ProtusMose.com

So, I’m definitely overdue for an entry. I sincerely apologize to all my readers (read: myself) for the lack of updates recently.

We’re going to file this one halfway between life and rantings, as it cross between the two.

First, life. The teeth are doing well. I had one site that lost a stitch early on. No dry socket or anything like that, but food is having an awful easy time of finding its way into the whole, so it’s a pain to keep clean. It’s better than the alternative, though.

Our daughter is still afraid of the rocking horse we gave her for Christmas; although, she has begun playing with it occasionally. Still, just yesterday, she asked me, “Daddy, will you kill my horse, please?” Where does a two year old come up with that? Guess I’ll have to cut back on the Scarface marathons.

Now, we’ll move onto a life/rant combo platter. Work has become unbearable. I love the company. I love the people I work with. I’ve completely grown out of my position, however, and there appears to be no escape in the near future. I’m more valuable to this company than anyone other than my manager realizes. There should be a bidding war from other departments fighting over who gets to promote me. Nevertheless, I continue to be passed over. I’ve begun looking at other firms and recently applied for a great job a friend recommended to me. We’ll keep praying and see how that turns out.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The rant. This is directly squarely at the men of the world, particularly while at work. These are the rules of the men’s restroom. Study carefully and abide at all times.

#1. Walk in and proceed directly to urinal.
Should be self-explanatory. Find your spot and go there. Your spot should be your spot and not adjacent to someone else’s spot, if at all possible. See here if you have any questions. It is important to note that if all urinals are occupied, use a stall. Under no circumstances should someone finish and turn around to find you waiting for their urinal.

#2. Proceed to handle business in the standard fashion.
That’s feet at shoulder spacing, hands on equipment or nearby, eyes straight ahead or downward, mister. Under no circumstances should there be any touching of someone whilst in the act. No funny business at the urinal. No leaning against the wall for support with one hand above your head. If you’re too tired to stand still for 19 seconds, go to a stall and take a break. No hands in the pocket, or on your hips. The “Look, ma, no hands!” technique does not fly in public.

#3. Close up shop and proceed directly to the sink.

#4. Wash, with soap, dry, and leave the room.
This should not have to be told to anyone over the age of eight, yet, daily, I see disgusting adults finish using the restroom then walk right out. The inside door handle of a bathroom has got to be the most disgusting item in the whole room. After washing, it’s always wise to bring a paper towel to open the door, lest ye leave with someone else’s crotch on your hands.

Had all four wisdom teeth taken out this morning. Luckily my whole jaw is still numb so I’m not really in any pain (hunger pangs aside). I’m down 2 1/2 lbs since this morning, so this will be an excellent kick start to this weight loss routine. :\

Speaking of, public goals are nice ways to stay accountable, so I will offer this one for everyone who reads this to see. (Yes, that means just me.)

205lbs by March 1. I was 223.6 this morning, so that’s 2.34 lb per week. It’s an aggressive goal, but not unrealistic. We’ll see how it goes.

Today was a bad day. No one knows it but me; but, it was bad nonetheless. I feel like I should be “over it” by now. We lost the last baby in March. Isn’t nine months enough healing time that the unexpected cry of a newborn shouldn’t bring me to tears? It does. Especially at work. If I’m going somewhere I know there’s going to be (or a high potential of there being) a baby, I can brace myself for it. When I’m not expecting it, like at a white collar job, it catches me off guard and shakes me. Badly. Internally, I get angry at the mother for bringing the baby to work. I know it’s wrong and I brought my kid to work to show her off, but I just don’t want to see it. I hate being ambushed by babies. My chest feels like it’s going to cave in and my gut feels like I just took a canon ball. In most cases, the whole day is ruined. I’m resigned to mope around, while pretending not to mope. I do a pretty good job, I think. No one notices, which is just as well. If I hear “everything happens for a reason” one more time, I’m likely to throw up in my mouth.

RIP, kiddo. I’ll see you in 60 years or so. We’ll hang out. Promise.

That is all.