Warrior Princess

July 31, 2007

Things Can Always Get Worse, Part 57

Filed under: Things Can Always Get Worse — ggirl @ 12:53 pm

I got back from physical therapy a few minutes ago to find a message from my dermatologist’s office.  You know, I’d already decided that everything was fine and I’d just have stitches from the biopsy taken out next week and be on my way.  Wrong again.  Something is wrong.  The message said they’d been trying to get in touch with me and want to set up an appointment to discuss my “diagnosis and treatment.”

You know they’re not going to tell me anything over the phone.  They never tell you anything over the phone.  I don’t think it’s skin cancer because I’ve never heard of skin cancer manifesting that way before.

Nonetheless.  Things can always get worse.  Can I put that on my headstone? I’d prefer to be cremated, but maybe they could just put a headstone in some random, unfilled corner of a cemetery. It wouldn’t have to be big, obviously.

If not “Things can always get worse,” then I’m considering just “Fuck you.”

Keep you posted on the fun new developments.

July 26, 2007

What Now?

Filed under: Things Can Always Get Worse — ggirl @ 2:42 pm

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  On Monday, I had to go home because I was nauseated and finally threw up.  Yesterday I was all better.  Today I’m feeling nauseated again.  I’ve eaten a cup of yogurt and some hot tea.

I’m afraid to eat anything else because if I get sick, I may never be able to eat that again.  That’s how it is for me.  Once I’m sick after eating something, I never want to be within a mile of it again.  On the other hand, I really need to eat something.

Well so much for that.  I just had to make a trip to the restroom…sick again.

July 25, 2007

Can You Afford a $300 Dress?

Filed under: Breast Cancer, Things Can Always Get Worse — ggirl @ 3:02 pm

I am, among other things, what used to be referred to as “a woman of a certain age.”  I’m over 50 and I’m good with that.  Fifty is a very liberating age, even if you don’t have breast cancer to remind you of whom you truly are. Be happy with you, because you’re great just the way you are.

Nonetheless, I’ve been in a general quandary about what’s appropriate (or not) for women my age to wear. To help enlighten myself and avoid embarrassing fashion faux pas, I subscribed to a magazine aimed directly at my demographic.

I’ve come to dread its bi-monthly arrival.  The magazine is filled with articles about women who’ve quit their unsatisfying, soul-killing but lucrative careers to pursue their personal career bliss.  Without fail, these women have somehow managed to find the work they love that puts food on the table and pays the monthly mortgage.  Imagine my distress.

I’m stuck here in Crazy Land, doing things that I generally don’t like to do…or doing nothing at all (unless you count weblog activity as work-related).  I’m the primary wage earner in the family, I have breast cancer, personal debt in addition to a mortgage payment and, of course, the rising costs of fuel, food and medication.  Stuck.

I resent the beaming faces and glowing testimonials to branching out on your own, opening a knitting store, a cozy bed and breakfast, etc., etc., ad nauseum.  Looking at them makes me feel like a failure and a coward.  I am a failure because, even when my job here was highly demanding, it was without question nothing that I ever liked and always underutilized my brain power and creativity.

Next, the age-appropriate fashion.  How many of us can afford a “bargain” $300 dress for work?  Or a $150 pair of jeans, paired with a $200 pair of espadrilles and a $150 shirt?  Even if I could afford it, I wouldn’t.  Clothing costs make me absolutely crazy.  I like clothes.  A lot.  I don’t indulge my desires as much as I used to; the changes breast cancer makes to one’s body doesn’t inspire a great body image.

I shop at sales.  I mean 80% off sales.  Even at that discount, I still couldn’t afford anything like the prices cited as “reasonable” in any  magazine that features knock-offs of high fashion looks.  I don’t want to look like Meryl Streep; I just want to look classy and elegant.  People generally say I do.  I think that has to do with the way I (used to) carry myself and the fact that I was genetically blessed with a tall, slender frame.  We all know I work out like a maniac when I’m capable (in between breast cancer tortures).  I try to eat right.  So I look okay, without spending lunatic amounts of money.

Nonetheless, I’m sick of being made to feel like a disappointment to my generation for not achieving enough, looking good enough, being healthy enough, not climbing a mountain, not raising a perfect family while having an enriching career.

Where am I going with this?   Nowhere.  I just had to say.  I’m not, repeat not going to read this month’s article about gourmet cooking on a $400 a week budget.  Furthermore, you don’t like what I’m wearing?  You think I shouldn’t be wearing these shoes because they’re too young-looking?  As it turns out, I don’t really care.  Welcome to fifty.

July 23, 2007

Just Call Me Cambodia

Filed under: Uncategorized — ggirl @ 2:48 pm


You’re Cambodia!
Life’s been really rough, but it’s slowly improving.  You know
way too much about the skeletal structure of humans, mostly from being forced to study
it.  This has given you a fear of many things, most especially the color red.
 The future has to be more promising though, and your greatest adversary can now
never come back to hurt you any more.


Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid

Weekend Wrap Up

Filed under: Breast Cancer, Marriage, Things Can Always Get Worse — ggirl @ 2:38 pm

I had an appointment with my radiation oncologist on Thursday morning.  He diagnosed the pain and swelling as localized lymphedema.  I’d considered that possibility before, but my several sources of information only mentioned swelling down the arm, not under the arm.  I don’t understand why sometimes it’s localized and sometimes it isn’t.  He said that physical therapy might be very helpful and referred me to a clinic here in town.  They’re supposed to contact me sometime this week.  I’m enormously relieved that it’s nothing more serious, although lymphedema, untreated, can produce disastrous results.  It’s also really unattractive.
Thursday evening I fell four times.  Four times.  That’s excessive, even for me.  I’m not sure why I fell the first two times, although I think all of them may have been a result of having my eyes dilated earlier in the day.  I had an opthamologist check the progress of my macular degeneration.  (It didn’t get any worse–Yay!)  It’s possible that, even though it seemed my vision was back to normal, there may have been some depth perception distortion.

Anyway, the first couple of times I fell I was just walking around in my house.  I didn’t sustain any injuries.  The third time, I misjudged the two steps down from my bedroom into the living room, slipped and sprained my ankle.  Within about an hour, I was going through the den to let Andy the Demon Dog outside, fell and bruised my knee.  Both the huskies’ crates are in the den, but his is close to the path to the back door.  I usually keep the crate door cracked so he can go in if he wishes.  I’ve had disastrous encounters before with the wide-open crate door and I’m actually a quick study when it comes to ways to prevent collisions.  I’ve had a lifetime of practice.
I guess Hubby left the crate door wide open and I didn’t turn the lights on in the den.  Too much time and trouble to turn on lights, you know.  I slammed into the door with my knee and just collapsed on the floor.  Luckily, the knee wasn’t sprained, too.

Earlier in the evening, I accidentally whacked my head against a cabinet door.  I have a bruise on my nose and forehead.  They’re not bad; they just look like maybe I’m not the most fastidious person in the world.  My husband thinks I’m trying to get him arrested for assault.  (Note I did not say “domestic assault.”  I think it minimizes the crime.)  The most amazing news?  I did not go to work.  I always go to work with sprained ankles.  Yes, I have them rather frequently.  I think it runs in the family; my mom’s ankles collapse for no apparent reason.
Today, I had my annual skin cancer check with my dermatologist.  She found an area on my lower back that looked a little weird.  It wasn’t a mole or anything like that; it was a gray area that spread across my hips.  We did a biopsy; results expected within 3 to 5 days.  I’ll have to have stitches taken out in a couple of weeks.

The great news here is that if it turns out to be something scary, my beloved Dr. Ross is an accomplished skin cancer surgeon.  As a matter of fact, he consults throughout the country on difficult cases.  Lucky me.  Have I mentioned lately how much I love him?

Last Wednesday was Hubby’s birthday.  I was confused.  I thought it was Thursday.   Good move.  I don’t know–I was confused about the date all last week.  Who am I kidding?  I never know what day it is.  I mean I’m not even sure if it’s Tuesday or Thursday.  It’s either the monotony of daily life or the lingering effects of chemotherapy.  I like the latter explanation later.

I’d already bought a gift for Hubby, so I was clear on that count.  However, I didn’t wish him a happy birthday until he pointed out to me that I should have.  I noted that he forgot our wedding anniversary last year.  We’re even now.

Aside from giving you a blow by blow account of the numbers of loads of laundry I did this weekend, that about wraps it up.  How timely.  It’s only about ten minutes before I get to go home.  I’m working on being much more entertaining in the days to come, so don’t give up on me now.

July 18, 2007

Solace and Distraction

“Her mind lives tidily, apart From cold and noise and pain, And bolts the door against her heart, Out wailing in the rain.” ~ Dorothy Parker
I just ate an apple without washing it. Do you suppose it will kill me? Big ironic smile here. My dark sense of humor has grown much darker the past couple of years.
I finally broke down and called the radiation oncology office yesterday. They were busy, of course, and the recording suggested I leave my name, number and what hell I was calling about. I did that. Have I heard anything? Hell no. With the help and encouragement of my online friends, I overcame my fear of seeming like a crazy hypochondriac and called. Thanks so much for getting right back with me about the pain and swelling, cancer guys. I guess they figure those two things don’t necessarily mean anything that will result in imminent death, so no rush.

I can’t recall whether the oncology office recording said they’d get back to me within 24 business hours. That’s the usual standard these days. It’s been 24 business hours now. Maybe I’ll have to call back, just to check. I don’t want to miss the opportunity to give people an enormous amount of trouble about breaking the 24 hour rule.I’m generally such an empathetic personality that I’m willing to cut people an enormous amount of slack. However, woe be to those who overestimate my level of good will. Ask the folks at Holiday Inn. They can attest to that fact.

As far as I can tell, I’m not overcome with anxiety anymore. God only knows what’s going on beneath the level of ordinary consciousness, though. Nothing like having a brain that walls itself off automatically to protect against unwanted emotion. Generally speaking, though, it requires that I put some active effort into it.
There are all kinds of thoughts and fears that I examine, then put aside into little individual compartments in my head. “I’ll just get back to this later,” I think. It’s highly conducive to the ability to function, no matter what. Thank you, crappy childhood. Of course, it’s not the most mentally healthy way to deal with things, I’ve been told.

From time to time, when I talk about moving problems over to their own little room in my head, my therapist asks me how I do that. I have no idea. I do know that there have been times when keeping things in those compartments requires visualizing many locks and an occasional barricade. I’ve been able to count on the locks and barricades when it’s absolutely necessary.

All of that is a clearly pragmatic decision to put things aside until later. As I mentioned before, sometimes my brain kindly moves fear and anxiety directly to secret places without any effort whatsoever on my part. Sooner or later, though, the gates somehow open and I’m flooded with the memories, thoughts or emotions that have been hidden from me. The surprise is invariably unpleasant.

I think everyone does that to some extent. There are all kinds of nasty things floating around in what Freud would have called the unconscious. I’m not a big fan of Freud’s view of the world, but when he’s right, he’s right. Carl Jung (among others) agreed. He’s much more palatable to me.

For instance, I suspect that each of us harbors ill-will towards others, even though we may never perceive it. We might vehemently deny it, as a matter of fact. When I clearly see into what Zen Buddhists call “Hatred Mind,” I always find some previously buried hatred, resentment or anger. It requires “opening the hand of thought” to find Hatred Mind and what lies within it. I try to be benevolent towards everyone, but I’m not seduced by that desire.

Freud would say there are shameful desires, primeval fear, unassailable rage that we’re incapable of confronting because they pose unspeakable danger to our psychic wholeness. It’s sort of like the mind-splintering direct encounter with the divine, alluded to in every spiritual tradition of which I’m aware. The infinite, though blindingly loving, is too much for us to bear. Wholeness can lead to madness just as surely.

Notice how I veered off into theoretical exploration? That’s my brain offering up distraction and solace. Every once in a while, I can see it as it happens. It no longer matters to me, at this moment, whether the sacred 24 hour rule has been violated. I’m still stuck on the idea of hatred mind and the mystical meeting of humanity with infinite love.

July 17, 2007

Anguished

Filed under: Breast Cancer, Marriage, Things Can Always Get Worse — ggirl @ 11:07 am

“I’ve been trying to get as far away from myself as I can,” “Things Have Changed,” Bob Dylan

I tried calling in sick to Life.  “Hello, Life?  I’m not myself today, so I won’t be coming in.  I’m sure I’ll be back tomorrow.”  Life does not accept those kinds of calls.  I’m reduced to living on the outskirts of consciousness, tamping everything down and floating around the edges where nothing serious lives.

I’d love to take a vacation from myself.  I get that old claustrophobic feeling I had after my last surgery.  If only I could rip some part of myself open and step out of this body for a while.  Or if I could just scream long enough, maybe all of the anxiety would drain away.

I’ve written several posts and abandoned them or saved them for some day when I can concentrate.  I haven’t been visiting my friends online.  It feels like half of my brain is dead.  Maybe more than half.  I spend my Crazy Land days trying to work on the database, but it all seems so complex and unfathomable.  I haven’t accomplished much.

I’ve been crying at the smallest of things.  Even writing that sentence makes me teary.  I become enraged at unpredictable moments.  When I’m not enraged, everything irritates me.  So, let’s see…crying, then being enraged, then being irritated, then back to crying with a little irritation mixed in.  I’ve got my own private Crazy Land going on in my head.  No one pays me for showing up every day, though.

My mother seems to call me every 15 minutes. I love my mom, but get off the damn phone already.  I had a psychobitch meltdown with Hubby yesterday.  I’m sure he’d like to get away from me almost as much as I would.  Crazy Land is easy.  I’m in my office where I pose no danger to anyone else.  If I don’t see them, I don’t yell at them.  I don’t crumple up into a little ball and cry at the copier.  I don’t expect them to understand where I’m living these days.
Most of the time, though, I’m able to keep it together.  I chat with people, I read, I listen to music.  I do not talk about fear.  I try not to engage fear on any level.  My inner debate continues:  Am I being crazy about the mass under my arm (and the pain and swelling) or does it make complete sense that it terrifies me?  The question arises regularly and just as regularly, I push it away.

It’s one of those times, I suppose, when no one can help me out of this. Why don’t I go to see my radiation oncologist, people ask me.  I don’t know.  I don’t want to.  That would require that I allow fear a free hand in my consciousness.  Maybe I just don’t really want to know what’s going on.  Maybe it’s stupid to even think I need to see him. If I see him, won’t he just tell me he doesn’t know what’s causing the problems, that I should give my oncologist a call?  Or maybe he’d tell me to get over it.  Hell, I can tell myself to get over it without having to shell out the $15 copay.  Maybe if I just wait a little while longer and keep the panic corralled, my logical brain can get control over things and I won’t have to go at all.
Anguished.  That’s the word.  If I had to sum up everything going on inside me, that would be it.  Feeling it is almost more than I can bear.  As I type these words, there’s a voice inside reminding me that my problems are small compared to most people’s.  There’s a whole lot of suffering going on in the world.

I either need to get some greater perspective on my problems or open my heart and mind to the anguish.  I should observe the fear and rage and sadness.  I should note how they feel to this physical body.  Mindfulness meditation.  Maybe I can get around to that later on.  Not now, though. Right now, I’m going to summon the energy to push it all away again.

July 13, 2007

Drug Sickness and Doctors

Filed under: Breast Cancer, Things Can Always Get Worse — ggirl @ 11:35 am

Yesterday, I was really sick from “discontinuation” (my psychiatrist’s term) problems with Effexor. I’ve been taking it for years and I was supposed to eliminate it beginning this week. It’s been a step-down process that’s gone relatively well. Four days after I took the last (smallest mg. capsule available), I started to have that weird head thing that tends to happen. No problem. Then I started to have intense colon pain that then spread throughout my body. I hurt all over and felt a little nauseated.

The upshot is that I now have to break the capsule open and attempt to divide the medication into two halves. I spent about 20 minutes this morning trying to separate the little grains. I’m not a naturally patient woman, though I’ve worked really hard through the years to get better. The process of dividing up the contents just about drove me insane. They’re unruly and go sliding around everywhere, so I end up having to search for the little grains all over my desk.

I’m going to try that for a week and stop taking it again. I’ll just have to see what happens. Otherwise, I guess we’ll try to quarter it. Couldn’t they just institutionalize me for a while? Oh wait. That would involve hospitals, I think. Never mind.

In addition to my weekly aerobics, yoga and hand weight routine this week I added in a belly dancing tape. I haven’t done that since before my first surgery. Hard work. It was fun doing something other than riding my stationery bike, though. I have to proceed slowly; stamina is still hard to come by.

I finally decided to call my radiation oncologist and see if I can drop by for a visit next week. He’s in town and, whatever the problem is, it’s probably related to radiation treatments from last year. I have another appointment on Tuesday with a different kind of doctor, so I really didn’t want to add another one in. It’s come down to a choice between sleeping through the night (and just a high rate of anxiety, generally) and subjecting myself to another encounter with a doctor.

Try to imagine how tired I am of doctors–oncologists, general practitioners, opthamologists. I think there are some more in there, but I’d rather not summon the whole list to mind. Some things just can’t be helped, I suppose.

I’m going to have to wrap this up. I have therapy today for the first time in two weeks. That means I get to leave Crazy Land early. It’s too bad, in a way, because I do have some more work war stories to share. I guess I’ll get to that next week or, if I’m feeling really energetic, over the weekend.

July 11, 2007

Elizabeth Edwards Over and Over Again

Filed under: Breast Cancer, Office Hell, Things Can Always Get Worse — ggirl @ 2:55 pm

“Consider that thou dost not even understand whether men are doing wrong or not, for many things are done with a certain reference to circumstance. And, in short, a man must learn a great deal to enable him to pass a correct judgment on another man’s acts. ~ Marcus Aurelius

Warning: If profanity offends you, stop now.

Want to know what offends me? Continuing conversations with my co-workers about Elizabeth Edwards. Not only does it offend me, it enrages me. The owner of my company just called me to advise me again that he doesn’t believe Elizabeth Edwards should be out campaigning for her husband.

I muzzled my rage and told him, in a reasonable tone of voice, that I’ve given her circumstances a great deal of thought. I don’t judge other people trying to endure cancer, especially when it’s clear that ultimately they will not survive. Even if it seems like they will survive, no one and I mean no one, has the right to make those judgments. Especially when you have not experienced the disease yourself. I don’t mean just reading about it or watching documentaries about it or even knowing someone who has it. When you have walked the walk, then and only then, do you have the smallest scintilla of right to criticize others who are just trying to get through the fucking day. How ever they can.

“Well, I just think it’s a matter of priorities. They have children, you know.” he said.

No. Really? They have children? What would you have her do, sit around her house all day, waiting to die while her children crumble? You don’t know. Maybe you would do it differently, but here again, you don’t have fucking cancer. So shut up.

What would I do if I knew with certainty that death by cancer was going to severely limit my time with my children? I have no idea. I know I used to have a lot of ideas about how to get through the struggle, even shortly after my diagnosis. You don’t know until you get there. I don’t know what I would do. How can so many people in my office be so deluded as to think they know? Well, aside from being judgmental assholes, of course.

If you don’t like John Edwards, I don’t give a fuck. Campaign against him. Vote against him. I don’t have a horse in this race. Don’t call me up to argue with me about his “arrogant campaign tactics.” Allow me to repeat myself: I don’t give a happy goddamn about John Edwards. He doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning the nomination, in my opinion. People do not contribute to political campaigns out of pity, in my opinion. (This is politics–anyone can have an opinion as to the mechanics and outcomes of political campaigns.) Who the hell are those people? Find some for me, provide me with some reputable sources of information on that score and I might be willing to change my mind. That really isn’t the point. Judging someone who’s dying of breast cancer, who’s going to endure an enormous amount of pain (including the certainty that your children, young and adult, will have to live their lives without their mother–that’s the point.

Furthermore, could you just stop talking to me about this? I’m emotionally ravaged by two years of doing whatever I had to do to get through it, sometimes sixty seconds at a time, because that’s all I could manage. I have this weird thing going on under my arm. Everyone here knows that and, even though I don’t wander around with a worried look on my face, cut me some fucking slack, could you? I expend an enormous amount of energy every day trying to keep my own internal debate at bay. “Oh of course it’s fine. Silly me,” alternating with, “Fuck! This is how it happened the first time. Why is there pain and swelling? Why is there that hard mass?” I do not have the extra energy to stuff all of that back down just because my co-workers think it’s their right and duty to express their ignorant opinions. To me. If you’d like to talk about it, if you think you must, talk to someone else.

I’ve asked that people not talk to me about it. I’ve asked politely and patiently. I’ve told them it makes me anxious. I’ve walked away when they ignore me. I sincerely hope that no one here (or anywhere) has to find out what it feels like to actually experience this disease. In these circumstances, I say that with a certain amount of bitterness. When and if my esteemed co-workers wake up to their own cancer diagnosis, they can come to their own conclusions about the behavior of everyone else with the diagnosis.

Until then, fuck off.

July 10, 2007

The Jim Bob Hopkins Memorial Film School

Filed under: Office Hell, Things Can Always Get Worse — ggirl @ 12:07 pm

“No plan can prevent a stupid person from doing the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time – but a good plan should keep a concentration from forming.” ~ Charles Erwin Wilson, 1890-1961

It’s another Loathsome story.  Who would have guessed?  Recall that Loathsome is in charge of a huge project and that he’s already made some damn fine progress in screwing it up.  The trend continues.

This morning, I opened my intra-office email and found two separate emails from Owner regarding an old Crazy Land employee.   The first email informed everyone that Jim Bob Jones (name changed to protect a whole range of people) is ineligible for employment and should not be allowed in the building.  The second email contradicted the first–we’re hiring him so let him in the building to fill out his paperwork.

I recognized Jim Bob’s name immediately and had to stop a phone conversation with my mother because I was so stunned.  No wait…surely he means someone else, I thought.  Jim Bob worked for us about ten years ago.  He suffered a series of minor work-related injuries which, if nothing else, indicates some pretty poor safety habits.  Then he shattered some bones in either his leg or his arm.  It doesn’t matter which.  Coincidentally, Jim Bob had been in a bull riding contest over the weekend.  Obviously, we had some reason to doubt the cause of the fractures, seeing as how there were no witnesses to the accident at the work site.

Bull riding.  What the hell is the deal with that, anyway?  I’ll never understand it.  I’ve gaged the extraordinary scope of his arrogance and stupidity.  It rivals Loathsome’s.  There is no way that guy could be good enough to make any real money at falling off bulls on a regular basis.  However, the list of things that can get permanently injured is endless.  Let’s start with breaking limbs.  I’ll bet his genetic heritage is absolutely saturated with stupidity, because he actually told us about the bull riding.

This was a huge, huge workers’ comp case.  Doctors put Jim Bob on restricted duty for months.  I won’t bore you with how much that can cost a company or why.  Suffice it to say, Crazy Land was in for some major workers’ comp problems the next year because of this bull riding pin head. (Note:  We don’t have any problems with people who are legitimately injured at work, even though they may be off for a significant period of time.  Especially if they don’t do it repeatedly.)  We had no light duty projects to accommodate his particular restrictions.  That meant Jim Bob was going to be sitting on his ass at home for the next six months, drinking beer and watching soaps, no doubt.  Lost time accidents take a serious toll not only on workers’ comp rates, but on our ongoing ability to find and keep customers.

Owner was furious.  Jim Bob is arrogant and whiny and snotty.  It’s a winning combination that doesn’t inspire much confidence and certainly not any pity.  Owner directed me to give Jim Bob something to do at our office every day for the next six months (or however long the disability lasted).

This is how the Jim Bob Hopkins Memorial Film School was created.  I told Jim Bob he’d be watching safety films all day, every day until he was restored to full duty.  Just to ensure he wasn’t spending his time with us napping or chatting with office employees, he was required to write synopses of each and every safety film.  I reviewed them every afternoon.  Not only that, but he had to go over to the State Safety Commission, pick up and return his own films each day.  I got to approve the list of films.  Jim Bob was not going to sneak in repeat films so he could re-use his synopses.   All of the reviewing and approving was, to say the least, annoying additions to my then harrowing number of responsibilities.

Jim Bob was eventually released to full duty and resumed his work at our client’s site.  The next time we were required to make work force reductions at that site, Jim Bob was at the top of the list.  Aside from the questionable circumstances of his injury, he had clearly not been working safely for quite some time.  Needless to say, the time came when Jim Bob rode his bull into the sunset, falling off all the way.

Yesterday, Loathsome sent over a list of people he was hiring for the big project.  Everyone who does hiring is required to check in with me to ensure they’re eligible fore rehire, based on their injury record.  A flurry of ruffled feathers swept throughout the building.  Virtually everyone knows the story of the Jim Bob Memorial Film School, because I bitched about it endlessly while I was essentially babysitting him.  I had already gone home for the day, so someone called Loathsome  to tell him that Jim Bob is not eligible for rehire.  Loathsome then called Jim Bob and told him he’s not eligible for rehire.  Another brilliant move by Loathsome.  Jim Bob wanted to know if that’s because of his work-related injuries.  Having screwed up royally, Loathsome then punted to Owner to resolve the problem.

Although our company is well within its rights to refuse to hire someone based on a poor safety record, that wouldn’t necessarily prevent Jim Bob from attempting to sue.  In this state, all it takes is $250 and a rapacious attorney.  Like all companies in that situation, we would be compelled to settle a claim (and maybe hire him, anyway) in order not to spend the next decade litigating at an enormous expense to the company.

I hope I’m here when Jim Bob shows up to fill out his employment paperwork.  I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see me again.  I won’t mention the fact that we now have a film school named after him.  That would be the kind of idiotic thing Loathsome would do.  I might ask him how the bull riding is going, though, as if he might be having some success with it.  In the meantime, I’m getting the break room ready for some more safety film reviews.  Welcome home, Jim Bob, your film school is waiting for you.
America held hostage:  Endlessly (I gave up counting long ago)
Bushism of the day:

“I’ve heard he’s been called Bush’s poodle. He’s bigger than that.” –George W. Bush, on former British Prime Minister Tony Blair, as quoted by the Sun newspaper, June 27, 200

Find your own gems at http://politicalhumor.about.com/library/blbushisms.htm

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