Digitus annularis sinistra, we need to talk.
Have I done something to upset you recently?
I know you get left out of making obscene gestures but I include you every single metal concert I attend, my right hand has no monopoly in throwing up the horns.
Sure, you don't get to do any of the handwriting but that's going the way of the dinosaurs and you are a vital and valued member of Team Touch-typing.
I haven't bashed you, beaten you, broken you, crushed you, landed on you or jammed you in anything so why, WHY have you spent most of this month puffed up to twice your normal size, aching and refusing to bend?
Was it something I said?
We don't play sports and I've never played that stab-the-spaces-between-your-fingers-really-fast game, and do you know why?
Because we're buddies.
Because I would never endanger you like that.
Having two working hands is pretty awesome.
Which is why our current situation is so disconcerting.
Driving is difficult, touch-typing impossible, I keep bonking you on things because you're stuck out on a weird angle, and the other night I rolled onto you in my sleep and almost bit my tongue off because it hurt so much.
I've taken you to the doctor which proves not only am I taking you seriously but I'm willing to commit to working things out between us, so won't you meet me halfway?
About halfway between extended flat and fully curled against the palm?
So we do all those things we used to do together like hold stuff and open jars by ourselves.
Please let me know.
I love you.
Sincerely yours,
Ricochet
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Reluctant Reunion
Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh!
Here we go.
After a lot of waiting, rumours, hiccups and hold-ups, our workplace is finally in the process of being amalgamated into one building now that enough office space has opened up in the main building to incorporate the staff from the smaller building.
This is good for communications, cutting down on shilly-shallying with resources and not having to hire a private detective to work out how to work out who has what stationery and why we never have any post-its.
This is bad for the sheer amount of drama it has stirred up.
As citizens of the smaller building, my coworkers and I have enjoyed a series of small separated offices complete with doors that close, a lunch area, better parking and a good half hour's warning before any of the higher ups turn up at our door.
Moving to the larger building we'll be working in an open plan office with our big building cousins, we'll have to share facilities and the battle lines are already being drawn.
Sides have been chosen and whining is in full effect.
How we're* going to arrange our desks.
How much space we get.
What we're going to do to those dirty big building-ers if they try to use our communal fridge.
It isn't our fault that our fridge is bigger than theirs and damned if we'll be giving up our glorious fridge space when we've already had to sacrifice our privacy blah blah blah blah.
Of course, it hasn't all been solidarity and morale-boosting group planning. The existing factions, sub-factions and incestuous semi-factions in our mini-splinter-workplace have continued their scheming against each other even as they've participated in the collective scheming to make sure we aren't done wrong by the outlanders**!
I have decided to take the high road*** and hope that everything eventually settles down.
If this manages to happen before a particular group - who don't seem to have realised that they've left high school way behind them and sound ridiculous bickering like teenagers - kill each other... Well that would be great.
Yes, I'm going to miss being able to close my door, especially when one particularly racist/homophobic/reality TV loving coworker gets going, but I've still got a job I enjoy and will NOT be joining the 'this is an outrage, we're being treated so poorly' self-indulgence of the drama llama crew.
Losing a water cooler isn't a contravention of any human rights treaties, you nitwits!
All that having been said... Please let this be over soon *sigh*.
*They take it as read that I am part of the 'we' collective, I am too apathetic to be an 'us' or a 'them'. I am the Switzerland of not giving a toss about office politics.
**Wait, we're the outlanders! What does that make the other guys? Inlanders just makes them sound like tax officials.
***Translation: wear headphones all the time and ignore everyone
Here we go.
After a lot of waiting, rumours, hiccups and hold-ups, our workplace is finally in the process of being amalgamated into one building now that enough office space has opened up in the main building to incorporate the staff from the smaller building.
This is good for communications, cutting down on shilly-shallying with resources and not having to hire a private detective to work out how to work out who has what stationery and why we never have any post-its.
This is bad for the sheer amount of drama it has stirred up.
As citizens of the smaller building, my coworkers and I have enjoyed a series of small separated offices complete with doors that close, a lunch area, better parking and a good half hour's warning before any of the higher ups turn up at our door.
Moving to the larger building we'll be working in an open plan office with our big building cousins, we'll have to share facilities and the battle lines are already being drawn.
Sides have been chosen and whining is in full effect.
How we're* going to arrange our desks.
How much space we get.
What we're going to do to those dirty big building-ers if they try to use our communal fridge.
It isn't our fault that our fridge is bigger than theirs and damned if we'll be giving up our glorious fridge space when we've already had to sacrifice our privacy blah blah blah blah.
Of course, it hasn't all been solidarity and morale-boosting group planning. The existing factions, sub-factions and incestuous semi-factions in our mini-splinter-workplace have continued their scheming against each other even as they've participated in the collective scheming to make sure we aren't done wrong by the outlanders**!
I have decided to take the high road*** and hope that everything eventually settles down.
If this manages to happen before a particular group - who don't seem to have realised that they've left high school way behind them and sound ridiculous bickering like teenagers - kill each other... Well that would be great.
Yes, I'm going to miss being able to close my door, especially when one particularly racist/homophobic/reality TV loving coworker gets going, but I've still got a job I enjoy and will NOT be joining the 'this is an outrage, we're being treated so poorly' self-indulgence of the drama llama crew.
Losing a water cooler isn't a contravention of any human rights treaties, you nitwits!
All that having been said... Please let this be over soon *sigh*.
*They take it as read that I am part of the 'we' collective, I am too apathetic to be an 'us' or a 'them'. I am the Switzerland of not giving a toss about office politics.
**Wait, we're the outlanders! What does that make the other guys? Inlanders just makes them sound like tax officials.
***Translation: wear headphones all the time and ignore everyone
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Throwing Out My Alarm Clock
A while ago *coff three months ago* my alarm clock stopped working.
This caused a minor problem because when I don't need to get out of bed in order to turn my alarm off, I don't tend to get out of bed.
Which means getting out of bed late, skipping breakfast and flinging myself half-dressed out of the door in a panic to get to work on time.
So I pro-actively got right on that.
Last week.
But I really shouldn't have bothered.
Because the cats have come up with a new game.
A game called 'let's knock everything off the bottom shelf of Ricochet's bookcase'.
They like to play it at 5:30am in the morning and then wrestle on the resultant pile of books.
I'm not used to being awake at that hour.
And chasing a pair of furry bastards off a stack of Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett and assorted murder mysteries isn't my idea of a gentle awakening.
So I surrendered the bottom shelf, redistributed the books, and settled back to enjoy a restful night's sleep punctuated at a seemly hour by the trilling of my new alarm clock.
Except the early morning wrassling has relocated itself to the foot of my bed.
There are two conclusions to be drawn from this.
One. Cats are the annoying, energetic, morning people of the animal world. You know, joggers.
Two. Procrastination is nature's way of telling you not to bother spending money on things that you'll never get around to using anyway.
So I might as well throw out the alarm clock.
I'll get right on that.
Eventually.
This caused a minor problem because when I don't need to get out of bed in order to turn my alarm off, I don't tend to get out of bed.
Which means getting out of bed late, skipping breakfast and flinging myself half-dressed out of the door in a panic to get to work on time.
So I pro-actively got right on that.
Last week.
But I really shouldn't have bothered.
Because the cats have come up with a new game.
A game called 'let's knock everything off the bottom shelf of Ricochet's bookcase'.
They like to play it at 5:30am in the morning and then wrestle on the resultant pile of books.
I'm not used to being awake at that hour.
And chasing a pair of furry bastards off a stack of Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett and assorted murder mysteries isn't my idea of a gentle awakening.
So I surrendered the bottom shelf, redistributed the books, and settled back to enjoy a restful night's sleep punctuated at a seemly hour by the trilling of my new alarm clock.
Except the early morning wrassling has relocated itself to the foot of my bed.
There are two conclusions to be drawn from this.
One. Cats are the annoying, energetic, morning people of the animal world. You know, joggers.
Two. Procrastination is nature's way of telling you not to bother spending money on things that you'll never get around to using anyway.
So I might as well throw out the alarm clock.
I'll get right on that.
Eventually.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Things I Am Looking Forward To When I Get My Braces Off
- Spending 90% less time wondering if there is something caught in my teeth.
- Nougat
- Being able to bite directly into things
- Nougat
- People over 60 not assuming I'm 15*
- Nougat
- Not getting the odd bit of cheek caught on the odd bit of metal
- Nougat
- Being able to floss my teeth without needing guiding apparatus
- Nougat
- Not suddenly realising I've been making weirdo faces at people as I absent-mindedly probe my braces with my tongue
- Nougat
- ...
*The braids I've been sporting of late may have been contributing to this particular misconception
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