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Aug. 18th, 2005 10:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
which_chickOn my way home from work today, I stopped off at Liss's to pick up my pocketwatch, which I'd loaned to the boy so that he'd know when it was time for him to go home from work. I mentioned that I had a splitting headache and Liss fixed me a cup of coffee and (for reasons I do not pretend to understand) decided that I and my splitting headache needed to see the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. On DVD.
I watched enough of that to get through a guy and a half (there are four guys) of material whereupon I started feeling decidedly not-right. I don't think it was precisely the video that was doing it. I'd like to be able to claim that a rednecky guy (wearing a plaid flannel shirt what got the sleeves cut out of it) whose catchphrase appears to be get 'er done would be just the sort of thing to turn my stomach. Unfortunately, I was laughing my ass off in a restrained, holding-my-head-very-still sort of way. (Interestingly, I was watching it with La's husband Mike and while there was some overlap on what we thought was funny, we didn't laugh at all the same things. Would you classify that as a gender problem or a class problem? More research is needed, certainly.) As I was laughing, I don't reckon I can blame the video. Because I don't like throwing up in other people's toilets (they hover and they want to help and they try to dialogue with me at a time when I do not feel like speaking with anyone for any reason), I excused myself and drove home. Due to the phenomenal systems control that also makes me a hit with the opposite sex, I managed to get in my house, remove my (fuel-oil scented) boots, change into a pair of sweats, and scrub the toilet so that it'd be clean enough to throw up into before I puked until I was dry-heaving into my good friend Mr. Toilet Bowl. Lovely. I then had a nice two-hour lie down, complete with flashes of light behind my eyeballs and profuse sweating. (This is fairly normal for the sort of headaches I get. Splitting headache, nausea, puking, have a lie-down for a couple of hours. Stay face-down and motionless. Sweat a lot, ignore flashes of light. Feel better without medication in two to five hours. Do not attempt to eat or drink until feeling better. Fortunately I don't get them often.) At that point, the phone rang.
I answered the phone. If the phone rings while I am home and I am not actually dead, I will stop what I am doing and answer the phone. (Yes, that does include having sex.) It was my brother Joe, who had called to share with me that his receptionist person thought that seventeen minutes was .17 of an hour. I was like "You don't have him handling the accounting, do you?" From there we went to other topics, including, as it happened, famous historical people. One of the famous historical people was Voltaire, about whom Joe said "Wasn't that a Chrysler product? The Plymouth Voltaire?" (I should point out here that Joe was being funny. He knows that Voltaire is a dead french writer person. He knows that Plymouth made a Volare.) And I said "Yeah, it was the best of all possible cars." Joe thought that was kind of amusing, so I am sharing it with you.
Hrm. I feel better now. Dinner is sounding like a good idea.
I watched enough of that to get through a guy and a half (there are four guys) of material whereupon I started feeling decidedly not-right. I don't think it was precisely the video that was doing it. I'd like to be able to claim that a rednecky guy (wearing a plaid flannel shirt what got the sleeves cut out of it) whose catchphrase appears to be get 'er done would be just the sort of thing to turn my stomach. Unfortunately, I was laughing my ass off in a restrained, holding-my-head-very-still sort of way. (Interestingly, I was watching it with La's husband Mike and while there was some overlap on what we thought was funny, we didn't laugh at all the same things. Would you classify that as a gender problem or a class problem? More research is needed, certainly.) As I was laughing, I don't reckon I can blame the video. Because I don't like throwing up in other people's toilets (they hover and they want to help and they try to dialogue with me at a time when I do not feel like speaking with anyone for any reason), I excused myself and drove home. Due to the phenomenal systems control that also makes me a hit with the opposite sex, I managed to get in my house, remove my (fuel-oil scented) boots, change into a pair of sweats, and scrub the toilet so that it'd be clean enough to throw up into before I puked until I was dry-heaving into my good friend Mr. Toilet Bowl. Lovely. I then had a nice two-hour lie down, complete with flashes of light behind my eyeballs and profuse sweating. (This is fairly normal for the sort of headaches I get. Splitting headache, nausea, puking, have a lie-down for a couple of hours. Stay face-down and motionless. Sweat a lot, ignore flashes of light. Feel better without medication in two to five hours. Do not attempt to eat or drink until feeling better. Fortunately I don't get them often.) At that point, the phone rang.
I answered the phone. If the phone rings while I am home and I am not actually dead, I will stop what I am doing and answer the phone. (Yes, that does include having sex.) It was my brother Joe, who had called to share with me that his receptionist person thought that seventeen minutes was .17 of an hour. I was like "You don't have him handling the accounting, do you?" From there we went to other topics, including, as it happened, famous historical people. One of the famous historical people was Voltaire, about whom Joe said "Wasn't that a Chrysler product? The Plymouth Voltaire?" (I should point out here that Joe was being funny. He knows that Voltaire is a dead french writer person. He knows that Plymouth made a Volare.) And I said "Yeah, it was the best of all possible cars." Joe thought that was kind of amusing, so I am sharing it with you.
Hrm. I feel better now. Dinner is sounding like a good idea.
