Week three? Really? Gah...Gahhhhh...Gaaahhhhhhhh...! (I wanted you all to picture Dr. Peter Venkman right before he gets slimed. See it? Good)
So it will have been over two weeks to the minute as I type this that I received the "one-on-one meeting" email. And I am so. Pissed. Off.
I'm really, really trying not to lose steam. I wake every morning to check my business. I look in at the phone every time I step out or am downstairs to see if I missed a message. I get discouraged when, after reviewing the job requirements of all jobs applied for at the gubmint, find out that they are all post dated. Most of them are already closed postings. Moreover, some of them require "signing up" for the Guard. And the website wouldn't let me apply online. On the plus side, the health care company has received all 10 of my applications. Only 6 of which are accepted and reviewed. The rest, closed.
I stare at the unemployment paperwork daily and it all reads like Sanskrit. The windshield wiper blades on my car stopped working entirely (which will cause a hasty call to the auto repair shop I took it into last year to have them fixed) some dumbass must have backed into me because my front license plate mount was knocked off and now rests on the passenger side floor with the bolts shorn off. I was driving back from the gym and realized I hadn't bothered to fasten my seat belt. I. Am a walking moving violation.
Moreover, after a weekend of much needed beeb-time where we gymmed/watched movies/finally slept in the same bed- The urps got the best of me. I worried going in that I'd be fixing for a nice heave-ho. The nausea would come and go, along with the feeling that something was lodged just on top of my esophagus. After 45 minutes on the treadmill on Sunday, I walked over to Moda and retched. For the rest of the day, nothing "bad" happened but after getting treated (again) to breakfast at "The Hot Plate" (kitschy, with nice big portions. Endoresed'd!!!) I spent the rest of the day feeling crummy.
After a banana and yogurt, I hit the gym and I barely make it. I wonder if they notice my eyes watering after retching between every set. I give up, mid-workout, and head home where the meager contents of my tummy give way. I start worrying about stomach cancer, nerves...everything. I talk to my folks where I get an initial gloom and doom talking to regarding my mortgage and unemployment, after which my tummy goes again. Like a smart man, I go for a 4 mile jog.
Moda pops over and we create stinky wraps and I make a few mental concessions: 1) No more wine. For a while. I can only think that the meager stores supplied to me are causing an acidic reflux. And the damage done to the bottle of chard on Saturday while we tried to plunge through "Man on a Wire" accompanied by the subsequent retching make me think that it isn't the best thing to put in an already worrisome stomach. 2) Kibosh coffee. Again, the mornings I feel the most quesy are the ones I head down for my daily cuppa. I figure it'll save me a couple of bucks and it will make for an interesting experiment for the foreseeable future.
So here I type this, no coffee, and so far- No retching. I may be on to something.
No comments:
Post a Comment