It's been a busy week, so now I'm sitting here, waiting for a plumber. We are having a tankless water heater installed, preparatory to delivery of a new washer & dryer. That's the way the money goes.

Had my teeth cleaned today, so my dentition has that exquisite ache that outlines each tooth. I am not such a weenie that I need nitrous for a cleaning, but BOY, that Cavitron thingie really sends me 'round the bend. It's like thousands of ants scraping their mandibles on thousands of tiny blackboards. In your head. It is essentially an ultrasonic jackhammer.

The weatherman that lives in my forehead lets me know a front is moving through. Another pain.

--------------------------------------------

I have had my first real troll this week. People with personal axes to grind need not apply.
I am very curious, though, when the sea-change happened in the workplace. pre-Sixties, it seems, the rule of work etiquette was: Work talk at work, personal palaver on your own time.
You could mumph about "that darn Anderson account" all you wanted, but home and family stuff was kept there at home, beyond the most perfunctory "How's the Missus, and the kids? Is Johnny over the mumps?". Much has been said about the "hypocrisy" of having a "work-face" and a "home-face", but it seems to me that there was less trouble back when there was clearer delineation of one's roles in life. Fewer illicit office dalliances, besides less time-wasting jabber all around. Muzak may have it's detractors, but the endless lite-rock radio stations pumped into the office with sex, sex, romance, love affair, "if lovin' you is wrong" as the message du jour is a distraction. I don't see how ANY work gets done.

----------------------------------------

This Aardvark is not a prude. I just have a case of the wistfuls for when work was work, and not an endless Oprah/Dr.Phil/Maury fest.

The Aardvark is, however, in pain, and thus grumpy.