Boots and Bureaucracy

Does this title remind you the slightest of such Jane Austen novels as "Pride and Prejudice" or "Sense and Sensibility" in the way "Duel and Duality" or "Amy and Amiability" are supposed to? No? Tough!

First and foremost, I should clarify that boots and bureaucracy should be kept well apart and taken care of separately. So:

Boots: I'm finaly able to wear boots again. For quite some time (some six weeks, I think) I couldn't put on my boots because I couldn't stand the pain of bending over long enough to do the long laces and had to wear some lighter footwear. Boots really are my thing, when it comes down to footwear, so those had not been a happy six weaks, though that might have been because of the pain, mobility impediment and overall tiredness and discomfort as well.

Bureaucracy: I'm in the process of moving. For five years (since I moved out) I have been living in rented rooms in houses where just about anyone can rent a room. Now, that's never really been a problem: The first house I moved out into (eh...?) had been rented out to students just like myself, and frshmen as well, for the most part, and even though most of them already knew each other well before moving in together, we hit it off well and became friends. Sure, many people choose to get together in groups and rent a whole flat(and split the rent) instead of renting only one room in a house where it's owner doesn't live (like I did), but fate hadn't that in mind for me. I later moved out and into a room closer to campus with a lower rent (gotta mind that rent...) and with a colleague I already knew quite well. In time, a spare room has been rented out to someone neither of us knew and later to someoene we both knew. And now, I've left to live on my own. How does this relate to bureaucracy? Well, so far, I had had nothing but verbal agreements with my landlords, wherein periodically (moe or less so, for my former landlord) he'd come by the house to collect rent money and payment for whatever services not included in the agreement but under his responsability. This time, I have a full lease, complete with a deed and all. Now, the house has all the utilities (water, power, etc.) ready to use, but the company(ies) should refuse to let them be used without whatever ton of triple stamped paperwork and whatnot, signed by both the landlord and myself. Now, I can always find a litle time to swing by the imobiliary to sign something or another, and such seems to be the case with the landlord, but all the officialising and the stamping and the technicalities have bogged down the process to the stage where I'll be moving into a house with NO utilities. Really, WTF!? Couldn't we just call the company and say "OK, we're going to spend some of your water and power and whatnot, just bill me" and be done with it?

Perhaps the boots would be best suited to deal with the bureaucracy after all...

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark would like to challenge the pencil pushers into his own territorial waters: let's see you stamp your precious forms underwater...

Cut open and sewn shut

Stapled shut, actually. Meaning, obviously, that my surgery has taken place as schedulled and is done with.

The blinding pain in now a very mild pain and a generous handful of soreness in the muscles that were peeled from the bone for my hernia to be excised. I was delighted to know that, unlike what I had previously been led to believe, my vertebra were never separated during surgery, nor have they been fused together by means of staples nor has the disc between them been removed. That said, nothing has been done to impart my stability, so I should recover swiftly and fully. Fingers crossed!

For all of you expecting to undergo surgery (and dreading it), let me put (some) of your fears to rest: It barely hurts. Really, it doesn't. and don't you dread that awful moment when you're in the surgery room, waiting for the anaesthetic to kick in; you're given a pre-anaesthetic shot even before you're taken form your room, and by the time you get there you'll be half assleep anyway. And by the time the anaesthesia does kick in, you'll be much too out of it to know it. Next thing you'll know you'll be lying in the recovery room just glad it's all behind you and saying something utterly silly (I know I did). So just relax, really.

Of course all is not peaches and cream. the anaesthetic messes up your muscles, so you may lose some abilities, for a short period after the surgery (say, some 12 to 24 hours), that is. Quite common among such lost abilities is the ability to urinate. And even though you woun't be allowed to eat or drink anything for the whole day, you'll have been put on saline for so long it's not unusual for someone to have some three oints of urine in their bladder (I know I did). And, unable to pee, I had to be given a urethral catheter. Let me tel you this much about it: I'll never understand this as a fetish. Really, I don't think I ever will. It hurt like hell. That was most defenitely the worse part about this whole ordeal. The soreness and the pain around the incision are expected to subside soon enough and they're not so bad, really.

Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark has two smaller hernias that haven't given him any grief, and may never do. Fingers crossed! Please!

As if I needed a title...

Today, I'd like to open a new chapter in (my) blog history with a segment entitled "Douchebags Get All The Breaks".

Today's douchebag, and the very first douchebag to get a spot on this outrageously magnificent (at least you're reading it) blog is none other than my maid.

Why is she a douchebag? There's a number of reasons. She does a half arsed job at just about everything (i.e., ironing, cleaning...), she has no concept of tidying up, she jumbles stuff around as much as she can in the most ridiculous and presposterous manner (really, why should I find my mother's tank tops in my socks drawer?), manages to break things she doesn't even clean propperly and, according to my grandmother, who also employs her, she is no stranger to raiding the cookie jar or the chocolate drawer. Last, but not least, and just as a mere example of her mischeif, while making my bed she managed to put the quilt - a lovely beige faux fur quilt my mother gave me for Christmas - inside out. I mean, it's not even a stupidity thing - being stupid won't make you do such a thing - you have to be plain old mean. And don't tell me she got confused, it's a fur quilt - one side has lovely faux fur, the other is plain light maroon suede. It's a no-brainer. Sure, take advantage of the situation - the bed won't be checked until I come home for the weekend, she'll have some four days to laugh at imagining our faces when we find out.

Why would I say she gets all the breaks? Think about it: She has no education, no manners, no know how even of her self-chosen profession, and yet she has a job, and a well paid job, it seems, for she does manage to sustain herself, her husband and two children. But, most important of all, she manages to do such a poor job and not get fired. That, my friends, is one hell of a break.
Even the secret message has a bold tag.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.

ArabianShark considers becoming a douchebag for a few breaks. But, then again, perhaps rightly earned breaks from hard work are more satisfying. And besides, being a douchebag seems like a lot of work... now watch me say it with a straight face.