“Sick day” or “Update on the fate of the ’stache”

Today might just have been the worst day ever. EVER.

I woke up this morning with a migraine. This is, of course, a bad thing. To make matters worse, it was one of the ones where my vision was blurry, I was dizzy and on the verge of throwing up every few minutes.

I immediately called in to work and told my boss I was going to try to come in, but I’d be late. He was fine with this and I immediately went into dark-room seclusion, exiling Cyrus to the living room.

And then immediately vaulted out of bed, into the bathroom and was horrifically, terribly, excruciatingly sick.

And then a few minutes later I was sick again.

And again.

And some more.

After about the third time I had nothing more to be sick with except my futile attempts to stay hydrated. For about two hours I was sitting in my bathtub so as to have easy access to the toilet, thanking the shower wall for being cool and refreshing against my forehead and failing entirely at drinking the glass of water I had brought with.

About the time I was feeling well enough not to hold residence in my shower was also the time that the yard maintenance guy decided that he was going to mow, trim, weed-eat and leaf-blow outside my oh-so-not-soundproof window.

Ugh.

So now, I am trying to eat something. Trying to drink something and trying not to die.

And yes, I shaved.

Good night.

“What is that thing?” or “‘Stache”

Okay, here it is. You all can stop with the making of the threats and the constant harassment.

I finally realized who it is I think I look like…

I look like Inspector Clouseau. And I am not sure I like that.

Anyway, the ’stache is already drawing criticism at work. Today, one coworker, in mid-conversation with another coworker, stopped and said “Okay, I just have to tell you. The mustache? It’s not working”

Feeling very defensive, I asked the coworker she was talking to what HER verdict was.

She just said three words. “Shave it off.”

Another coworker, when I asked her opinion, said, “I’m not going to say anything bad about your mustache.”

But then under her breath said very quickly, “But it would be nice if it was gone.”

This makes me:

So here’s where you come in. Vote the fate of the ’stache!

Does it stay or does it go?

“Suspicion” or “Terrorism!” or “Delaying my ’stache”

Ok, so I went with a triple headline because something totally bizarre just happened.

It’s 10 p.m. Dariush is at home, not doing much of anything except watching BSG and trying to fend off half-hearted feline attacks on my ankles.

Knock knock

“Just a minute.”

I walk around the house shirtless. It’s a trait picked up from my father and his family. When enough men of the Shafa clan gather, it’s quite accurate to say that it’s like a herd of Silverback Gorillas (Gorilli? Gorillae?) wandering about. Either that or just Middle Eastern-descended men who all appear to be wearing thick, black (gray in my dad and grandfather’s cases) sweaters.

I digress.

So I find a shirt.

KNOCK KNOCK

“I said HOLD ON.”

I corral the cat and then go to the door. I’m paranoid enough (And “Only the paranoid survive” as one of my old bosses had emblazoned on her coffee cup) not to trust, well, anyone. I open the door, but the chain stays in place.

Nobody outside. Nobody in sight, anyway.

“Hello?” I ask, feeling more and more like this is a horror movie and I’m the token minority who’s going to cash in his chips first (Jim Brown didn’t die first in “The Dirty Dozen” but he still dies, and I’ve seen that movie about 10K times).

A woman enters my view.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I live across the street and I need to use your phone.”

Justification time: In the Bible, the Pharoah asked Abraham if Sarah was his wife. Abraham said she was his sister, because to out-and-out say Sarah was his wife probably would have gotten him killed. Now, God was okay with this because in this circumstance, Pharoah was not entitled to the truth (higher purposes and all that, is how this is explained) and all turned out okay in the end.

There is NO WAY I am letting this woman into my apartment, no matter the fact that I have a psychotic attack kitty and ninja/Kung fu skills enough to make the largest, meanest of men wet themselves uncontrollably and sob like Nancy Kerrigan (too soon? I think not).

“I don’t have a phone,” I tell her.

“Well, can I use your bathroom?”

She lives across the street and wants to use my restroom. Which is manly. And has lots of hair around it (guys, this is normal, am I right?). That alone would preclude her from using it, but I’ve seen enough trashy horror movie previews to know that if my life were in fact a movie being shown in a theater, someone in the back is screaming “DON’T LET HER IN THE DOOR! SHE’S A VICIOUS SERIAL KILLER!” This person exists constantly in my head and I listen to this person. It’s why I’m still alive.

“No, I’m not comfortable at all with you coming in. Sorry.”

And I shut the door.

And then I dial the cops.

And then the cops are out in my neighborhood, looking for our phoneless crazy woman who has a bulging bladder.

The officer who came to my door said she probably just wanted to grab something quickly to pawn. Whatever. Crazy womens can stay all up out of my business.

***

Last night I had to cover Barack Obama’s visit to Evansville, Indiana. Of course, being a presidential race, there would be a whole ton and a half of security. Local. State. Federal.

While the authorities were doing their security sweep of the building, I waited outside and made small talk with one of the facility’s technical guys. He seemed nice enough and then remarked about how tight security was. I remarked that it wasn’t as bad as two summers ago when Dick Cheney came to Owensboro. I then related to him my run-in with the Secret Service.

And then the guy looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, no offense, but you DO look like a terrorist.”

One of my friends, a journalist in Singapore, agrees and suggested I change my name to O’dariush Bin Lashafa.

Tomorrow, I will let you be the judge. Tomorrow, I will unveil my ’stache.

“We interrupt this blog post to bring you another blog post” or “Earthquake test!”

We had an earthquake!

It woke me up.

Cyrus was scared.

Wicked awesome

I’ve had four cups of coffee so far.

Whee.

So you have to wait for my facial hair post a little longer.

Rock on.

“Toe jam” or “My loss has no gain”

The Mass Media Meltdown is over with. My weight loss numbers are still unknown (I didn’t have time to weigh myself on Monday, so I’ll do it Tuesday. Anyway, the numbers that I do know and do want to share with you are not pounds lost, but inches.

Before the MMM began, each person was measured around their neck, shoulders, chest, waist, hips, thighs and calves. The leg measurements, the thighs and calves, count as four measurements, one of each for each leg.

I lost 6.5 inches off my waist. I went from a 62 (that was the trainer’s guess as he didn’t have a measuring tape long enough) to a 54. I lost another 7 inches off my shoulders. Total inch loss: 19.25 inches.

And I am ashamed on a very fundamental level. Not because I lost this, but because of how much more I could have lost. I didn’t try as hard as I could have or apply myself to the fullest extent. I got by because I saw my coworkers were winning us the fight and I was okay with just so.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This weekend, I went to St. Louis with five coworkers, including my boss. The car ride to and from St. L was with my boss and another coworker, both of whom were in the MMM. Both were adamant that I had to not let this die and not just drift through this (and I am grateful to them for both their concern, their encouragement and the degree to how persuasive they are trying to be). I’ve already joined up at the gym and will continue to do what’s good for me because I want to, not out of some sense of obligation or competition.

But first…

“Mastery” or “Sunshine”

Last night I was attempting to sleep, as is my custom. The attempting is the custom. Not the sleeping. Although I do that often too. Anyway, I was trying to sleep when who should enter the equation…

Cyrus has, for the most part, been synchronized to my sleep schedule. So usually, when I am:

Cyrus is:

Though occasionally it’s more of this:

Anyway, I was trying to sleep and Cyrus jumped up on the bed. Instead of trying to eat my feet, however, he jumped up on my tummy and:

Totally unexpected.

I was kinda afraid to move him for a bit, but then I realized that I need to be on my side to fall asleep, so Cyrus got evicted down to normal bed level. Depending on his placement on the bed (i.e. how far towards the middle of the bed as opposed to towards the foot), he can end up owning about about 1/3 to 1/2 of the bed.

I related this to a coworker today. She, quite astutely noted that I am not the master of the house. Oh well.

Moving on, I hear some of you (read: Sue and Emily) are currently missing out on this thing we call Springtime. I feel bad for you (no really, I do), so I decided to bring you some sunshine. Enjoy: