Monday Musings: Tetanus Shots, Houses and the King of Pop

I don't care if I blogged yesterday. I'm blogging today as well. I want to get back to my regularly scheduled blogs, even if no one is clamouring to read them. I haven't been able to write for a while and if blogging is the only way to fulfill that need in me then so be it.

It's strange to be back in the office today. We were out for the entire week last week. It's almost like that strange week that follows Christmas: You know that the big event has happened and it's a little bit of a letdown at the same time as a bit of a relief.

At the moment, as much as I need that ever-important paycheck, part of me is annoyed that work is interfering with my new house. I want to be down there, finishing up the masking so I can get started on the painting. I want to be taking another load of boxes so I can see that slowly, but surely, I am actually moving.

That'll have to wait until tonight or tomorrow. I haven't decided if I'm going to drive down tonight or wait until tomorrow evening. I think it just depends on how I feel. I managed to have a nice "welcome to your home" event on Saturday night. Even though I had vacuumed the carpet in my family room a couple of times and shampooed the carpet, I managed to find a sewing needle. With my foot. I was barefoot. I figured the triple hoovering plus carpet shampoo would have unmasked all the hidden dangers and rather than risk getting my clean carpet dirty with my shoes, I'd take them off.

Bad idea. The needle broke off into my foot. It hurt. As much as I try to avoid doctors unless absolutely necessary, the inability to find the needle on my own led to a trip to Urgent Care, a tetanus shot, a course of antibiotics and a rather painful digging out of the needle. Still, it's out. It was a rusty needle, of course, because if you're going to step on a needle in your new house, it's best to make it as dramatic as possible.

I'm very grateful that it went into my heel; it means I can still hobble around. It doesn't actually hurt much unless I try to walk on it. Fortunately, it didn't inhibit my work on my house yesterday. It's hard to keep a determined Monkeypants down.

I think I'm experiencing House Obsession. This means all I can think about is the house. I keep thinking of things I need to do, things I need. Sadly, most of it will have to be purchased in phases since my cute little salary doesn't allow for too many extraneous purchases. Not that I'm complaining. I have a cute little salary. That's definitely something to be grateful for in this economy.

Still, I have to work today so the house will have to be filed away in my mind until I'm ready to pull it back out and afford the time to think about it. It's been a week since I was in the office and what a long, strange week it's been. I'm not even talking about the conference although having seen some of my coworkers in photos, dancing in a cage on the night I missed was a little strange.

I'm talking about the week in which we lost Michael Jackson. I don't think there's a person in my generation who doesn't have some connection with the King of Pop. For me, it was my childhood years. I had a very enthusiastic P.E. teacher who had a thing for dancing. Every school play we did in my junior school years in England had some element of dancing in it. It never really fit but it was there. My year, we were doing "Harlequinade," which was an adaptation of the classic Commedia dell'arte piece. There were ghosts in the play. I think they were supposed to be the classic "boo!" type ghosts but not in my year. Nope, our P.E. teacher took it upon himself to choreagraph a dance to Michael Jackson's, "Thriller," and teach it to us. Because I could actually sort of move to the beat- this was prior to my chair-boogie flail-dancing years- I was chosen as a ghost. We didn't do The Actual Thriller Dance. No, we did a sort of stiff British School Children version in which we tried to do parts of the Actual Thriller Dance but given that we were nine, it wasn't exactly what you'd call....coordinated.

Yet, every time I hear "Thriller," I think of that play. I also think of my neighbour across the street, a year older than me, a year younger than my brother and a friend to us both. He was a big Michael Jackson fan, even having the gloves and jacket. He swore that when he grew up, he'd be Michael Jackson's friend. He had the singles on the day they came out. He knew the words to every song. I haven't seen him in many years and I won't lie and say I don't wonder about him and his little brother from time to time. When you grow up on a suburban street full of kids and you play with them almost every day, they leave an impression.

I think Michael Jackson left a big impression on us all. If we forget the weirdness of his most recent years, what's left standing is a man who could make music that gave us memories. I hear "Bad," and I think of a summer in which my dad blasted the album while we played volleyball and badminton on our garden set after eating barbecued steaks. There are artists that make noise and there are artists that make music. Regardless of his personal choices, no one can deny that Michael Jackson was not a true icon, the Elvis Presley of the children of the 1980's.

Last week was a strange week. This week is just starting. It's hard to tell what it has in store but I'm sure I'll let you know. Thanks, as always, for reading.

Happy Monday.