One of my most enthusiastic and upbeat posts.
I have been sick as a dog and I haven’t seen the sun in weeks, so it wouldn’t surprise me if my blog posts have tended more toward the dark side of late. I wouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t work up the energy to look, so I’ll just cover my bases and extend my apologies. Rest assured that I will snap out of it eventually.
In the meantime, I strongly encourage you to check out my blog post entitled, “Congratulations, You’re Alive!” I think it’s one of my most optimistic and upbeat posts, and it’s one I revisit quite often to remind myself how lucky I am. It also happens to be included in my first book, which is all about gratitude, and is guaranteed to put a little extra spring in your step, just in case you’ve noticed that your steps haven’t been quite as springy of late.
I’ll just end on that note, while I desperately cast about for an unused tissue. Oh, and here’s a bit of sunshine to brighten your day. Tra la!
My latest head cold comes with the vertigo accessory.
Imagine sitting in the recliner in your living room, only to discover that it has somehow been attached to a bull riding machine straight from the nearest honkey-tonk. Granted, it’s on the lowest setting, the one designed to make you look sexy, not throw you to the ground in a beer-stained heap. But still, you’re not feeling particularly sexy, because this is, after all, your living room, and stuff isn’t supposed to move.
Welcome to my world at the moment. My latest head cold comes with the vertigo accessory, even though I don’t remember ordering it. Can I get a refund? Please?
In theory, I’m watching TV, but everything is gently rocking and slowly spinning, and it’s all I can do to hold on, let alone focus on the show. I’m being taken for a ride. I want to get off.
Even typing this blog is a challenge. I have to remind myself that the keyboard is oriented to me. I don’t have to chase it. I’m actually finding it easier to type with my eyes closed.
Is this what Dorothy felt like when she went to Oz? I never noticed what a funny name Oz was before. Okay, I’m delirious, too. Yippee.
Why do we say a pair of pants? It’s just one. It’s not like you’d ever separate the legs and use them independently. A pair of pants should be two pants. Same with a pair of scissors. Just because scissors have two blades doesn’t make them a pair. Try using one blade without the other sometime and see how far you get. These things seem very important all of a sudden.
My dog is worried about me. He keeps jumping up into my lap. I try to warn him off, because I wouldn’t wish Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride on anyone, but for him, loyalty is everything. I tell you what, though, if the situation were reversed, I wouldn’t be sitting on his lap. No way, no how.
I see my mother’s picture float past. I miss my mother the most when I’m sick. She was really good at holding my hair out of the way when I threw up, and bringing me flat ginger ale and crackers afterwards. That’s a character trait that separates the men from the boys, if you ask me. If your person isn’t willing to hold your hair while you throw up, well, then, it’s a slippery slope, is all I’m sayin’.
And there goes my father’s memorial flag, all folded up in its triangle, some of the 21 gun salute bullet casings inside. I keep it to honor the one good thing he did. As it floats past, it occurs to me that that flag got closer to him than I ever did. How pathetic is that?
Whoa. What? The sun jumped across the sky. Or maybe I fell asleep. Yeah. That’s what happened. I fell asleep. I think I dreamed I was bobbing on the ocean. And what do you know? I still am.
I’m not enjoying myself, here.
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How many days before someone finds my body?
I’m currently in the throes of the head cold from hell. It is so bad, in fact, that it had me googling “coronavirus symptoms”. (I know. Paranoia. That happens when my temperature goes above 100 degrees. Worst case scenarios dance through my head. In technicolor.)
At least my worst fear can no longer be realized. When I was single and in a feverish state, I used to worry that I’d die and it would be about three days before anyone found my body. I don’t know why that bothered me so much. I mean, after all, I’d be dead. I’d be beyond help. But that really, really used to freak me out.
Now that I’m married, I suspect that my body would be found within 6 hours, at the absolute most. Yay, I guess. That greatly reduces the stink factor for those I leave behind. But it also means that I was loved. And after all, isn’t that what we’re all hoping for out of life?
If you’re single, and you have a cold coming on, I suggest you reach out to someone, anyone, and ask them to call you once or twice a day to check for signs of life. You’ll still be sick, but at least you’ll know that someone cares. And that counts a lot toward healing.
Wishing you health and happiness, dear reader.
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I had a full-blown meltdown in public.
I got a unique look at myself from the outside the other day. It happened like this: I had a full-blown meltdown in public.
From the inside, it made perfect sense, because it had been building and building and building for hours. So the transition, for me, didn’t seem very abrupt. It was simply the last freakin’ straw.
But from the outside, I must have looked like I was completely and utterly unhinged. “What’s her problem? She was fine a second ago…”
I think most people would say I’m a patient, tolerant person. I take pride in those qualities. But every once in a while, you’ll go too far, and the Kraken gets unleashed.
I had a cold. A bad cold. And I had been struggling with it for three, count ‘em, three weeks. I couldn’t take it anymore. But my doctor had retried. And the new one I want to start seeing wasn’t taking new patients until February. I didn’t want to start up with a third, only to switch a month later. What a hassle. So I decided to go to an urgent care clinic. There’d be no loyalties to break there, right? They live for walk ins.
Indeed they must, because the waiting room was filled to overflowing with what looked like the walking dead. I was informed there would be an hour and a half wait. Sigh.
But what the heck. I just needed someone to prescribe me a z-pack and some cough medication, so when I finally got in, it should only take about 5 minutes. Worth it.
They gave me some “please don’t try to sue us” forms to fill out. Which I did. But even in my oversick, addled brain, I sensed that something was weird. Oh. They didn’t have me fill out anything about my medical history. Uh, don’t they care? They ought to care.
But I was so sick. I asked at the desk. They said to each other, “Oh, she’s urgent care.” The way they said “urgent” led me to believe that we, the urgent ones, actually were their lowest priorities. I was told they’d take care of that when I was called in.
So I settled back in my chair, between the man who was shouting that the birth date on his birth certificate wasn’t really when he was born, and the defeated looking woman with the five kids with green snot running out of their noses. And I think I dozed off out of sheer self-preservation.
Two hours later, I was called in. The usual stuff. Weight. Temperature. Blood pressure. Then the lady sits in front of a computer and starts asking me medical history questions. My answers never quite seemed to fit anything in her drop down menu. So she’d click “other” and have to type things in. Which was just dandy, because she couldn’t spell. I had to spell everything for her, and she kept stopping me in the middle and making me repeat it over, because she was throwing in random letters that I hadn’t said. I wanted to snatch the keyboard from her and do it my danged self. Heaven only knows what their file now says about me.
Thirty minutes later, she tells me the nurse practitioner will be in in a moment. I fell asleep again. When she finally comes in, the nurse practitioner confirms that I am, indeed, very sick. And she prescribes, as predicted, a z-pack and some cough medicine.
She also says she’ll write a doctor’s note so I can miss two days of work, which makes me want to kiss her on the lips. (In Florida, a right to work state, you practically have to be bleeding out of two of the five major orifices before a doctor will even consider writing such a note. God, I love the left coast!)
She says someone will come in and get my pharmacy info and give me the note. And then I can go. Yay!
Indeed, the same illiterate woman comes in, asks me my pharmacy info, and leaves without saying a word, and without giving me the note. I fall back asleep.
I wake up with a snort, look at my phone, and realize I’ve been in the clinic for 3 ½ hours. Seriously? I mean, what the actual F is the hold up? I open the door. I try flagging several staff people as they walk by, not meeting my eyes. I finally get someone I haven’t seen before, and I burst into tears and say, “Look, I’m supposed to have two prescriptions and a doctor’s note, and I’ve been here for 3 ½ hours, and I just want to go home!”
Much scrambling around. Turns out the prescriptions had been called in ages ago. But no one can find the note. They track down the NP, and she confirms that she wrote the note ages ago. Why had nobody printed it out and sent me off? Good freakin’ question.
The note was stuck in the printing queue. The staff had somehow forgotten I was there, and apparently, even though the place was overcrowded, they didn’t find it at all odd that some random woman was snoring in one of their exam rooms.
Finally, the note is printed out and handed to me, but in my sick fog, I can’t find the exit. The woman offers to show me out. Tears are running down my face. She stops. Says I look hungry and thirsty. Offers me a bottle of water and a granola bar.
I look at her. I screech, “I. Just. Want. To go. HOME!!!!!!!!”
All activity around me stops. I’m shown the door.
And I realize that from the inside, what appeared like a well-deserved, slow-building, epic last stand, from the outside probably looked like an abrupt and unexpected temper tantrum. Because I really am a patient person. Until I’m not.
When I got home, I finally read the note, and it only gives me one day off work instead of the promised two. Sigh. Whatever.
Two hours before quitting time on Friday I get this tickle in my throat. You know the one. That little portent of doom that will soon take over your whole world, and you can’t do anything about it.
I had such plans. The weather was going to be great. I was going to take the dogs to an off leash park. I was going to sit in the back yard and soak up the sun. I even contemplated washing the car.
On the way home I stopped at the pharmacy for orange juice, ibuprofen and Nyquil. Supplies for the coming siege. Get them now or not at all. That’s one of the sucky things about being single. By the time I got home I had a fever.
I spent the entire weekend flat on my back, except when the dogs insisted on being fed. Heartless bastards. But I must say they kept me company during my frequent hot baths. “Why is mommy trying to boil herself?” “And who will feed us if she drowns?” they said to each other with looks of great concern as they kept the bathmat warm and listened to my moans.
I encased myself in flannel. I had strange dreams. You know your snoring is bad when it even wakes you up. My nostrils slammed shut. I contemplated marrying my Neti Pot, but then I realized my last name would then be Pot, and that would never do.
The worst part about it is that I didn’t like the person who gave me this cold even before she gave it to me. Will the abuse never end? Honestly.
I have vague memories of talking to a friend who tried to calmly explain to me why boiling my head in a vat of chicken soup would be a bad idea. “The soup is supposed to go in you. You’re not supposed to go in the soup.” It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Times like these, I really miss my mother. She was great when I was sick. I want sympathy. I turn into a whiny brat when I’m feeling punk. Sniffle. I need a hug.
[Image credit: jnassi.com]
Most of the time I like living alone. The only exceptions are during major holidays or when I’m sick. Right now I’ve got the head cold from hell and disgusting substances seem to be flowing from every orifice. I’m weak as a kitten and I keep forgetting to eat. I am miserable. Lord, take me now.
Sadly, there is no one to hear my whining and moaning, no one to make me chicken soup, no little annoying bell I can ring. If I run out of orange juice, I’m out of luck. I can only afford to have so many pizzas delivered.
My only comfort is my dogs and my flannel, and I’m worried that if I die the dogs will chew through the flannel in no time. Where’s the loyalty?
There’s nothing quite as depressing as being pathetic and snotty all by yourself. I want my mommy.
If there’s no blog entry here tomorrow, call 911.
[image credit: multiplemayhemmamma.com]
No, I don’t pull the wings off flies or flash people from under a trench coat, but apparently I AM the only human being willing to admit that, yes, I DO slow down to look at traffic accidents. So feel free to blame me for every traffic jam you’ve been in since about 1970. I can take it.
I don’t know what it is about traffic accidents. Maybe they remind me how lucky I am at that moment in time. Maybe I’m trying to figure out how it happened so I can avoid it myself. Maybe it’s the same thing that attracts moths to flames. I couldn’t tell you.
But I’ll also confess that I have an obsession with serial killers. I read everything I can about them. I think that’s more explainable. Since I don’t have a violent bone in my body, I’m fascinated with finding out what could possibly cause a human being to become that sick and twisted.
And reality shows? I can’t get enough of those, either. It’s more than just a throwback to the Bread and Circus concept of ancient Rome. It’s that I can’t look away because I keep hoping I’ll learn why it is people are willing to humiliate themselves in that fashion. The context of the show is much less important to me than the fact that people are making utter fools of themselves on national television. I guess, in their own way, they are human car wrecks, so I just have to slow down and bear witness.
Oh, and one last thing! I am the only person I know who seems to be willing to take ownership of my farts. There. I’ve said it. You’re excused.