Work, Mom & Frankendeb

Well... it's happened... I've been cleared to return to work. I went to see the hand job guy (that still makes me laugh, by the way) and he took away the guard thingy that I had on it, and told me that (get this) I should rub my thumb on different textures. The reason for this is that when something in your body gets, as he put it, crushed, that your brain pretty much shuts down communication with whatever it is. So, yes, ladies and gentlemen, the assignment from the hand job guy until the next time I see him in 4 weeks is this; to rub my thumb on things. It's a lot of fun. No, really.

The bad news is that I now have to get back into the routine of getting up at 7AM every morning, which is going to be no small feat... seeing as I've been sleeping enough over the past few weeks to pretty much catch up on all the sleep that I missed during college, and the fact that I've been drinking enough to make Dean Martin vomit. The main thing that I'm bummed out about is that during the past 3 weeks of not working, I didn't do a damn thing. I pretty much stayed home and watched TV, played about 1,500 hands of online poker, and drank way too much. Regardless, after the hand job guy gave me my "return to work without restrictions" note, I called HR and left a message. They're supposed to get back to me within 24 hours, but who knows. The nuts and bolts of this thing is that my first day back will more than likely be this Friday.

The thing that is going to suck is this; in about 2 weeks, I'll be saying, "I really fucking need a vacation." It's gonna be that whole "don't know what you got 'til it's gone" thing. Son of a bitch. Although right now, again, I'm pretty fucking anxious to get back to work.

Anyway, the thing that's been on my mind the most lately is the fact that my mother's getting married a month from tomorrow. I got the invitation in the mail today. Now, really... did she have to send me an invitation? It's not like I'm going to get a phone call in a couple months saying, "hey, where were you for that whole wedding thing?" Yeah, mom, news flash... I know you're getting married again and I know where and when. I talk to her about twice a week, so I'm pretty sure she's clued me in about 900 times.

Regardless, I'm happy for her. The guy is really nice and he treats her well and all that happy horse shit. Seriously, I am happy for her. The one thing that I'm concerned about is my father. I know he is still in love with my mother, and I also know that it's going to be a dark day for him when she's got somebody else's last name. Who knows, though? Maybe this will give him some closure, and he can stop dating the bitch on wheels that he's been dating for the past few years. Did I say bitch on wheels? Sorry... that's not really her name. It's Deb. What I meant to say was Frankendeb. Yeah... pretty sure I don't like this broad. Why don't I like this broad, you may ask? Well... I won't give you the whole laundry list of complaints that I have... just suffice it to say that she's completely classless and has a stupid haircut. Then again, I don't have to date her. Neither does he, but I guess I'm a lot more out of her date range than he is. He's right on the front lines... poor bastard.

I guess if he really wanted to get out of that relationship, he would. He could follow in his son's footsteps and become a serial dater. That's pretty much what I've started to consider myself after the past few relationships I've been through. I know I don't really write much about them here, and there's a reason for that, but leave it at this; I have dated a lot of women. A few days ago, I wrote something about a girl and my relationship with her, but took it down a few hours later because I didn't feel good about it. I don't think it's fair because she doesn't write anything about me or what a pain in the ass it is to date me.

Anyway, I hope he figures it out for himself and that he one day finds himself in a relationship in which he's actually happy... not shackled like he is now. Jesus, the guy might as well be wearing a shock collar. As for me, if the day rolls around where he's actually sold on the idea of being Mr. Frankendeb... ugh... I don't even want to think about it. I think I'd rather grind off my nipples with a belt sander while chewing a mouthful of Dennis Rodman's toenails. How's that for a lovely mental image? My work here is done.

Well, kids... time for me to sign off. Gotta go load up my minivan with the things to go back to work... wonder if I could rub my thumb on the car and consider it physical therapy.

Until next time...

R