticed that the senior members of our community (whom I love, adore, and duly respect both as a whole and, where merited, as individuals) can be ever-so-very disquieting in large groups? Oh, the mass of humanity!
On this evening, a significant portion of the audience was of the aged (and, presumably, honourable and beloved) set. Upon the end of the performance, however, I very nearly feared for my life. In large numbers, their group movements become unpredictable unless, like a flock of birds, you happen to be one of them, in which case you seem to instinctively react and respond to modifications in the group's bearing. On this occasion, while being funneled out of the theatre through a much-too-narrow set of doors (much like sheep exiting a fold), I was bounced around between two disorienting movement patterns.
The first was what I call "On A Mission" in which the aforementioned seniors (whom, as I've said before, I love and respect regardless of their exiting behaviours) pick a goal -- such as the door, their car, or one of several large tour buses -- and head there, ready to bodycheck anyone who should stand in between them and their goal. Now, that's not quite right. They didn't even seem to register that their could be someone between them and their goal.
The second was the "Stick the Landing" in which someone walking in front of you stops without a nanosecond's notice, going from sixty to a standstill with no apparent slowing. Then you're left dodging, a precarious endeavour thanks to everyone else being On A Mission to both the left and right, as well as behind you. You're left doing a sort of athletic Pick and Turn to swing past them and back into the flow. Yeesh!
I'm thinking of proposing that the esteemed aged equip themselves with a set of indicator lights which will alert us to such things. Or maybe at least a brake light on the backs of their hats.
Have you ever noticed that the senior members of our community (whom I love, adore, and duly respect both as a whole and, where merited, as individuals) can be ever-so-very disquieting in large groups? Oh, the mass of humanity!
On this evening, a significant portion of the audience was of the aged (and, presumably, honourable and beloved) set. Upon the end of the performance, however, I very nearly feared for my life. In large numbers, their group movements become unpredictable unless, like a flock of birds, you happen to be one of them, in which case you seem to instinctively react and respond to modifications in the group's bearing. On this occasion, while being funneled out of the theatre through a much-too-narrow set of doors (much like sheep exiting a fold), I was bounced around between two disorienting movement patterns.
The first was what I call "On A Mission" in which the aforementioned seniors (whom, as I've said before, I love and respect regardless of their exiting behaviours) pick a goal -- such as the door, their car, or one of several large tour buses -- and head there, ready to bodycheck anyone who should stand in between them and their goal. Now, that's not quite right. They didn't even seem to register that their could be someone between them and their goal.
The second was the "Stick the Landing" in which someone walking in front of you stops without a nanosecond's notice, going from sixty to a standstill with no apparent slowing. Then you're left dodging, a precarious endeavour thanks to everyone else being On A Mission to both the left and right, as well as behind you. You're left doing a sort of athletic Pick and Turn to swing past them and back into the flow. Yeesh!
I'm thinking of proposing that the esteemed aged equip themselves with a set of indicator lights which will alert us to such things. Or maybe at least a brake light on the backs of their hats.
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