So Says I

I worked with a woman at my last job who had an e-mail signature that automatically appeared in every message that went something like this:

Sincerely,
Susan A. Whatever

Honestly, Susan? You cannot be that sincere in every e-mail. “Sincerely” should never be as an automatic inclusion, as it, in fact, makes you insincere, given that you automatically parrot it out like a myna bird no matter what you’re saying. Are you really that sincere when you’re telling me that you have a doctor’s appointment at 9, and you’ll be in late? Seriously, Susan? SERIOUSLY. It should also not be in red glowy italic font, as I recall hers was. Goddamn that signature still haunts me, three years later.

I’m sure it speaks volumes to my mental state (overtired, PMS-ing) that I’ve been periodically getting myself all worked up about this fact for about an hour now, and at one point, very seriously considered writing her an e-mail calling her out for her glaring (GLARING! It’s BLINDING!) insincerity. I don’t even work there anymore, and haven’t for several years.

This is a nice segue into my latest beef with Oprah, which is her extremely dramatic bout with thyroid disease. I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned this a thousand times, but I, too, have thyroid disease (Hashimoto’s thyroiditis), and while it truly sucks, it really set me off to see Oprah going off about it. She makes everything so dramatic, and while I should be happy that she’s bringing attention to the issue (seriously, it really kind of sucks, and does impact everything from your weight to your fertility, and oh yes, did I ever mention half my hair and eyebrows fell out?), instead, I just want to pummel her with empty bottles of Synthroid or Armour. Yes, Armour. Or perhaps just some desiccated pig thyroid, before it’s made into pills.

Why couldn’t Ellen be hypothyroid? Why does it have to be OPRAH? No one asked me if I wanted her to be the public face of my disease, for I most certainly do not. Oh how I hate Oprah, as I’ve discussed before. Loathe.

In other exciting news, I was quite certain that I permanently blinded myself when I unloaded an entire container of Tilex Clean Shower directly into all of my mucus membranes when I inserted the nozzle backwards. This was followed by the entire — and OH I MEAN ENTIRE — spice rack falling to the ground and breaking in a staggeringly loud display of shattered glass while I was cleaning up after making potato salad for a (oh my God) Halloween potluck at the office tomorrow. Nothing like crunching your bare feet over mustard seed and broken glass to get the blood flowing, I say. Perhaps the only thing more exciting is a 10 p.m. vacuum, because who — and I really mean this — doesn’t love giving the old Eureka some mileage?

(Also, no, I haven’t bought a new vacuum yet. I’ve been too distracted by my oh-so-sexy Bissell steamer.)

I also made chocolate biscuit cake, for those of you who also read Holly, and I made two trays and GOOD GODDAMN, I think I died, it is that good. But I think that Digestive cookies need a new name, because doesn’t it sound like … I don’t know, some kind of laxative? Bad enough that they’re called “biscuits” (I’m sorry, Brits, I’m SORRY!) But … Digestive! So gentle, it loosens bowels overnight!

I’ll try not to think about it as I scarf the rest of it down tomorrow.

And hey, by the way, you may not hear from me until next Monday — I mean, maybe tomorrow, but I don’t know for sure. Thursday, you see, I’m off to Disney World with my sister and nephews for what promises to be the least relaxing vacation under the sun, given that the four of us are sharing a hotel room. You see, I snore, and my nine-year-old nephew thrashes all around, so no one wants to sleep with either of us, and it’s more than likely I’ll find myself on the floor, wrapped in the STD-infested hotel blanket, dreaming of angry families clamoring for overpriced pork products and Mickey pins.

Also, have I ever showed you what I have to sleep in every night?

Toes curled to protect your retinas from my horrid, terrifying toenails that are in desperate need of a pedicure.

This, incidentally, is the only thing that’s worked for my plantar fasciitis. If I fail to sleep in it, the pain comes back within 24 hours. And as I understand it, this will very likely be for the rest of my life. I might as well be permanently pregnant, for God’s sake.

Good golly molly, I sound like I’m wearing the grumpiest pants I own, don’t I? They’re plaid, if you were wondering, and also hot pink.

Happy Wednesday!

*The Shins. After five years of trying, and three albums purchased, they’re growing on me. You win.

31 comments October 30th, 2007