February 26th, 2006

Housewife's Lament

It's been a bad week.

Several different unrelated people seem to think that the appropriate phrase for the days when I lock up and have this inexplicable terror at the thought of going outside or doing anything (specifically, usually going to work or going about my normal routine) is "panic attack".

They've been traditionally linked with my menstrual cycle. Except when that goes haywire (as it is doing now -- it is the Great Drought, and no, I haven't been around any unchaperoned sperm for Quite Some Time, thanks) it seems to happen anyway. It's bad enough when I am getting enough sleep. It's worse when the insomnia thing is in full force. Usually it's only one day every month or so, and often enough that falls on one of my weekends.

Two weeks ago -- the 9th and 10th -- I was out of commission with this. This week -- the 23rd, 24th, and 25th -- I was out of commission. That's just counting the work days. I barely made it out for the writing group this past week.

That's far too much time out of my life right there, and this needs to stop. I did some poking about online and called a local organization to see what their recommendations were for places to start on getting this -- whatever the fuck is causing it -- fixed.

Step one is to get a general physical and see if there's anything overtly physically wrong. Irregular cycles is something physical. Insomnia can have physical roots. Well, actually, step one is to see what medical care programs I qualify for, because I have absolutely no insurance and a variable (and low) income -- I go from full-time to part-time based on the hours work has available. Then some physical-issues investigation. And after that, into the scary realm of psych stuff.

It isn't a constant problem, but it's a chronic one. I'd be just as relieved as the next person if there's a treatable physical cause, or, failing that, some "Comfortably Numb" remedy I can use to put the absolute nonfunctionality at bay until my logical weekend.


Annnnnd ... that's what I've been up to. When I can think.
  • Current Mood
    drained drained
phone, cordless phone

(no subject)

When you're convinced that your zombies will never be as good as anyone else's, is that an Inferi-ority complex?
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(no subject)

Have finally consigned all the dreadful grey shorts to the exchange bag. I have enough shorts to do that now.
phone, cordless phone

(no subject)

This is me on my way to work. Go, me. At least it is not bright out yet. Where is the rain? All cloudy. Maybe today.
phone, cordless phone

No Rain

It's been over a hundred days since there was measurable precipitation here in the Valley of the Damned Sun. This is the cool time of the year, so it's not as dreadfully notable as it might be, but it's still not a comfortable weather feeling.

I miss the rain. I'd really like to live in a place that rains. I got some good precipitation while I was visiting Guide Dog Aunt, so I'm not as desperate for it as I could be, but I'd really like to see some rain.

It was all clouded up this morning when I was walking to work. There's something about a cloudy day that cheers me up.
phone, cordless phone

(no subject)

Darkside is doing spare time DB design for his dad. Like geeky yard work. Personality conflict ahoy! Poor guy.
phone, cordless phone

(no subject)

Some of the broken computers here had really stupid problems. Cd drive bay door wedged under power button. That took some doing.
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(no subject)

It's like they had levels in 'annoy geek' or something. Trash put inside the machine. Crisp bags. Lollipop sticks. WTF.
phone, cordless phone

(no subject)

The mere fact of the door wedge is going to irk me for days. Wasn't hard to do given the position. But OMG WTF.
phone, cordless phone

(no subject)

Ha. If only I had been at the renfest yesterday. Reverend not so nice super was being very silly. Wish I had been there.
phone, cordless phone

(no subject)

Another air freshener spotted atop the tampon machine. Tricky things. Figures those two are in league together.
work, headset, nerf bat, working

Another step on the road to profit

I had a bad, bad day with the computers today, from a tech support standpoint. Collapse )

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I bitched at some length about the sheer amount of special it took to do that to a computer, and the Obso1337 Supervisor brought forth some of the latest workplace gems. It seems that the Plaid Geek (the one who I ran into when I was doing the interminable disc project) was cracking the cases on some of the non-working items brought in to him, and he found things inside.

Gum foil. Lollipop sticks. Soda bottle wrapper. All of these things are things that the call center supervisors see jammed in machines with more or less regularity, so we were impressed by the Plaid Geek's touching faith in the integrity and garbage collection abilities of the average phone goon (evidenced by his outrage that some of these unspoken Rules of Computing were broken). I started wondering how long it would take before the other shoe dropped for him; Obso1337 Super indicated that it already had.

"It's a surprise that some of these machines were still running," was Darkside's take on the matter, when I recounted the Tale of Woe (or "This is what I did at work today, honey!") to him.

"Mind you, these were the ones brought in for repair," I said. "Like the one he found with the underwear in it."

"UNDERWEAR?!?"

Yes. Underwear.

All discussions of that PC seem to have short-circuited at about that point, with the usual newspaper barrage of questions like Who? Why? How long ago? Wouldn't someone notice? Was it theirs? Were they ... you know ... used? Boxers/briefs/panties/G-string? and other such frivolities. Such is the zen of employment at this call center that the old-timers have found that it is safest to not even begin to ask most of these.

Though if we knew the Why? we would probably know the Who?, and likewise. No one who works with me (except for the IT guy, who is new) thought to ask the question Who in their right mind stuffs underwear inside the case of a computer? because we all know that no one who works there is actually sane.

This may well be a final farewell from the One Man Bald Nudity Crusade. Who else would pick such a charmingly literal way to tell the computer, "Eat my shorts!"
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