I’b Sigck :(

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.

 cold

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.

head-cold3

[Image credit: jnassi.com]

Sick when you’re Single

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.

sickchild

[image credit: multiplemayhemmamma.com]

Confession: I Can be a Sick Puppy.

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.

Of Hairy Lobsters and Other Things

I’m sick as a dog, people, and zonked out on Nyquil, but I promised myself I’d do an entry every day, so here’s a picture of my present state of mind.

new-species-furry-lobster

This is a hirsute lobster, found only a few years ago in the South Pacific. The reason this furry creature is bouncing around in my drug-addled cranium is that today is the first day of 2013, and the world is rife with possibilities. You have no idea what the future holds. So cast your nets far and wide, and be open to whatever you drag aboard. Happy New Year.

Now I’m going to go boil my head in a vat of chicken soup and hope for the best.

Bob Cratchit is my Hero

When I walked in the door today, two of my coworkers were engaged in a bit of a shouting match. It was about the temperature. One felt it was too hot, the other felt it was just right, and what ensued was a battle royal, despite the fact that one of them would be leaving in less than 20 minutes. “Merry Christmas”, I thought.

When you work three people to a shift, trapped for 8 hours in a little room as we do on this drawbridge, a certain amount of drama is bound to ensue. For the love of all that’s holy, do NOT discuss politics or religion up in here. Not if you want to escape with your life. Well, okay, I’m exaggerating, but you get what I’m saying. When someone turns on the news, I’ve learned to put on my head phones and lose myself in my music.

In honor of the season, I brought in one of the many versions of the Christmas Carol and watched it on my laptop. It occurred to me that of all the characters in that classic story, the one who appeals to me the most is Bob Cratchit. In many ways I can relate to him, and in many others I aspire to be him. I relate to his circumstances. He’s underpaid, and his boss (in my case, the greater corporation, because I actually like my immediate supervisor) is cheap, and is much more concerned with getting a day’s work out of his employees than he is about their general welfare. My employers could so easily pay me more and change my life, and could provide decent health insurance and proper and up-to-date working equipment, but they don’t care about me or anyone else. As with Scrooge, it’s all about the money. We wear the chains we forge in life. No doubt about it.

But here’s what impresses me about Bob Cratchit: In spite of his dismal working conditions and stress at home (a sick child, a lot of mouths to feed, and what appears to be a cranky, albeit loving spouse), he’s basically very happy, and seems to have his priorities straight. Work is something you do for survival. But what you live for is friends and family. There’s nothing else that matters, really–certainly not the room temperature.

In the interests of full disclosure, in spite of the lousy pay and benefits, I actually do like my job. I’d just like to be able to do more than merely survive. But maybe I should take a page from Bob Cratchit’s book and stop feeling hopeless about my lot in life. Maybe I should shift my focus away from the things I want and will most likely never have, and instead realize that I already have quite a bit—a roof over my head (for now, anyway), enough food on my table, and people whom I love very much. When all is said and done, that’s really all any of us need. Everything else is just stuff.