In Other News
Beware the Angry Butt
I was a bit... ah... gaseous the other day, and when Zoe asked me "What wrong, Daddy?" I told her I had an angry butt. Now she's obsessed.
"Doggie have an angry butt, Daddy? ... He goin' to the angry butt doctor? ... Mommy have an angry butt? ... Angry butt coming, Daddy? ... Angry butt doctor goin' to check you out?" etc...
Be careful what you tell a two year old.
Tuesday - 8/18/98
A New Look
Welcome to the unveiling of the new and improved chuck'stake. I told you I was getting bored with the old design, didn't I? I haven't updated for the past few days because I've been working on the new design, at least that's my excuse this time around. In any event, you're looking at the end result of far too many hours spent monkeying around with this thing. I may not be good as web designers go but, damn it, I'm slow!
But I pay for my art. Oh yes I do. I'm an invalid now. I've never had much experience with back problems, just the occasional twinge when I lift something heavy the wrong way, but I'm making up for lost time now. My back is a mess; I can hardly move. All these hours spent working on this site hunched over the keyboard in a cheapo chair at an anti-ergonomic desk have me in knots. And I did it all for you. Well, yeah, there's also the 20+ hours I spent writing that Outlook class, but where's the art in that?
It's about halfway down from my shoulderblades, that twitchy band of muscles is, right where you never notice them until they demand to be noticed. I never noticed them; hell, I didn't even know they were there. I know now. I can't sit up straight, I can't walk right, I can't pick Zoe up...basically, I can't do a damn thing except try to find a position that doesn't hurt and even that hurts. I'm useless. And so I'm going to do something I never thought I'd do: I'm going to a chiropractor. I'm skipping the M.D. because it hurts, damn it, and I know they're just going to waste my time:
"How about some nice Tylenol?" asks the kindly doctor.
No thanks, I haven't got time for the pain. Instead, I'm going to a practitioner of the red-headed stepchild of modern medicine, hoping for a magic bullet. I suspect it's going to be much like the MD's office would be but with a bit more activity and laying on of hands before they break out the Tylenol, but there's this irrational little part of me that's hoping it'll be crack-crack-crack and then I'll feel better than I have in years. What the hell, it's better than sleeping on the floor, which is what I'll be doing tonight.
"How about a swift kick in the head?" I respond, grimacing.
"Well, I suppose I could go out on a limb and suggest you try a heating pad," the doc says nervously, glancing about in fear that the HMO might hear him coming dangerously close to practicing medicine.
Exit Chuck, stage left, the doctor's office a smoking ruin and my back flaring even more.