bridget

Unsexy picture and long, rambling entry to follow:

Dear Tonsils,
Your days are numbered. That number is 2. Then you die. I'd say 'sorry,' but I'm not. I hate you.
Love,
Bridget

So I have a week of hell and heavy painkillers to look forward to, come Thursday. Please post entertaining shit for me to amuse myself with (links, stupid photos of yourself, etc.) and let's all pray that my fucking laptop starts working with the 'ol aiport so I can become the Queen of Lazyland.
On that note, those of you who know, and care, should IM me with entertaining anecdotes during my week without a voice.
On that note, I'm sure some of you are thrilled with the prospect of a mute Bridget.

So I have this new job now...it's going pretty well, aside from the weird hours. I'm in a newsroom, which is where I want to be right now. I sit next to the producer, which is where I want to be sitting right now. I just had to deal with some really lame bullshit on Sunday. It was the first bad thing (minus the hours) I've had to deal with:
On Sunday, I woke up and went to work in the same clothes I wore out on Saturday night (see previous entry). It was a nice outfit (very cute), and totally suitable for work (skirt not too short). So, as part of my job, I have to run from the control room to the studio and reorganzie anchor scripts during commercial breaks. We call it the paper shuffle. We have this one fellow (not an anchor, but another on-air fellow) and when I first met him, his handshake was too long. It also invovled more than one hand. You had to be there, I guess, but I just got a sleazy vibe from him in person (and I'm sure you get it when you see him on tv). He said some things I'm sure were charming in his own eyes, and they were not harassment...just off. He is totally benign, but an ass.
I had to really hussle off the desk after the second paper shuffle. As I was running back into the control room I bumped into this guy and he told me how cute my outfit was. I couldn't fault the guy for that, it was a cute outfit, I mean...do you have a shirt with Canadian geese on it? I didn't think so.
Back to the story. I walk back in and the woman who runs all of the cameras pulls me aside and says:
"When you go out for the paper shuffle, don't bend over the desk so far."
"So," I said, "my ass was on four monitors in the control room and two in the studio?"
"And three in the newsroom," she added.
The creep had seen my ass just before commenting on my outfit. That shit was straight out of Anchorman...and I had been telling people how my shop was not like that at all.
Perhaps I will rant about what a jerk the sports producer is in one of my upcoming entries.
For now, I'd like to provide a few observations:

At Fatburger they put relish and pickles on your burger (I was walking past the drive-thru on my way to the supermarket today).

DVDs are about one centimetre too large to drop into the mailslot in my building (damn Netflix).

I actually have emotions, and they make me want to vomit (sometimes).

Today, the two homeless people who hang out at the elementary school on my block (when it is not in session) were listening to Rush Limbaugh on a fairly busted boombox.

Operation Apartment Clean was a success and my mother won't kill me when she arrives (me not killing her when I can't speak and have to be in the same room as her can't be assured).

People on the West Coast make a lot of assumptions.

**UPDATE**
A friend from home called me a prude, marking, I believe, the first time anyone has ever called me that.