mnvnjnsn's Diary

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The Hives

No, not the band. The malady. But more on that later.

We have had the house since January 1. My mother visits next Sunday. This weekend, we started putting the damn house together. This weekend. Trevor Dunnigan built the push mower and mowed like a sonofabitch. I built a cabinet, two bookshelves and a TV stand. We both raked the clippings and carried boxes up and down stairs.

And we're still not done. Aside from the general fust sweeping and toilet scrubbing, we have loads of bookshelves to fill with books and tchotchkes.

Trevor Dunnigan pointed out that we now have places to put framed pictures. But I don't know where I packed the one framed picture we have. I have art to hang, but I don't know if I should put holes in the walls or try to figure out how to hang the stuff from the hooks you can hang in the moulding. I'm new to this house business.

All this housework has help slightly with the hives, and the rashes and the itchingitchingitching, but not enough. I've been scratching so much that I've caused bruises and welts. And I still scratch. What the hell is going on?

Have I become allergic to everything? Am I a delicate flower, much like our poor, stunted tulips that have about two inches of stem, our tuplips that were fooled by the Hawaiian weather we had this weekend, our tulips that bloomed, only to be battered 5 minutes later by the 20 minutes of hail?

No, I'm a little taller than that, but my point is: my poor tulips! Poor me!

I have just come from a weekly meeting that never fails to rip my self esteem from its little gold hook at the inside of my forehead, spit snot and tobacco juice all over it, and splatter it on the stucco wall seperating the meeting room from the men's bathroom. OK, perhaps that metaphor is a little... complicated, but still. It's a weekly meeting where I "present" "findings," which then get "eviscerated" by my "coworkers" for no "reason." I know I shouldn't take things so personally, but I spend a lot of time trying to second-guess what they hell they are expecting me to "find" and I always fail. Always.

"Shut up, you lazy data analyst," I hear you say, "all you do is play around in Excel. You call that work?" Well, I do if I spend three hours answering your questions, and then find out that your questions weren't what you wanted answers for.

Holy mother of god in a bucket, people, I'm no Edgar Cayce. I'm not even Casey and the Sunshine Band. I'm not even good with sunshine. I burn. What do you want from me??!?

11:52 a.m. - 2003-03-17


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