School year’s almost over.  Ya know how I can tell?  Sissy has started reading an Agatha Christie murder mystery in literature class.

Really?! 

I mean…it’s not as bad as if she were reading old Archie comic books, but it almost is.   [Agatha Christie fans, please do not contact me.  I’m just funnin’ with ya.  Ms. Christie was a quality writer who demonstrated great insight into the murderous human psyche.  But really, what she has to do with sixth grade lit class, I just don’t know.  As for the Archie comic books fans?  You also should not contact me.  But in your case, I’m totally serious; that stuff was crap.  And that part where Archie started dating Josie from Josie and the Pussycats?  Barf.  Jump the shark much?  And a way better title for that comic book series would have been, “Boy gingers don’t make good comic book heroes.”]

Anywho.  The title of the book Sissy is reading is, “And Then There Were None.”  When she got home from school today, she was so excited about it that she had to read the opening poem to me.  It’s about ten soldier boys.  Something happens to each one along the way… AND THEN (eventually) THERE WERE NONE!

Me to Sissy:  Huhn.  You know what’s weird about that?  Back when I was your age, I remember the poem being about Indians.  In fact, I remember the book being called something else.  Something like, “Ten Little Indians.”  But I suppose that’s not politically correct anymore. 

Sissy, acting surprised that I actually know sh*t about sh*t, explained that yes, the book was called “Ten Little Indians” at one point.  But prior to THAT, the poem it was based on was originally called “Ten Little Niggers.”

Ok.  That veered waaaaaay south.

And again, I say unto you, what does any of this have to do with sixth grade lit class?  “Ten Little NIGGERS?!??”  Holy Politically Incorrect, Batman! 

But speaking of Agatha Christie, does anyone else remember, as a tween, sitting at the kitchen table listening to their two older sisters argue about a DIFFERENT Agatha Christie book, “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd?”  Remember how one sister blurted out that the narrator did it – and effectively ruined the entire book for not only the sister she had been quarreling with, but also the sweet, kind, loving (not to mention totally cute-as-a-button) tween sister sitting at the kitchen table?!?!!

No?  You don’t remember any of that?!?  Hmmm.  You must have completely forgotten about it just like your mother said you would after she came to smooth over the ruined-Agatha-Christie-book-situation between your older sisters.

Yep.  Must’ve completely forgotten about it.  Phew.  That was a close one.

I view hardware stores the same way some people view Pinterest:  All the great ideas for cute projects you’ve ever had or seen, all waiting in one place.  Just waiting until you have enough time and money to do them all.  In other words, when you’re dead.  And that’s why there’s a LOT of rich-but-decomposing people in the hardware store.  Hyuck-hyuck-hyuck!

Back when there were no other hardware stores in the world, I called my favorite one Home Despot.  They knew they were the only game in town and could lord it over you.  And be completely unhelpful and nondescriptive.  For example, they would post signs like: Topsoil – 5 for $10.

5 WHAT, ya jerks?  5 DOLLARS of topsoil for 10 dollars?!?  5 GIRTH UNITS of topsoil?!?  Annoying. 

But since Lowes came to town and shot Home Depot down, Dr. Pepper fixed him up and now they’re after 7-Up.  The result?  Home Depot’s topsoil signage has gotten better.  Competition always brings out a humbler, gentler, more descriptive Home Depot.

But I digress.  Where I was really headed with all the Home Depot talk is that I still go there sometimes.  Old habits die hard.  Recently I was looking for unfinished wooden boxes.  Don’t ask!  See great ideas/cute projects above.  A man in blue work coveralls was coming in from the outdoor garden section – which is where I was headed – and he asked if he could help me.  The welcome guy at the store entrance I had been speaking to earlier was following behind me, so I thanked Coveralls but said I was already being helped.

Welcome Guy and I never did find the boxes, but I did find $25 worth of OTHER great ideas and when I was checking out, I saw Coveralls again.  Also checking out.  In the self-check aisle.  He was shoving spraypaint in a bag and glancing at me over his shoulder.  And wearing blue work coveralls. 

Did you know that ACTUAL workers at Home Depot wear crisp orange aprons?

That’s it.  That’s all I wanted to say. 

And to answer the question, it’s 5 BAGS of topsoil for $10.  That’s a pretty good price.  You should get some.

We Catholics do this fun thing the week before Easter.  We put on a play. 

But I somehow miss that Palm Sunday casting call every year, so I’m stuck in the General Ensemble with the rest of the rabble-rousers.  The priest, on the other hand, always gets the leading role.  (I suspect it’s because he’s the only one who can pronounce Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani.)

Anyway, the rabble-rousers have to shout horrible things at the priest-playing-Jesus like, “Crucify him!” and “Give us Barabbas!”

It’s just dreadful.  And I feel so awful doing it, that I read the lines straight.  No emotion, no nuthin’.  But there’s always a few in the crowd who get a liiiiiittle too into it.  Uh…we’re working for free here, so settle down.

That sort of thing goes on for a good long while.  It’s a regular adventure – complete with swordplay, roosters crowing (glad I didn’t get THAT part) and some business about 30 silver shekels and a potter’s field (glad I didn’t get THAT part either!).  Then darkness covers the land.  The crucifixion we called for earlier has come to pass and a stone is rolled in front of Jesus’ tomb; Roman soldiers are set as guards.

And?

-END SCENE!-

WHAT?!? 

[sigh]

So frustrating.  We never do end that scene on a high note even though we’ve been putting on this play for a number of years now.

How does it end?  HOW does it END?!?

Nope.  You’re left hanging [bad Judas Iscariot pun, please disregard] and invited to come back NEXT Sunday to find out how it ends. 

And that NEXT Sunday?  THAT’S the best part.  That’s when the Easter Bunny comes and brings you candy.

See?  Isn’t that the BEST?!!  YAY!  You have jelly beans now!  And chocolate!!

And everyone’s acting like no one heard anyone (including the overzealous wackjobs in the back) shouting, “CRUCIFY HIM, CRUCIFY HIM!”  Like all of that has been forgiven or somethin’. 

The only thing that could POSSIBLY make Easter Sunday any better than it already is, is finding out how last week’s play ends.

***SPOILER ALERT!***Jesus rises from the dead.

ALLELUIA!

NOW end scene.  And Happy Easter.

Do you know what “WPM” means?  If you graduated from college in the early 1990’s and had to get a temp-to-perm job through Manpower, then you are thoroughly versed in WPM.

Words per minute.  As in: how many of them can you type.

Remember those old typing tests?!  Manpower was famous for them.

They’d have you use some inane “sample paragraph” with little numbers under all the words.  [I was a personal fan of “When my teacher scolded me,” but I always felt “A visit to an exhibition” coulda used a little work.]

Your Career Counselor would yell “Go!” and start the stopwatch.  You’d furiously thunk away on actual paper with no spell check or opportunity to correct your work.

And the kick in the pants (or should I say the kick in the suntan-colored hose and Kasper suit?) would be that your nerves caused your fingers to go one key “off.”  Turns out you could type 60 words of gobbledygook per minute back when that meant something.

Flash forward to a new century, and check out this “Skills and Qualifications” gem I recently came across on a job application  [above].

Where did these questions come from?!  We’re not asking any of these questions anymore – including the WPM one.

In which case, I think my answer speaks for itself.

Also?  I don’t think I’ll get the job.

All that talk about the roaring 20’s yesterday gave me a hankerin’ for a gin martini.  Daisy and Tom say “hi” by the way.

Obscure literary reference aside, actually it was the boop boop-ee doop thing that started me thinking of something else…

Back when I had a job (THANKS FOR BRINGING IT UP!  stink eye, stink eye) there was a time when several colleagues in my group worked remotely – in some combination of home or regional offices.  In other words, there were plenty of us who weren’t located at the Mothership…er…company headquarters.

This life-goes-on-outside-the-Mothership was such a bizarre concept for those employees who had been fully subsumed into the Borg that they had to come up with a name for us to fully encapsulate our appalling, renegade spirit.  The name?  Remotees.

I know you were trying to make US sound like robots to deflect some of the robot talk from your ownselves, ya Borgy Borgers!

But we Remotees fully embraced the term.  And even went so far as to make the title completely soul-less by eliminating names and instead giving ourselves numbers.  I was Remotee Three. 

And whenever we needed to ping each other during work via instant messaging, we would have some fun with it, “Remotee Three requests access to Remotee Four.  Please respond, Remotee Four.”  And we would throw in “beep boop” or similar roboty noise-words to add to the fun. 

Mostly this “instant chat” stuff would go on during conference calls being led by the Borg at the Mothership.

One such time, when I pinged Remotee Four, he responded with, “Remotee Four present and accounted for.  Interface granted.” 

But instead of the expected “beep boop,” he made a typo and what actually appeared on the screen was, “beep, boob!”  Change that p to a b and it becomes a whole different show, doesn’t it? 

At which point I begin laughing.  So I type back wondering why that particular word got spell-corrected.  Did he use that word often?!? 

He types back, “yes!” and the hilarity level escalates from there.

We’re typing back-and-forth.  I’m laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face.  I can barely breathe, when my manager calls on me with a question.

I’d been on “mute” this whole time.  So when I take myself off “mute” the only noise that comes out is fffwheeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEP!    [picture pinching/pulling the opening of a blown-up balloon so it makes that gawd-awful screeching noise.  Yeah.  It was exactly like that.]

Pull UP!  PULL UP!!!  But I quickly realize I can’t recover from this nosedive, so I hit the “Disconnect” button on my phone.  When I catch my breath, I dial back into the conference call and act like I’d been talking the whole time, “and so those would be some quick ideas off the top of my head…”

At which point, my manager is yelling something about “didn’t catch that…technical difficulties!  Start again, please.”  And so I start in again.  This time from the top.

Why won’t anyone hire me?!  As you can see, I’m fun and creative.  I think quickly on my feet.  

Remotee Three available for work.  Beep, boob!

“Grand” is a misnomer.  “Grand” makes me think Flappers are standing on some rocky ledge doin’ the Charleston while dapper fellas in jaunty hats stand behind them belting down drinks named “highball” and “sidecar.”  In general , everyone’s havin’ a GRAND time.  Boop boop-ee doop!

But that would be WRONG!  Because when I was there a few weeks ago, there wasn’t a Flapper in sight.  And that canyon is BIIIIIG.  And DEEP!  With lots and lots of rocks!!!   

So perhaps it shoulduv been more aptly named  “Rocky” Canyon?  Naw.  Maybe “Big and Deep” Canyon??  Or how’s about “Deep and Wide” Canyon?!?  THAT has a nice ring to it.  THAT, I could get behind.  Because a Canyon that’s Deep and Wide would most likely have milk and honey on the other side.  In which case, I’m in!

But “Deep and Wide” still seems too kinder-and-gentler for what that canyon really is.  Because what it really is?  Is just plain scary.  Scary as a sumbitch.

Scary Canyon.  Yep.  NOW I’m in.  Scary Canyon where you too can have a frightening, nerve-racking time!

And you thought I hated skiing…but what I really hate is heights.  (And spiders, but that’s another show.)  And the Scary Canyon has a LOT of heights.  So many heights that you start to feel like you might “accidentally” fall right in.  As a result of a good, hard shove…or because of some unintended tripping…or even due to an incident involving a combination of melon head/gravity/leaning-too-far.  And then you’d boing! boing! bounce all the way down those rocky outcrops ‘til there’s cantaloupe splattered EVERYWHERE.

And that trick I developed to gain some perspective when I’m feeling too high up?  That trick of only looking as far as the tips of my skis instead of ALLLLLL the way down, down, down?!?  That trick doesn’t work at Scary Canyon.  Because there are no skis there.

You know what else they don’t have at Scary Canyon??  Silence.  Particularly in my group.  Because in my group, there was a lot of yelling.  By someone.  Directed at other someones who were getting too close to the edge.  Or WALKING BACKWARDS DOWN SOME STUPID TRAIL WAAAAAY TOO CLOSE TO THE EDGE.  GET AWAY FROM THE EDGE!!  STOP IT NOW!!!  GET AWAY FROM THE EDGE!!!  YOU’RE GONNA DIE!  WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!! 

See what I mean?  There was a LOT of yelling.  By someone.

And creeping.  Or we could even use the word “sidling” here.  Because how many times in your life do you actually GET to use the word sidling?!?  Sidling.  Sidling.  Did I spell that right?  Sidling.  Is it starting to sound weird to anyone else?  Sidling.  Sidling.  Does ‘sidling’ make anyone else think of ‘foundling’: a baby who doesn’t have parents BECAUSE THEY FELL IN THE SCARY CANYON!!! 

Ok.  Pull back.  Deep breaths.  I was just simply noting that there is LOTS of sidling at the Scary Canyon.  Sidling along the OTHER side of the path; the side of the path FURTHEST away from the edge.  With your head turned completely AWAY from viewing any possible milk and honey nonsense.  And stay low.  Whatever you do, STAY LOW!!!  Bend yourself completely in half if you have to!  Duck walk.  Hold on to tall grasses and scrubby pines to anchor yourself as you inch along!  Whatever you gotta do because that incessant wind will most likely blow your light-as-a-feather a$$ right over the side if you don’t STAY LOW!!!

To make matters worse, during my visit to the Scary Canyon, I had the GRANDEST zit on my chin.  It was sooo GRAND that Sonny kept saying, “Mom!  What IS that on your chin??  EVERYONE’S looking at it!!”

Really?  REALLY??!  Everyone here at SCARY CANYON was looking at my CHIN??? 

Quite possibly.  Because that thing was HUGE.  It was almost like a second head, but slightly smaller and redder, coming out of my chin.  BOOM-boom-boom…BOOM-boom-boom… [That was my panic.  Throbbing with every beat of my heart.  In my chin.]

So there you have it.  Some friendly advice for when you go to the Scary Canyon.  Please leave the second-head-on-your-chin at home.  Because it just attracts too much attention to all the sidling and yelling. 

In summation, it’s best to view the Scary Canyon from the parking lot.  A mile away.  While lying flat on your belly. 

But go if you can.  Because it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  It rocks!  hee hee hee.  See what I did there?  ROCKS?!?  Boop boop-ee doop!

A friend was over the other night and was talking about Sonny’s deskcapade in all its gory glory.  [See the thrilling details for your ownself here:  https://newstayathomemom.com/?p=2994]

Sissy was puzzled about why this friend would know all about the incident since we hadn’t seen the friend in some time.  So we explained that I had blogged about it, and the friend had read the blog.

You could just see Sissy’s thought process from there:  Sonny is a complete APE and he gets blogged about?!  And I’m the best girl who ever lived and no one says “boo” about it??  Oh the injustice!   Unfair…UNFAIR!!! 

But that’s the way life is.  Do-good/are-good, straight-A students who are great at every sport they ever play sometimes go unnoticed.  Trust me, I know of which I speak.  Wink, wink.

Bless our…er…their good-girl overachieving souls, but sometimes the bad-boy shock factor makes for a more interesting clusterbomb story. 

However, the concern has been duly noted.  And to balance out the blog, and show her how much I love her, I will now talk about Sissy’s most embarrassing moment. 

We were at the airport waiting to board a plane.  I was sitting in the waiting area.  Hubby was in line near the gate.  Sissy and Sonny were off doing their own thing.  (Hey!  I was watching them.  But letting them burn off some energy a goodly distance away from me.  I may have been giving off an I-don’t-know-who-those-kids-are-but-they-must-have-terrible-parents-to-let-them-run-around-like-that sort of vibe.)

Then I see Sissy break away from Sonny and go up to a completely strange man sitting in the boarding area reading a book.  I wondered what she’s doing, but before I could react, she puts her chin on the man’s shoulder.  And the arm she had been snaking around his neck drifts up to rub his bald head.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  She asks, “Whatchya readin’, Dad?”  And then the man whose-head-she’s-been-rubbing turns towards her.

It wasn’t Dad, was it? 

Nope. 

So Sissy stumbles away like she’s been kidney punched; she’s shaky on her legs and her mouth is open in a silent “oh!” of utter shock.

I thought it was hysterical.  Then again, I’m mean like that.  But I did tell the man we were, “so sorry.” Not really because that was totally funny.  I’m still laughing. 

But see?  Good girls DO sometimes have bad stories.  And that head rubbing, watchya reading trick?  Hang on to that one, Sweetie.  Because that’ll come in handy when you get to college.  That’s when good girls usually go bad.

No reason really, just sayin’.

I don’t know what YOU were thinking this blog was gonna be about; but you are a dirty bird, so I can guess. 

In which case, just to set sexpectations, it’s about job interviews.  But since your mind is in the gutter, you probably misread that sentence and thought for a second I said SEXpectations instead of “set EXpectations.”  Creep.

Anyway…I told the kids this morning that I was going for an interview.  To which Sonny replied, “Wait!  Will you be able to pick us up after school and make us dinner?!” 

I wasn’t sure if his question was referring to today, the interview day; or if it was a more long-term, far-reaching impact question.  As in, “If you DO get the job you’re interviewing for today, will you still be able to pick us up after school and make us dinner until we learn how to drive and/or get married??”

But as I’ve learned from skiing, don’t think longterm.  Short-sighted is the way to go.  It’s best not to look past the tip of your skis as you’re coming off the chairlift.  Because if you do look, you’re stunned into immobility because you realize how high up you actually are.  And how far down you actually have to go.

With this in mind Thank you, skiing.  Turns out you are good for something, including my new-found life philosophy of not looking beyond the moment because otherwise, it scares the sh^# out of me. I interpret Sonny’s question as a “right now, this moment-in-time” sort of ask. 

Also?  A ride and food?!?  Good to know someone has their priorities straight.

So I reply, “Yes.  But is that all I am to you?!  I was telling you this because I’m kinda nervous and I thought you could help me feel better about things.”

So they all cluster around and do their very best to allay my anxiety. 

Hubby, for example, tells me to just have fun with it.  Then he hugs me and reaches around to squeeze my a$$.  When I jolt and try to pull away, he explains that what he’s doing is akin to acupuncture.  Everyone knows THESE wucka, wucka, wah-Ah, Ah-ah [those were a$$cheek squeezing noises by the way] are pressure points on the human body and touching them wucka, wucka, wah-Ah, Ah-ah releases endorphins and relieves stress. 

Oh.  Ok.  Frankly, it didn’t do a thing for me, but he had a big smile on his face when he pulled away. 

Sissy didn’t say anything as she took his place in the hug line.  But by the way she was swallowing, I could tell she didn’t want me to get the job almost as much as I don’t want to get the job.  So she just hugged me in her pubescent I-think-I’m-getting-too-old-to-hug-my-mother sort of way and moved off.  But having her fresh, freckle face so close to mine for that brief second actually did make me feel better.  Until I remember how I used to have a fresh, freckle face of my own.  BACK WHEN I DIDN’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT JOBS!!!  And we’re back to square one.

But not for long because Sonny comes in for his own hug.  And having his sturdy arms around me is a treat.  Then – as if he will shortly be imparting his usual out-of-the-mouths-of-babes brand of wisdom, he smiles at me and says, “Two words, Mom….

KNIFE FISTS!!!!”  And starts jamming his pointified fingers into my ribs. 

Thanks, everyone.  I feel much better about things.  Glad we had this talk.

P.S.  Don’t know nothin’ ’bout no knife fists, you say?  Knife Fists 101 can be found here – https://newstayathomemom.com/?p=2490

Make a scene
Let them know what you really mean
And dance all night, keep the beat
And don’t you worry ’bout two left feet…

Why yes, those are the lyrics to that 1981 song by the Cars titled “Shake It Up” from their album of the same name. 

Is it in your head yet?!

‘Cause it’s in mine.  And I wanted to share the wealth.  I’m nice like that.  A true giver, really.

Also?  You have been SCHOOLED, Son!  You have been SCHOOLED in this “80’s song for every moment in life” game that we play.  I have SCHOOLED you; and you have been SCHOOLED!

But where I was really going with all of this is that I have GOT to tell you about the most bizarre business-y behavior I have ever witnessed.

I was at a fundraising event.  It was at an outdoors walk-a-thon being held in a park adjacent to a kiddie amusement area (complete with rides, snacks, birthday parties blah, blah, blah).  And when the walk was over, I spotted a man standing in the crowd whose right hand was covered with a plastic bag.  He was chatting to people.  AND PEOPLE WERE SHAKING HIS HAND!  WHICH WAS COVERED BY A PLASTIC BAG!!

As I eventually understood it – when he had arrived at the walk, he had seen cotton candy for sale at the amusement area and had gotten a bag of it.  A grown man, eating a whole bag of cotton candy in the 88-degree heat in sunny Phoenix, AZ during a fundraising walk, subsequently came down with a severe case of Sticky Hand Syndrome.  So to protect everyone in the vicinity from inadvertently shaking his sticky hand, he then covered it with the empty cotton candy bag when he was done.

BUT PEOPLE SHOOK HIS STICKY, PLASTIC-BAG COVERED HAND ANYWAY!!!

Did I mention that already?  Seems like I may have.  In which case:  What. The. Hell!?!

That was full-on wack, and I can’t figure out why people would be shaking the hand…of a man…whose hand…was covered with a plastic bag…and was clearly OFF-LIMITS…for shaking!!!

But I have some theories, none of which make any sense:

1. Did people think the man had a painful medical condition being protected by the bag?  Uh…then why are you SHAKING THE HAND of a man WITH A PAINFUL MEDICAL CONDITION!!  On his HAND?!?   
2. Or perhaps these people thought he had a communicable disease and was pioneering some inexpensive “hand rubber” concept??  In which case, you deserve whatever Scabies you get, ya moron!
3. Conversely, perhaps HE could have been trying not to catch whatever OTHERS had on their hand.  Because Godonlyknowswhereyourhandhasbeen!
4. Was Bag Man playing the part of Curley in “Of Mice and Men” and was taking the glove-full-of-vaseline, keeping-his-hand-soft-for-his-wife character flaw a bit too seriously?!?  Ewwww!  You’re completely gross!  Either way, WHY ARE YOU SHAKING THAT SOFT LITTLE HAND?!!
5. Maybe some folks thought he had just had a hand transplant?  And they wanted to show him how cool and accepting they were of his new hand??  Come ON!  THINK ABOUT IT!!  If he had just had a hand transplant, the last place he would be, would be a fundraising walk!  With his new hand protected by nothing more than a crappy plastic bag with COTTON CANDY CALORIE INFORMATION clearly printed on it! 

And quite frankly, I don’t really care WHAT you were thinking when you shook the hand-in-the-bag.  It was weird.  You are weird.  Always, ALWAYS think before you shake.

Speaking of which…

Shake it up oo-oo
Shake it up oo-yeah
Shake it up oo-oo

[how ‘bout now?!]

I start out the chiropractor appointment with, “My crochet elbow isn’t getting better, Doc.  It now connects from a spot in my neck, through to my shoulder-blade and all the way down to my elbow.  I think it’s because I hold my fingers like this when I crochet.” [I’m now pointing a left-handed finger gun at him.  Cool, right?]

He looks at me kinda puzzled [was it that part about: the neckbone connects to the backbone, dem bones dem bones gonna walk around that threw him off?] but then he says, “Actually I’ve had truckers with this same problem.”  Oh?  Do tell.  “They point their finger when they shift their rig.  It causes an injury with the tendons on the front of the elbow which connect to the muscles of the forearm.  Lie down.”

Then he proceeds to touch my boobs to see if they hurt too.  KIDDING!  Jeez, I was totally kidding!!

But he does have me lie flat on a massage bed while he attaches some electrodes to my forearm.  And I find out after he’s left the room, and I’m fixing my ponytail-made-uncomfortable-due-to-the-prone-position, that he also stuck a piece of metal in my head.  Stop surprising me like THAT with the acupuncture needles, already!!!

When he comes back to check on me, I ask him what’s up with the needle in my head?!  And he explains that it’s to tap into my relaxation centers.  Uh…weird much?  He mentions that this is the one treatment he does to his wife to relax her.  Weirder and weirder.  When I ask if he does it without her knowledge too, he just looks down at me with a lopsided grin and extends his arm like an olde tyme gent requesting a stroll.  Weird Level One-thousand-and-one! 

After he helps me up, we go into the treatment room and he proceeds to strip my elbow tendons. 

MO*%^$ FU#^&*!!! 

Do you remember that time when you were two weeks overdue with your 9 ½ pound firstborn?  Mommy wants to meet you.  So…GET. OUT.  ALREADY!!!  And the OB/GYN “stripped your membranes” to encourage labor??  Yeah, remember that?!?  And then you kicked her teeth out because of the exponential pain factor??!!!

Yeah.  It was just like that.  ‘Cept in this instance I woulda PUNCHED the doctor’s teeth out if he hadn’tuv been holding on to my punching device with a firm grip while PRESSING all of the very SOREST spots.

Gaaaah!  GAAAAH!!!! Can’t.  Take.  Much…more……

And then it’s over.    

When I come out of the office to find that someone has rear-ended my car in the parking lot and pushed it a good three feet, I’m surprisingly calm about the whole thing.  And my arm feels amazeballs!!

Huh.  Maybe there is something to that metal-in-the-head approach, afterall.  In fact, I now recommend it to everyone.  Barkeep: a round of head metal for allll my friends!!!