Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Venovel's LiveJournal:

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Sunday, February 1st, 2009
3:06 pm	I LOL'd. A friend of mine works as a network engineer for a company that has two main offices. One's in Phoenix, the other's in Pittsburgh. You can imagine what's been going on in the office email exchanges. (HINT: The Super fricking Bowl.) My friend got fed up with this very quickly, and when someone pestered him about it, he sent out the following reply-to-all. "Hm? Oh, sorry. Wasn't paying attention. Ahem, Hooray local college and/or professional sports team! I wish you the best of luck in your upcoming professional contest, where you will attempt to defeat the non-local team by scoring more points than them, or whatever it is you do. Please allow me to express my confidence in your virtually-inevitable triumph; the statistics gleaned from your previous contests virtually assure your victory, as they are clearly more relevant than the contradictory statistics cited by the proponents of the other team, whose egos have been artificially inflated by media bias and small-scale nationalism. I am equally confident that you will implement many devious and underhanded strategies to achieve success while simultaneously maintaining the moral high ground, proving that you are the best of all teams in all sports, ever. In closing, go, fight, win, et cetera. Sincerely, Not The Twelfth Man" (Comment on this)
3:03 pm	Should back-date this, I bet. Lost my job on November 20. Reason given: Poor job performance. Most likely actual reason: Dared to say something uncomplimentary about the "consultant" who was recently hired as the "Vice President in Charge of Success" and was obviously planning to make changes to turn the place from a tech support center (where you might not talk to a shiny happy person, but your problem would get fixed) to a customer service center (where someone would blow sunshine up your ass in an effort to make you forget that your tech issue couldn't be resolved by a motherfucking customer service retard). It's now February 1 and not only have I not been able to land another job, but they're tying up the unemployment benefits so badly that I haven't received a single payment. In two months. Assholes. (Comment on this)
Sunday, October 14th, 2007
7:06 pm	Office Quote of the Week "This weekend has been like . . . like being tied behind a Yugo, then dragged facedown over a field of broken glass, tenpenny nails, and fire ants, while a woman with poor English skills tells you repetitively that it is absolutely vital that someone address her issue (which was caused by a credit-card processor outage over which you have absolutely no power) right this second, and another man screams obscenities at you and demands that you violate not only your own company policy, but HIS company's policy, and give him a password he's not supposed to have." Every weekend, I expedite calls. That means that I sit in my little cube and stare fixedly at a Java window that has realtime information on all of our phone queues, waiting for a call to reach 6 minutes or for more than two calls to pop up at once. Then I switch my phone over to that queue, pull the call, tell the person on the other end that I'm apologetic over the fact that every other tech in the place is working with other customers, and offer to take down their information so a tech can call them back. Most of the time, people are relatively cool about this. Sometimes, they're grumpy but still fairly understanding. And sometimes--thankfully, not often--they act as if I've just told them that I killed and ate their parents. On the weekends, my workplace has what I keep hearing described as a "skeleton crew", spoken in tones that suggest this is a Good Idea. Never mind the fact that we sometimes have people working two and three tickets at a time, with 20 callbacks piled up. I have to do the expedity-thingy quite a bit. Usually, Saturday's a little hectic, but Sunday is okay. Not this Sunday. Oh no. This weekend has been . . . well, see above. But at least I get the next three days off. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, April 27th, 2007
12:49 am	Jesus I'm Lazy About This Thing. You'd think I could find interesting things to write about now and then. Since the last couple of updates, Butterscotch and Ben have become inseparable buddies. Butterscotch likes to jump on the back of my chair and put his paws on my shoulder, and when I turn my head to see what he's doing, he affectionately headbutts me like a lovesick professional wrestler. While I'm sitting there mildly stunned from the impact, he oozes down over my shoulder and piles up in my lap, where he purrs noisily and refuses to get up at any time I might find convenient for him to do so. The current cockatiel situation consists of two birds. One is Vash, of course; the other is Hawkeye, so named because he's a little singing prodigy who likes to whistle the theme from "M*A*S*H" at random times. He also wolf-whistles (that was amusing the first time he did it when I had my shirt off), says "pretty bird", and is picking up "Pop Goes the Weasel", "Colonel Brody's March", and the Marine Corps Hymn. Sam and I are taking advantage of Hawkeye's natural musical inclinations to entertain ourselves. (For no reason which I can readily ascertain, Hawkeye has a Laundry Song. If we've got the clean laundry sorted on the bed and we're folding it, he will demand to get up on my shoulder, then proceed to run through various parts of his musical repertoire for as long as the laundry-folding is going on. This is odd, but cute as hell.) Vash surprised the living hell out of me a few months ago. I always thought Vash was a male. Vash proved beyond all shadow of a doubt that this was not the case by laying not one, not two, but three eggs in the course of about two weeks. This does explain a few things . . . typically, female cockatiels don't sing or even vocalize much, and they're much more cuddly and affectionate than the males. Vash's only vocalizations consist of the "weet!" flock call and this weird chattering-twittering noise that emanates from the cage now and then, and she will cuddle up and beg for head scritchies until my fingers fall off. On March 15th, I had an Essure procedure done. This is a type of sterilization that involves placing metal coils like stretched-out springs into the fallopian tubes, then allowing about 3 months for the tissues to actually grow into the coils, enclosing them and completely filling in the tubes. Unlike a tubal ligation, there's no cutting involved, but there's also that three-month lag time before it can be confirmed that the tubes are completely sealed off. Less chance of an ectopic pregnancy, too. At the three-month mark, they fill the uterus with an X-ray-sensitive dye of some kind and check to make sure that nothing is leaking into the tubes. Once they determine that I'm closed up, they'll perform an ablation; I'm looking forward to that a LOT. It involves placing a balloon in the uterus and circulating very hot water through it in order to burn off the uterine lining. The end result is that the monthly period is greatly reduced or even eliminated. Given that I've had so many problems with oral contraceptives lately, and that I'm getting nervous about the effects of different hormones and chemicals in my system, this one-two combo seems like the best possible set of options. The Essure will take care of the no-baby side, and the ablation will take care of the unrelentingly horrible fourteen-day bleeding sessions. Hooray! (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, October 15th, 2006
3:57 pm	Sometimes You Can Reason With Them. To give an explanation of what the hell I'll be talking about: I am one of a handful of people who knows how to do "inventory balancing" for a specific brand of hotel. A "two-way" interface is in place for these hotels, intended to allow changes that occur at the hotel or at central reservations to be immediately transmitted back and forth. If a reservation is booked by the hotel, the interface sends it up to the central reservation system (CRS, or host), and the total rooms available to sell ("inventory") at CRS is adjusted to reflect the change. By the same token, a reservation booked through CRS can be sent through the system so that the hotel receives the reservation. Nifty, isn't it? However, since this is a relatively new innovation, there are kinks to be worked out. Sometimes, for whatever reason, reservations don't make the jump from one system to the other, or blocks of rooms being held for groups aren't properly held or released, and the inventory becomes out of balance--what's at CRS doesn't match what's in the hotel's property management system. This is bad, because it means that CRS, thinking that there are still rooms available, will keep sending reservations even after the hotel is sold out--or, on the other side of the coin, will stop accepting reservations because the inventory appears to be sold out. Either way, this costs the hotel money. If the hotel has no rooms and a guest with a reservation shows up, they have to "walk" that guest--that is, send them to another hotel and pay for the room out of their own pocket. Similarly, empty rooms aren't generating revenue. So it's in their best interests to have the inventory balanced properly. Now, on to the actual story. I'm working away at this balancing project I've been told to complete by the end of the weekend Or Else. Suddenly, as I'm starting to run another set of SQL scripts to balance a wildly skewed date, someone starts fucking with the server. The very first brilliant thing they do, of course, is try to click the X to close out the SQL query analyzer, which chokes up the script batch in mid-run. Then they try to do the same with the two-way interface program, which freezes it. I am suddenly locked in mortal combat with a fucko who's apparently trying to close everything or restart the server or something. I have already yanked my headset on and dialed the site's phone number. As the phone's ringing for the fifth time, this fucko tries to change the Windows administrator password. I've been clicking cancel buttons and otherwise trying to wrestle control back this whole time, but that idiotic attempt is what makes me remember a lovely feature of the pcAnywhere program. I can blank out the host screen, and lock its keyboard. So I do that. Now, finally, someone picks up the fucking phone at the hotel. I was quite calm and polite, saying that I'd been working since this morning and had informed the morning clerk that I would be doing so, and was someone trying to do something on the server? The manager gets on the line. She isn't quite flipping out at me, but it's close. She says that they've got a whole bunch of check-ins to do (200 convention people or so) and the system just locked up. "And this happens almost all the time when you guys are doing something!" I'm thinking, Bullshit, I was working on it all yesterday and nothing bad happened. I'd bet that what happened was that the query batch (which affects the database) started to run just as they began trying to check in multiple people at the front desk, and the system freaked. Of course, thanks to her trying to randomly close shit, now it's REALLY fucked up. I get that straightened out for them, and the manager (having now calmed the hell down a little) asks that I hold off on the balancing. I let her know that I'd been told to finish this by the end of the weekend, and she acknowledges that the general manager's told her that the inventory is a major priority, but she's worried about the system choking up when they're getting a whole LOT of guests in. We finally compromised. I agreed to hold off on making adjustment changes until 4 PM CST, at which time I would call them up and find out for sure if their rush has died off. In the meantime, I would just check the inventory numbers and noting down the dates that are messed up, giving myself a bit of a head start when I could get back to making adjustments again. I did call them at 4 PM, and told the clerk who answered the phone that if anything happened to the system, she could call immediately and tell me and I'd fix it. Everything's peachy, I'm working away at fixing their inventory, everybody's happy. (I still wanted to strangle that manager for trying to change the goddamn Windows admin password, but I did have the pleasure of stopping her in her tracks with that lovely pcAnywhere feature. Next time, call us first, dammit!) (Comment on this)
Saturday, September 23rd, 2006
10:35 am	The Point, It Evades Them. Note to two specific hotel owners who need to be slapped repeatedly until they can understand the concepts at work here: When we say, "You must have a dedicated phone line for the support modem," it does NOT, repeat NOT, mean "Oh, you can put your fax machine on that line too." Nor does it mean, "Sure, you can set up an answering machine on the support line, even though that phone number should never be given to anyone who isn't one of our techs. And be sure to lock the door of your office on the weekends! We wouldn't want anybody to be able to get the answering machine off the line when we need to dial in and fix something." I am not in the slightest inventing any of this. The first owner is recorded as saying, "We do have a dedicated line for the support modem! We just need to turn off the fax machine and you guys can dial right in! It's never a problem!" and then getting belligerent and accusing us of being in cahoots with the phone company to try to scam her into getting another phone line. This is, mind you, after three separate trouble tickets in which techs noted that at least four of the hotel staff members DO NOT KNOW WHERE THE FAX MACHINE IS. At least the person who was trying to make her understand the need for the line was able to find out where the machine is and put that into the account notes so that future techs can guide the front desk monkeys in the future. The second owner is an asshole who acts as if he's losing 10 years off his life every time he or one of his employees has to call us for tech support. The most recent call notes that a couple "unidentified members of the staff" (read: the general manager and a maintenance guy) got a screwdriver and actually removed the fucking door from the office in order to get that answering machine off the line. There is also a note that the general manager is going to "take steps to ensure the support connection is not interfered with in the future". The manager is going to leave an RJ-45 cable plugged into the answering machine so that it looks normal, but it won't be plugged into a wall jack. In fact, the manager's going to cut the plug off the end of the cable so it can't be plugged in again. We like that manager a lot. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, August 25th, 2006
3:17 pm	The New New Cat Saga. As anybody who's been bothering to follow along with my pointless driveling knows, last November I made the painful decision to let Jasper go after his diabetes ramped up its assault on his health. It's still something I can't think or talk about very much if I want to avoid crying. Ben doesn't seem to understand, and of course I can hardly explain it to him, due to that little language barrier. Even now, almost a year after I last took Jasper out of the house, Ben runs to the front door whenever Sam or I come home as if he expects one of us to bring Jasper back. It's both cute and heartbreaking. Sam learned about an organization called the Arizona Maine Coon Cat Rescue. It's a group devoted to rescuing Maine Coons and Maine Coon mixes and finding them safe, loving homes. Looking at Ben, I had to wonder if maybe getting another cat would be a good idea . . . he's obviously lonely and bored, and I worry about him not getting enough exercise because he sits around like a bump on a log most of the time. We found a listing for a cat that sounded promising, and sent off an adoption form to inquire about her. I got a message back from one of the founders saying that unfortunately, that one had already been placed in a new home, but there was another cat that had just become available, as he'd been neutered the previous week and had recovered fully from the surgery. (This organization apparently does not offer an animal for adoption until it has been spayed or neutered. I approve strongly of measures taken for domestic animal population control. I approve even more of the fact that AZMCCR is passionately opposed to declawing, and that their "Useful Information" link includes an article titled "Why we oppose declawing" that offers up actual diagrams and clinical descriptions of the procedure. It's easy for someone to rely on an emotionally-loaded, factually weak argument, but illustrating and describing the process as exactly what it is--amputating the ends of the cat's toes--as well as describing the complications arising from it is far and away a better approach.) This other cat, a Maine Coon mix named Butterscotch, was being fostered at a home in Tempe. (AZMCCR does not have a shelter building; their cats are cared for at private homes by experienced people who love cats. Another thing to like about them.) Sam and I decided to go and take a look at him. We brought along a carrier, just in case. We also brought a laser pointer, which is possibly the best cat toy on the planet. Butterscotch is estimated to be a year old. It's impossible to be certain, because six weeks ago he was living in a storm drain in Tempe. It should say something about his personality (or his possible history) that it took barely a month and a half for him to become completely comfortable in human company, settle into his foster home enough to start playing vigorously with the caretaker's own cats, and interact quite easily with the large (70 pound) dogs in the house. Brave cat. We wound up needing the carrier after all. The following is a summary of Butterscotch's first five days in our home. Monday 8/21 Butterscotch widdles in the carrier on the way home. Since Sam is the one with the carrier on his lap, he needs to change pants. However, other than this understandable bit of nervousness, Butterscotch is very calm and well-behaved. He is installed in the bathroom with food and water, a litter pan, a folded towel for a bed, and a toy that consists of a little furry mouse on a swing arm inside a circular track with holes cut in the sides. The idea is that the cat pokes the mousie, it spins around, and the cat goes batshit with frenzied excitement. After Ben shows absolutely no desire to enter the bathroom because Butterscotch hisses at him, I decide to leave the bathroom door open. (A month and a half ago, strange cats were either competition for food and shelter, or actual physical threats to Butterscotch. Hissing is understandable.) Time elapsed between meeting this cat, bringing him home to a strange place with a strange cat, and getting a purr reaction out of him when petting him: 4 hours. Not bad at all. Tuesday 8/22 The bathroom door remains open. Butterscotch begins very cautiously venturing out to explore. He still hisses at Ben, but not quite as violently, and doesn't flee his presence as rapidly. Ben's reaction to this behavior continues to be best described as "bewildered". Butterscotch is maybe half his size, or a third his size, but Ben is twenty pounds of pure wuss. He's afraid of my cockatiels. Aggression is just not part of his personality, which is probably good because he's twenty fucking pounds and none of it's fat. If he had the bad temper of the average Siamese, he'd be a threat to life and limb. As it is, he's making pathetic mewing noises and staying as far away from the new cat as he can. Butterscotch has discovered the kitchen and is lying around on the floor. Wednesday 8/23 I go to my computer to check my email in the morning. Butterscotch scoots up and demands petting, purring the whole time. I consider his purring and playfulness in the living room to be a positive change, considering that he was hissing and hunkering down as recently as last night. He doesn't start hissing at Ben until Ben gets about three feet away. Neither of them has ever taken a swing at the other, incidentally. It is discovered that a laser pointer is the great icebreaker as far as feline interaction goes--both of them want to play with The DoooOOOOoooottt, but neither one of them cockblocks the other while doing so. Progress. Butterscotch walks across my face at three in the morning, chirping. Evidently the bedroom's not scary any more. Thursday 8/24 The cats are sprawled around the living room when I leave for work. I make arrangements to take three days off work for medical reasons. When I get home, Sam tells me that when he got in at 6:30, the cats were chasing each other around the house in an obviously playful fashion. They're currently lying within two feet of each other without hissing or growling. This does more to counteract my depression than anything else has managed all day. As I'm soaking in the bathtub prior to going to bed (look, I get cold easily, it's nice to soak in a hot bath and then go to bed all warm to begin with), Ben and Butterscotch both come into the bathroom. Ben discovers the mouse track toy, proceeds to get both of his front legs stuck in it, and hops around the bathroom in a paroxysm of hyperactive feline playfulness. When he finally gets his legs unstuck, he and Butterscotch sit on opposite sides of the toy and smack at the little mouse thing and each other's paws with equal enthusiasm. I'm still laughing when I go to bed. Friday 8/25 I wake up with Ben on one side and Butterscotch on the other, both curled up asleep. Awwwwww. As I write this, they're wrestling on the living room floor. Given the size difference, Ben could really hurt Butterscotch if he wanted, but it's pretty obvious that they're getting along fine. Now if only Vash the cockatiel would (a) stop trying to climb into my desk caddy and chew on the stamps and (b) stop screaming angrily at me when I pick him up and move him away from the caddy, things would be great. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
3:17 pm	First, A Vehicular Update. Damn, it's been a long time since I updated. The insurance company ultimately decided to total the blue truck. No huge surprise there, I guess. I took pictures of the truck. Between the damage done to the body, which my husband firmly believes was caused by running it through border fencing, the fact that they pulled out everything in the cab that they could easily disconnect, and the fact that they obviously didn't give a shit about taking care of it and burned up the transmission, the total cost of fixing it was over ten thousand dollars. Sam was using rental cars to get to work. One of the vehicles he wound up with was a Kia Sedona. Yes, a minivan. It made such an impression on him, and he was so sick of basically buying trucks for other people, that we went out the same day we got the news of the totalling and bought a dark green 2002 Kia Sedona EX for him. (This one, incidentally, has every security feature we could conveniently obtain. It came with window etching, and we had an alarm installed with remote entry and an engine immobilizer. There are a couple other things I won't detail out publicly, but I will say that any assholes trying to take this vehicle had better be prepared for the wrath of heaven to fall on them. If they're lucky, the cops will get to them first and they'll wind up as Bubba's girlfriend; if they're not lucky, we'll get to them first and they'll wind up spare parts at the local transplant center.) Financing companies are apparently kind of surprised when the first payment you give them is for two-thirds the total cost of the vehicle. State Farm cut us a check for ten grand, and the Sedona's final price was about $13,000. The girl I got on the phone to verify that the check was received had to ask her supervisor if the balance information was correct. Our next payment is due in April of 2009. (Not that we're going to let this debt sit on us that long, but I thought it was hysterically funny anyhow.) So now we own a minivan. Sam does not feel his masculinity is impaired, because this thing outweighs the average extended-cab pickup truck and makes an absolutely perfect Costco Cruiser. Also, the next time we have to go east to visit Missouri or Illinois, we have a much, much better travel vehicle. I had ordered a new "Too Close For Missiles - Switching To Guns" license plate frame for the truck, since the cocksucking bastards who stole it broke the plate frame for no discernable reason (the plate wasn't taken either). I was pleased to find that it fit quite well on the van. Fuck you, car thieves. (Comment on this)
Thursday, April 27th, 2006
2:20 pm	Our truck has now been un-stolen! This time, it's been found BEFORE it was gutted and dumped in Casa Grande. I got home last night from my regular gaming session and checked voicemail. Lo and behold, a message! Lo and behold, it's from the Mesa Police Department, telling me that the stolen truck's been recovered! I immediately called the Mesa PD back and spoke with the officer handling the case. (Well, maybe not quite immediately. I replayed the message three times while dancing wildly around the room.) Apparently, the truck was found by the police for an Indian reservation near Sells, AZ. That's southwest of Tucson, over a hundred miles from Phoenix, and remarkably close to the Mexican border. Gosh, can't imagine why it'd be down there. The police ran the VIN and discovered that it was a stolen vehicle. No suspects were found in the area, alas. (I wouldn't have minded paying to have a detailing service clean blood and brains off the upholstery if the cops had shot the driver stone fucking dead.) There was some damage to the ignition--obviously; they had to start it somehow--as well as some damage to the front left tire and the bumper. It sounds a little bit like the tire may have blown out and the driver hit something while trying to control the vehicle, or the driver hit something and that's what damaged the tire. Either way, they chose to abandon it and run. No other damage was mentioned, but I don't have the full report yet. It has now been towed to a town a bit southwest of Casa Grande, sixty miles from Phoenix. I called up the State Farm claims office to give them the information on the recovery. Evidently my timing was great, because their claim-tracking database had just been shut down for maintenance, but the woman (and I wish I'd gotten her name, for reasons which will be apparent immediately) said she would take down the information and inform my insurance agent. Today, Sam contacted the claims office and discovered that they had not yet 1) requested the police report, 2) gotten in touch with Enterprise Car Rental to cover Sam's rental vehicle, or 3) decided whether to move the truck before having it repaired, or having it fixed on the spot and returned to us in drivable condition. I've already called two local businesses--one that can install LoJack with the Early Warning option, and one that can install an alarm system that includes an engine kill switch. If someone enters the vehicle and moves it without having the key pass device, the LoJack Early Warning system notifies you within three minutes--it can be set up to alert you by up to five methods of contact (such as email, phone, alpha pager). Once the kill switch is set, it actually will not permit the vehicle to be started at all until it's deactivated with a specific key or keyring device. If someone's so determined to steal the truck that they fight their way past the engine kill switch, we'll still know that it's being moved, and the LoJack system will ensure that the truck is found, preferably with the fucking sons of bitches still in it. My personal favorite idea is to put a voodoo curse on the vehicle so that if someone even touches it with the intent to damage it or steal it, the flesh instantly rots right off their hands, leaving horrible slimy skeletal hands festooned with shreds of stinking black meat dangling from the ends of their arms. In absence of voodoo, being able to run several thousand volts through the skin of the car would be nice. I can't seem to find any place that will give me a good deal on having a 6'6" tattooed Hell's Angel lurking in the truck bed, carrying a baseball bat. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 25th, 2006
6:45 pm	Our truck has been stolen again. The truck disappeared between 4 AM and 6:15 PM, April 25. This is a picture of the truck. Please, if anyone sees this truck or knows what happened to it, please please please inform me. Main distinguishing feature is a license plate frame, white lettering on blue, that reads "Too Close For Missiles" above the plate and "Switching To Guns" at the bottom. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, February 19th, 2006
12:14 pm	We're So Bored. It's a relatively slow day at work, so we're looking for ways to entertain ourselves. I had a small discussion a couple of my teammates on the subject of people who call in, get the answer for a simple question, and suddenly act as if not asking every question they've got in mind RIGHT NOW means they'll never have another chance to ask. Sometimes they're just outright stupid questions. (This exchange really did take place, and is exactly why the conversation started, but minus the colorful language.) "What happens if we get a lightning strike?" Well, then it's possible your system might be affected unless it's got a surge protector. "What if the surge protector doesn't work?" Then you may have grounds to lodge a complaint against the manufacturer of the surge protector, I guess. Also your system might crash, and there may be data loss, but that's why we have backup processes in place. "Will it catch on fire or something?" Unlikely. "But what if it does?!" Then you'd better know where a fire extinguisher is. Duh. "But won't spraying extinguisher stuff on the computer damage it?" If the fucking thing's on fire, I'd say that dousing it in flame-suppressing chemicals is probably not going to do anything worse to it. Sometimes, not content with gleaning the obvious information, these people spiral out into the realm of PURE CRAZY with an avalanche of questions spawned somewhere on the border between reality and the improbable. This was the main thread of the discussion, and at one point, we were cheerfully making up bizarre questions to spew out in the breathless voice common to all the paranoic front-desk loonies. Without warning, someone who hadn't originally been involved in the conversation piped up with the following: "Okay, let's say a bunch of Nazi vampire bikers come crashing into the hotel. How would that affect our system? Oh, and some of them are ninjas! Or pirates! Or monkeys! What would happen?" Most of us were laughing hysterically, but one of my co-workers never missed a beat. He looked up and said, "What would happen is that I would get on a plane and fly out to your hotel so that I could get hold of some of the drugs you're smoking before the guys from the booby hatch show up to take you away." (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, January 8th, 2006
1:42 pm	BOHICA. Literally. The last line of my entry for 9/26/05 is prophetic. I haven't heard the horrible word "colonoscopy" yet, which is nice. It's going to be bad enough having someone do a radioactive radiator flush on my ass without having someone else stuff a camera up it. The barium procedures revealed nothing of any particular note (though I did wind up with a colon so clean that I expected to squeak when I walked). So my regular physician gave me a referral to a gastroenterologist. Five minutes into my appointment with him, the word "colonoscopy" was uttered. (The word "endometriosis" was also uttered, and made me even less happy.) I was also told, however, that I would be sedated for this procedure. I'm kind of torn on that. "I won't know what's going on with my ass!" can either be spoken with joy or serious concern. The thought of being unconscious and bereft of pants in the presence of total strangers makes me strangely apprehensive. I think I'll ask for a DVD of whatever the scope finds up there. If nothing else, it should be neat to see what the inside of my own intestine looks like. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, December 8th, 2005
10:54 pm	Blonde Moment. Quick background information. In City of Villains, there's a zone called St. Martial. In this zone is a gigantic-ass casino called the Golden Giza, which is a huge pyramid that makes the Luxor look like an anthill. On the top of the Golden Giza is an exploration badge--a "hot spot", as it were, that gives your character a permanent little "badge" to show he's been there. Some of those badges play into Accolades, special bonus powers, but mostly they're just there as something fun to do and to encourage people to, well, EXPLORE. diannasilver has been grumping for quite some time about that badge in St. Martial; it doesn't appear to be one that can be reached by anyone who doesn't have a lot of vertical movement in their travel power. Super Jump, Flight, and Teleport can get to it, but not Super Speed. Di takes this rather hard, and I think that's pretty understandable, though there are a few other exploration badges that are difficult--though perhaps not quite impossible--to reach for a character that's primarily a ground-pounder. Now, this year the developers have created a marvelous little holiday gift--a special rocket pack that any character who logs on can get. It's red and green and white, with red-and-green colored sparkles and exhaust vents that stream blue smoke and fart snowflakes. (There's currently a bug, though--it seems that if you log a character on and get the pack, then log off, you lose the pack--even though it's supposed to last 30 days.) Tonight I couldn't log on at all, since my patcher is apparently downloading most of the Internet. With that in mind, I present the following AIM conversation, slightly edited . . . Di: I don't really want to log Khura in to end up losing his holiday gift if you're not going to be able to play, so . . . (I want to use it some to scare flying heroes in Bloody Bay since I'm usually stuck on ground level) Me: ROFL Di: I want to take full advantage of the gift, after all. Me: By scaring the pants off heroes? :D Di: Yeah, the flying ones I usually can't get to as they hover blast. Me: --GO TO ST MARTIAL AND GET THE BADGE ON THE GOLDEN GIZA! --or did you already? Di: Huh? HOW? Me: Hide + rocket pack? Di: I CAN'T! It's not reachable by Hurdle+SS--oh! Yes! You're right! At this point I burst into uncontrollable laughter. (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, November 27th, 2005
1:44 pm	Crying Wolf A "down hard" site is kind of like "code blue" in a hospital--the hotel's either completely unable to function or severely impaired. This is normally caused by things like the fileserver failing or a major database error, since some error types cause the database to lock itself down and refuse all access until it's unlocked (by us; I consider this good design, since so very many users fail to heed less direct warning signs). The cry of "Down hard!" gets everybody's attention. A tech is expected to be prepared to put a less-urgent issue aside* to address a down hard situation if asked to handle it by a supervisor. With this in mind, I suspect that anybody can realize why the following situation did not make a good impression. Word for word, this is lifted directly from a ticket. - Called the site back and spoke with Nick (manager). - Connected to the server via satellite. - When I accessed the server, I saw nothing wrong and the site did not appear to be down hard. - Checked their error log and found no software errors. - Nick explained to me that he had a question and he wanted us to call him back sooner, therefore he lied and said that his system was down hard. - I am closing this ticket since there really was nothing wrong. See what I mean? *Another thing I love, love, love about this company . . . if you happen to be on break or it's your lunchtime, a supervisor WILL look for someone else, even if they're on another (less urgent) call, before asking you to take a down hard. It really says something about the company's attitudes that it has this policy--and I think it says even more about the company's attitudes that no tech I've ever seen has refused to take a down hard, even during lunch or break time. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, November 21st, 2005
2:01 pm	Weet the Hell? I did not wake up this morning thinking "I want to get another pet". However, somewhere out there is a deity who occasionally glances in my direction and thinks, "Yeah, I need to dump another rescue case on her or something." When I woke up around 9:30, Sam came into the bedroom and said that he thought he heard a cockatiel outside. I thought he was kidding (or hallucinating), but then I started hearing the "flock call" too--it's a very strong, distinct one-note call that sounds a lot like "WEET!", and cockatiels use it to keep in touch with the rest of the flock, especially when they get out of sight. I got dressed and went out into the yard, and started triangulating in on the sound. The echoes off the buildings in the yard area can make it hard to follow a sound, but the flock call's definitely designed to be very audible and remarkably directional. It was hard to see the source of the call at first, because I was looking at a small object twenty feet up in a tree from the ground, but then I started seeing the bird move as it called. The orange cheek patches are what I saw first, and from there I could make out the bright yellow face. I realized that it was a grey, the "normal" coloration for a wild cockatiel--the body is sort of a dark grey with white mottling on the wing edges--and that camouflage, as it was obviously designed to do, blended in really well with the tree. When the bird called, I started whistling back the way I do with Vash; a suggestion I found on a cockatiel board to help keep a tiel from screaming is to actually respond with some distinct sound to the flock call. Their humans are their flock, after all, and they want to know they're okay. I adopted a slightly shrill one-note whistle as my own "flock call". Remarkably, the bird up in the tree began answering me back as I whistled. I went over to our window and told Sam that it was definitely a cocktiel, I could see it, and I wanted to try something that I've read about on various cockatiel pages. There are several out there with suggestions on how to catch lost birds. I had Sam put Vash in his little "home away from home" (a parakeet cage) and bring him outside in hopes that seeing or hearing another cockatiel would make the escapee come down. Sam went back inside to call Cage World and ask for advice, while I stayed out there for about twenty minutes, whistling. Vash was totally silent the whole time, the little bugger. Normally he won't shut up, but when we WANTED him to make noise, he was suddenly struck mute or something. All of a sudden, the grey took off and flew out of the tree. It went off to the northwest, over the apartment building there. I felt bad because I thought it was going to disappear for good, but then I started hearing the call again. I came back into the yard area and tried to follow the sound like I did before, but I was having a lot more trouble this time--it was a lot quieter for some reason. Sam came back out and said that Sarah at Cage World told him to either put some food out, or see if the bird would indeed come to where he saw another cockatiel. I said that it had taken off, and I couldn't see or hear it any more. We started walking along the back of the apartment block to circle around it and get to our door, and suddenly I saw the cockatiel sitting on the gravel along the back, between the sidewalk and the wall of the building. Yes, it had actually come down to ground level. It didn't spook when we got close, but I had Sam back off anyway, and then I knelt down and set Vash's cage on the sidewalk. I was moving as slowly as I could and doing my best not to look like I was dangerous. With the clear view, it seemed that the bird was male--female cockatiels don't have as intense a color on the facial feathers. The little guy started toddling over the way birds do when they're on the ground, and he wasn't moving like he was really afraid. He wasn't exactly running over, but he wasn't very hesitant either. I held my hand down and he avoided it, though he didn't get scared and take off. He actually circled around the cage like he was trying to find a way in, passing within four inches of my knees in the process, since I was sitting right behind the cage. I reached over the top of it and pulled the door up, and within thirty seconds, the little fellow clambered up into the cage as calm as you please. Vash seemed startled, to say the least, but he didn't react with fear. The two of them didn't get close to one another, but they didn't fight or anything as I carried the cage back to the house. I took Vash out of the little cage and put him back in his own cage, then put some cockatiel seed mix and water in the cups in the little cage. The rescuee started munching away pretty calmly, though he still looked a bit nervous about the new surroundings. Understandable, especially when Ben started looking curious. I called up Cage World. Sarah offered a couple of options--we could bring him over there for a once-over (and to have his wings trimmed!), then either quarantine him there or bring him back home. If we quarantined him over there, we could work something out if we decided we wanted to keep him, or they could add him to their regular flock and sell him. Either way, she agreed that we should keep an eye out for people reporting a lost bird--though she also said that a lot of the time, especially with cockatiels, the owners give them up for dead fairly fast. After all, they're quite small and usually not at all accustomed to searching for food in the real world, along with all the other risks of being out and about. So we took him over to Cage World, where Sarah trimmed his wings--he was *completely* flighted, no sign of a recent trim--and filed his claws and beak, then weighed him. He was around 80 grams, which is on the low side, and his keelbone felt pretty sharp, so it's a good bet he's been out on his own for a few days. Flying's hard work, and he probably didn't have much luck getting food out there. Sarah checked him over and thinks we either have a male, or quite a young bird. Given the brightness of the yellow and orange facial plumage, I'm leaning toward "male"; cockatiel babies all tend to look alike until they start molting, which is when the adult coloration comes in. She said that the little parakeet cage is actually a really good thing for a cockatiel that's sick or needs to gain weight. The best option is something big enough for them to stretch and move some, but small enough that they don't move around a lot and wear themselves out. He's got full-time access to a seed mix with sunflower seeds and peanuts (they've got a high fat content) and fresh water, but for now he appears to be napping. He occasionally makes tiny little warbling sounds or answers Vash when he calls from the other room. I think we're going to name him Wolfwood. (Comment on this)
Saturday, November 19th, 2005
9:42 am	It's over As of 9:15 PM tonight, Jasper is no longer sick. This last episode of illness was the worst. He was throwing up, but only mucus and fluid--no solids, not even after he ate. His blood work was apparently quite a mess, with his glucose and cholesterol way out of control. The rest of the test results should come in on Monday, but even the preliminary stuff was bad news. Di, who codes emergency-room medical charts for a living and knows more about medicine than I do, said that one of the (myriad) side effects of diabetes is a condition called gastroparesis--a concise way of saying that the nerves controlling peristalsis and stomach action are damaged, and digestion is slowed or even stopped. A side effect of this side effect (diabetes is a whole varied constellation of horrible things that happen to the body) is that with digestion so unstable, controlling blood glucose levels can be extremely difficult and unpredictable. On top of everything else, Jasper was also beginning to develop cataracts (again, thanks so much, diabetes mellitus). All I could think was that he was never really going to get well again . . . that it might be possible to stabilize him for a little while, but ultimately he'd get sick again. And again. And again. Going through that, over and over, was tearing me up and I wasn't even the one who was physically ill. I love Jasper too much to force him to suffer like that just because I'm so selfish that I can't bow to the inevitable and let go. I thought at first that it would be the hardest decision I would ever make in my life, but as several people told me along the way, I would know when it was time. This didn't really make it any easier, but it turned out to be a totally correct statement. He was scarcely responsive when I got home; I had been planning to take him to the clinic to get him stabilized, but as I sat there looking at him, I knew it was time. Di was the one who really brought it home to me when she said that this wasn't just throwing him away because he was inconvenient or something. This was be sparing him (and me, but mostly him), as gently as possible, from suffering a slow downward spiral that would ultimately end in death--possibly, even probably, a miserable and painful one. I once thought my mother and my friend Deb, both of whom stayed with their cats all the way to the end, were impossibly brave and had done something I'd never be able to do. But I held Jasper in my arms and went to the end with him. I couldn't just hand him over, not even to such a great bunch of people as ARECA employs, and turn my back. On one level, I needed to be there when it happened, I needed to see it myself and know that he didn't suffer; on another level, I needed him to know, at the end, that I was there and that I loved him. They'd wrapped him up in a blanket, and I sat on the floor leaning back against a couch with him on my chest and stomach. I held him all the way through it, and even though he was too sick to purr, he knew I was there. Right up to the end, I was there, even though I was sobbing uncontrollably for a large portion of the time. Of course, a few minutes after the second shot was administered, there was a disturbing warmth on my leg that produced a wet spot with a distressing smell, but given how exemplary his litterbox behavior has always been, he's probably entitled to piss on me at least once. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, October 16th, 2005
6:00 pm	Yet Another Asshole Manager Issue: The site has been having $0.01 rounding errors (that's ONE PENNY) with some tax rates. One of my fellow techs called the site earlier to ask if it was all right for him to get connected to the site and work on the database, and he was given the go-ahead by the front desk clerk. Problem is, the clerk didn't mention that the server is also the only workstation the site has. When the clerk started mucking with the system while my co-worker was trying to work with the database, the tech used the option in pcAnywhere to blank the host monitor and lock its keyboard. So I happen to be the person who picks up the line when the site's GM calls in. They can't do check-ins because, well, the system's being worked on. I put him on hold for about a minute and a half while I go find the tech in question and get some information on the issue. Returning quickly, I explain what's going on--that the tech called in for permission to work the system and wasn't informed that this was the site's only system, that he's working on gathering data to find the source of the problem so that it can be fixed, and that he'll be calling the site immediately to update them on the current status of the troubleshooting. I'm as polite to him as possible, since I could easily see how the situation could be really inconvenient. He burns through my supply of politeness and understanding in a matter of moments, however. He starts screaming his stupid head off about how they can't do check-ins and it's their check-in time and he's told one of the managers that we're not "allowed" to dial in except from 10 AM to 1 PM at the most no matter what the problem is. Never mind that the log where this same guy reported the problem was loaded down with references to how upset he was about this rounding error and how he wanted it fixed as soon as possible even if it meant forcing a tech to drop everything and work on it instantly, etc. I was trying to respond as calmly and pleasantly and soothingly as possible, where I could jam a word in edgewise, but he wasn't making it at all easy. Note: The GM's last name is Patel. Surprise! Having already gone through the supply of sweetness and light that I contained, he keeps right on boring down towards the bedrock of bitchiness that underlies my personality. I have already given him the information he wanted--who was connected to the system, why he was connected, why he had locked the screen, and when he's going to call with an update--but for some insane reason, the guy doesn't just get off the goddamn phone. Frankly, I do not need FUCKING ASSHOLES bitching me out for not knowing the exact details of a motel's fucking busy times. Sorry, but I was hired from a technical background, not a hotel background. (And if you're so damn busy, why are you staying on the phone yelling at me rather than taking care of the guests who want to check in, or talking to the tech who's actually working on your system?) Nor do I need the same asshole sneering "But then, you have never been outside Phoenix in your life, have you!" At this point, I lose my temper. It's a cardinal rule in this line of work that you should never, never take an angry customer's insults personally, and furthermore you should not get into a personal argument with a customer. Right now, though, I really don't care, because I'm sick of this son of a bitch. So I change gears from the sweet-and-pleasant I-love-helping-you customer-service tone to the icy Voice of Doom and say, "In reality, SIR, I DROVE to Phoenix from Chicago when I moved here in 1998 and stayed overnight at a few motels along the way. I traveled extensively around the country for years before that. This is beside the point, however, since the point is not my travel history nor your sweeping assumptions regarding same, but rather the fact that you should be speaking to [Tech Name], as he is the person working the issue you emphatically requested be addressed. As he will be calling you within a matter of moments, I believe it would be appropriate to close this call so that he can get through to you immediately. Good afternoon." Then I disconnect the line. THEN I catch movement from the corner of my eye and realize that my supervisor is STANDING RIGHT BEHIND ME. I get that sinking sensation that's probably caused by feeling your steady income dropping off a cliff, and then my supervisor says, "That 'manager' he was ranting about is the head of the training department. Mr. Patel's been told a dozen times that the training department doesn't work directly with tech support. You handled that pretty well." "But I kind of just hung up on him." "Well, we've got a queue building up and there wasn't anything else you could do for him, [Tech] is waiting to call him, and he was being a real asshole to you. We don't pay you to serve as targets for irate shitheads, you get paid to tech calls. I'm going to call him up and have the usual argument with him, and then I'm calling [Tech Support Chief Manager] and conferencing in the account representative, because every living soul in this department is completely sick of fighting with that site over their stingy-ass, single-computer setup." I LOVE THIS COMPANY. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, October 14th, 2005
1:41 pm	More Irritation I find this kind of ironic. Phone rings. I pick it up and give my greeting. Guy: I need to talk to Tech1. I check the notes and discover that the site should be calling in at the start of Tech1's shift, which is noted as starting an hour from this point. Going over to that team's area, I find that, indeed, Tech1's shift hasn't started. Me: I'm sorry, Tech1's not in yet. Guy: But I really need to talk to Tech1 to get this fixed! Me: His shift doesn't start for another hour; he's not even in the building right now. Would you like me to send him an email or put a note on his desk to call you as soon as he gets in? Guy: I need this fixed right now. Is there someone else who can go through this with me? Me: Sure. Let me look over his notes and see where you're at right now. I look over the notes to get caught up on the situation, then start asking questions to clarify the current progress. Information-gathering and such occurs. I finally hit a brick wall because, well, this guy doesn't know what he's talking about. Me: Hm. Can I have you hold on for just a minute? I need to check another resource on this. Guy: Okay. I hit my Mute button because I'm going to lean around the corner and ask my supervisor something, and I hear this: Guy, to Other Guy: See, THIS is why we needed to talk to Tech1, this is just a waste of time, (whine bitch moan). Hello? Dude? I TOLD YOU HE WAS NOT IN AND WOULD NOT BE IN FOR ANOTHER HOUR AT LEAST. I TOLD YOU I COULD SEND HIM AN EMAIL OR LEAVE A PHYSICAL NOTE ON HIS DESK TO CALL YOU AS SOON AS HE GOT IN. *YOU* OPTED TO STAY ON THE LINE. FEEL FREE TO KISS MY ASS. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 27th, 2005
2:10 pm	Who Came Up With This, Anyway? I'm going to start with the end of the story, then jump back to the beginning of it: The exam found nothing unusual in my upper GI tract. I'm not entirely sure what could have been found in my upper GI tract (ulcers? anomalies in muscular function? a lost tribe of pygmies?), but it seems everything was totally normal. As I was told to, I was at the place at 8 AM. My exam was scheduled for 8:15. I find it depressing that I was completely unsurprised by the fact that I didn't even get into the room with the scanner until 8:45. Do doctors exist in a time zone out of sync with the real world or something? The only exciting thing to happen in the waiting room was funny in a demented way. This big fat woman in a powered wheelchair was having a very loud conversation over her cell phone (there was, incidentally, a sign on the door that said "Please do not use cell phones or other electronics in here") and eating M&Ms out of a big bag at the same time. Nobody appeared to have the nerve to approach her and ask her to take her conversation outside because, geez, she's wheelchair-bound and everything, how sad. Then the Wheelchair Queen of England Grandma came in. There's a reason I call her that. She, also, was in a powered chair, but she had amazingly good posture and she really did bear a certain resemblance to Her Majesty, mostly in demeanor. I overheard her give her birthdate to the receptionist; I don't know a lot of people born in 1915, so I don't know if her back strength, clarity of mind, or force of personality are unusual or not. There was only a certain amount of space where a wheelchair could park in the waiting room, so WQoEG had to sit next to the other woman. Less than five minutes went by before WQoEG turned to the loud, fat, obnoxious woman and asked her, very politely, if she could keep her voice down a little. I'm 100% sure that Roller Oink heard her, but ignored her nevertheless. WQoEG asked again, a little more firmly. This time, Roller Oink took the phone away from her ear and whined, "This is an important call!" Evidently, her definition of "important call" includes frequent discussions of brainless TV "reality" shows and the perfidy of close friends who wouldn't even drive her around town when she wanted, how evil of them. WQoEG said that if the conversation was so very important, perhaps she should take it out into the hallway where it would not disturb other people. Roller Oink countered with "I've been wheelchair-bound for two years! I can't get around easily! I'm too heavy!" WQoEG pulled back the nice knit blanket that she had draped over her lap, and the reason for her wheelchair became instantly obvious. She was missing both legs below the knee. She answered in a clear, carrying voice, "Madam, it appears to me that you are incapacitated by your unwise eating habits and lack of exercise. I have spent over fifty years in this chair. You, I fear, are not going to last another five if you do not alter your habits, because you are either going to expire of heart failure or someone is going to cave your head in because you are a repulsive, obnoxious human being." When the door closed behind Roller Oink, who quit the field of battle with considerable haste, Wheelchair Queen of England Grandma received a round of applause. I'm sorry now that I didn't have the nerve to ask her how she'd lost her legs, but given the time she'd mentioned, I have to wonder if she'd been involved in WWII somehow. Okay, back to the rest of the story. I was finally led out of the waiting room and down a couple of hallways. My first stop was at a changing room that was about the same size as some ships' heads I've seen, which means I couldn't extend both arms at the same time and couldn't extend one of them completely. I managed to strip down to my skivvies without breaking my elbows on the walls, and put on one of those delightful cloth hospital gowns that ties up the back and lets huge drafts blow across your ass. Has anyone ever noticed that no matter what the actual air temperature of the room is, the linoleum floor is at least thirty degrees under that? The actual exam room, and most especially the X-ray device, looked like something out of a James Bond movie. Lots of hoses and wires disappearing up through the ceiling, big clunky machinery, sinister bottles lined up in the cabinets, dim lighting. There was a TV screen in one upper corner of the room, and a huge blocky monitor on a wheeled stand next to the head end of the big self-tilting table that had the X-ray scanner attached. The doctor, through no fault of his own, most likely, looked almost exactly like a mad scientist who's tried to make himself look presentable. The fact that he was wearing a lead-lined apron that had more buckles and straps than a SWAT harness didn't help. (It was purple, which took some of the scariness out of it.) I had to stand on a little step attached to the bottom edge of the table with the scanner device less than ten inches away from my torso. The first thing that was handed to me for consumption was a cup of pink water, which was apparently half of an Alka-Seltzer or something, because the assistant put a spoonful of white powder in it and the whole thing instantly fizzed up like crazy. The moment the powder went in, I chugged the stuff, because apparently they wanted to see what the gas bubbles did inside my workings. I could have told them that the result was going to be me suffering quietly because of the broken burp-valve I seem to have, but they wanted to see for themselves, I guess. The next thing was a Dixie cup half-full of thickened white glue, or so it appeared to be. The doctor told me to drink it down all at once, and I had a sudden flashback to a point about seven or eight years ago. My friend Andy was handing me a shot glass of Bacardi 151 and telling me "Take a deep breath and hold it. Shoot the shot, and exhale through your mouth, NOT YOUR NOSE." Someone should have told me that upon contact with mucous membranes, Bacardi 151 volatilizes and smashes through your sinus cavity on its way out the top of your skull anyway. At any rate, back in the present day, I took a deep breath, held it, shotgunned the barium, and exhaled through my mouth. Barium really does taste a lot like chalk, and it's got a thicker consistency than glycerine. I could see why, however, because I got to watch the TV monitor in the corner; I could actually see it sliding gradually down my esophagus--I just had to remark "Now there's a view I never thought I'd see"--which the doctor watched very intently before shifting the scanner down so that we could observe it going into my stomach. At this point, everybody on Planet Earth can stop giving me hell about the amount of food I don't eat, because I could actually see how big my stomach isn't. The doctor even commented that my stomach was smaller than average. I just kind of went "yeah", because I was too fascinated by the display to add anything more significant--such as "People have been teasing me about my 'eating like a bird' since I was old enough to manage solid foods, and I would like to get a copy of this picture so that I can show everyone. Also birds actually eat a hell of a lot." The latter information has been garnered by watching the critters at Cage World. Really, birds spend a huge amount of time eating. I suppose that's because flying burns a lot of energy, but there's a blue-fronted Amazon named Moochie and a greater sulfur-crested cockatoo named Suzy who don't fly one bit, which is probably why they bear a striking resemblance to chickens. You could feed a family of four Thanksgiving dinner off Suzy. I had to turn anywhere from forty-five to ninety degrees to let the X-ray scanner get different views of my internals. Then the table tilted back to a horizontal position and I had to roll onto one side and drink another cup of barium through a straw. At one point I had to completely roll over 360 degrees in place, which is difficult to do if one has to pay attention to where one's open-backed hospital gown is going. After all of these acrobatics and some brief confusion over whether my gallbladder was okay--there was a tiny metal piece on the elastic band holding the end of my braid, and it was visible on the monitor in the gallbladder region--the doctor said, "Well, everything looks pretty normal here." Meanwhile, my stomach was being indignant. Most of the time, my stomach is like my car--quiet and well-behaved. When something disturbs either one, however, they get very snippy. Opening the hood of my car, Duchess II, almost guarantees that I will have to give it some fuel-injector cleaner shortly, because the Duchess does not approve of people examining her workings and needs to be appeased. Apparently my stomach is the same way, because it was very unhappy about having a half pint or so of radioactive goo poured into it. I was still feeling it oozing through my system after I got home, but I soothed my stomach with a brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tart and went back to bed. I got the prep kit for the next exciting stage of the game, scheduled for October 27th. This consisted of two bottles and four teeny pills, along with a sheet of information on exactly what to do with the aforementioned items--the bottles are liquid laxative, and the pills are the same thing only worse, I suppose. From what I've heard, I am basically going to be shoving a nuke into my intestinal tract and performing urban renewal. If these things work the way I suspect they're going to work, I am going to be so internally clean that I'll squeak when I walk. And then some total stranger is going to stuff a hose up my ass and dump barium into my bowel. What joy. I seriously hope that they do find something with that, because otherwise the next word I'm going to hear is "colonoscopy", and I really don't want to hear that word. On a side note, there was a screw-up at the testing center. I was given six vials to collect stool samples with--I totally refuse to describe THAT procedure--but apparently the most important vial wasn't given to me at all, so I had to bring it home with me today. Joy. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, September 26th, 2005
6:05 pm	This is Gross. Today I'm going to describe something fairly disgusting, so just ignore this if you get nauseated easily. Ever since I was about sixteen, I've noticed increasing rebellion in an essential part of my anatomy. I used to be able to eat pretty much anything I wanted--cashews by the handful, half-jars of olives, carrots, oatmeal--but over time, there's been a problem. Primarily the fact that some of the things I love the most, like cashews, cause unholy hell to break out in my digestive tract. Fiber is supposed to keep you "regular", but I don't think it's supposed to result in seismic upheaval. Half the time it appears that I haven't even digested some things, like cashews and other nuts; other times, a simple bowl of oatmeal can result in a core dump of unprecedented duration. Now, it's true that some of the blame for this situation probably rests with the food items in question, but come on. When it appears that something has traveled through my system totally unchanged except for a slight color alteration, there's obviously a problem. In addition, I've manifested a particularly gross symptom of passing mucus. Lots of mucus. The intestinal tract is lined with it, of course, but it's there to ease the passage of poop. One should really not be producing quantities of the straight stuff in place of actual bowel movements. I'm sure any number of people have experienced the particularly unpleasant surprise of thinking they were going to pass gas, only to realize that something more substantial escaped. Discovering that one has just involuntarily admitted watery slime into one's underdrawers is perhaps not as bad, but still quite revolting. And then there's the gas-pain sensations I've gotten, both in the upper and lower tracts. I'm almost totally incapable of belching, much less doing so at will, so I can't really do anything to vent gas out one end. Half the time, the discomfort in my abdomen goes away on its own without any pressure being released; those particular pains get especially sharp and almost incapacitating during those wonderful few days every month. I finally wrote out a list of my symptoms and went looking online. Much to my general despair, I discovered that those symptoms matched up with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Yay. So I went to the doctor today. After hearing my symptoms and asking a few more questions, the doctor said "Okay, you probably do have IBS. However, I'm still going to have several tests run, because I want to rule out Crohn's disease, ulcerative colitis, and a few other things." Then she told me what that entailed. First, I had to go and have blood drawn. Lots of blood drawn. Three big-ass vials of blood drawn. Previously, when having blood drawn for testing, it's been pretty simple--the phlebotomist has a vial with a needle at one end, and decants the red stuff straight from my vein to the bottle. Today, it was a bit more complicated due to the fact that three vials were needed. The phlebotomist stuck a needle with a tube connected into my vein. At the other end of the tube was an odd little contraption that closely resembled a big syringe, but without the plunger. Apparently, there was a little bitty gasket inside that doohickey that held back the crimson tide until a vial was inserted, and then it let the blood run into the vial until withdrawn. Really kind of neat, but GOD I HATE NEEDLES. After draining me of blood, Dr. Bathory there handed me three baggies that each contained two vials and said "We'll need you to provide some stool samples." So now I get to figure out how to shovel my own crap into some little bottles of formalin. Whee. Preserving the fruits of my bowels for the furtherance of medical science, I suppose. (As well as finding out if I have any exciting parasites or unusual bacteria present.) Part two and three of this exciting array of tests is even more amusing. Tomorrow morning, I get to have an upper GI exam. I'm not entirely sure what it involves, except that part of it is going to be "swallow this barium and we're going to take pictures of your glowing insides". That, I think I can live with. Part three, however, I get to anticipate because the next available appointment is October 27th. Apparently, pumping radioactive slime up people's asses is a service in great demand, because I'll have to wait about a month till I can get my very own barium enema. Yes, someone I'll have known for less than fifteen minutes is going to run a hose up my backside and pour barium into the depths of my innards. Then, of course, there's going to be more nice pictures of my luminous entrails. I haven't heard the horrible words "colonoscopy" yet, which is nice. It's going to be bad enough having someone do a radioactive radiator flush on my ass without having someone else stuff a camera up it. (4 Comments |Comment on this)