For followup on the Adam/Graduate Program in Minneapolis thing: he still hasn’t called or responded to my email. In fact, I have heard nothing whatsoever from anyone in their program.
Mmm yeah.
Apparently I can never prepare for a trip without getting sick. Seriously, it’s just ridiculous. Impending plane flight? Lungs decide to go right down the toilet. It’s like a damned law.
I’d been getting a little wheezy for the last few days, relying on my emergency inhaler more and more, but I was hoping that with steady doses of Singulair and lots of water that I could kick the limp lungs in the ass. But no. No. Then came the barking cough that makes everything in my chest feel like sandpaper. Then came the whispy breath sounds 24 hours a day.
I tried to make an appointment with Dr. Perky on Monday. A prophylactic appointment, since normally I wait until I am practically at death’s door before going in for the drugs. Maybe subconsciously it is because I want codeine, so I wait for the fever and bruised rib. I figured this time, I would get the Zithromax and the Prednisone right away and knock it out of my system before I had to miss work. However, Dr. Perky was not in, which meant that I was to see Dr. Hot ‘N Gentle bright and shiny Tuesday morning. Which was good because the wardrobe agenda for the week placed me in a retro black sweater with grey stripes and the new Hottie black jeans with the worn stripes on the front (grey perfectly matching the grey in the sweater, go me!), paired with my autumn essential Doc Martins and a pair of black socks with grey and deep red stripes on them (the red corresponding to the deep red polish on my nails’ and yes, I really do think about such things, even as nauseating as it is, it makes me ridiculously happy), so I would look uber cute. Because, you know, there was flirty weirdness last time or maybe he’s just being really really friendly. I don’t know. But cute just the same.
Dr. Hot ‘N Gentle did not offer me some codeine, but he did agree that my lungs sounded bad, like American Idol audition bad. He agreed that I should go on the Zith/Pred cocktail immediately and if I wasn’t better before my trip, I should call him again. And then he had the nurse give me a breathing treatment, which tastes like horse ass, but made me feel temporarily better. And he put his hand on my shoulder as we stood there in the examining room, then let it slide down my arm. Which was weird, like he was about to ask me to join him in a couple’s skate during the next REO Speedwagon song. But I left with drugs in hand and went into work where I continued to argue via email with various asshats in New York. And then I called my professor and told him that I wouldn’t be going to class because even thinking about driving for an hour, sitting through three hours of class and then driving back was making me tired and out of breath. So instead, I just worked longer and the breathing treatment started to wear off and I started wheezing again and then I just said ‘fuck this, fuck everything, I’m going home’, because when I’m not feeling well, it’s amazing the increase in the use of the word ‘fuck’. It was at a little after 5:00 pm anyway, which is my technical quitting time (although it hasn’t been that way in practice for the last year) and went home, got into my pajamas and then stared off into the horizon, wishing I knew where all of my Sims disks were so that I could reinstall everything and design little fake homes for little fake people. And then Esteban came home right as I decided to take a bunch of drugs and go to bed, so he joined me and we watched CSI: Miami on Ricky Fitts (it might have been the first time I’ve ever stayed awake through an entire episode. Normally, I’m right out. I think it was the maggots in the first three minutes of the show.) and then the first three minutes of Good Eats but I fell asleep. And it was on garlic, too, so I’m betting that it was an excellent episode. I blame the maggots.
It’s hella warm here’ finally an Indian summer. The high today is 80, which is a far cry from last week’s 30’s and 40’s. And snow. I’m not going to let you forget the snow. Of course, would that I were not sick (and apparently channeling a lesser Shakespearean character), I would float in the pool or go golfing. But no. Instead, I emailed into my team at 5:30 this morning because through the night, bronchitis made me its bitch. My lungs sounded like a 58 Buick with a broken carburetor all night and my unconscious incorporated the wheezing and coughing into my dreams. This right here is why I love codeine. Or, as I explained to Jake via email yesterday when he expressed concern about codeine use ‘Codeine does nothing but make things a little fuzzy. I don’t think it makes people say things they wouldn’t normally say, although I tend to get really sleepy on it. And sleep the golden sleep of the gods. Fucking gods, having all the good sleep. That is the only thing golden about me, the drugged sleep. If you won’t contribute to my delinquency, I’ll just have to ask Harold to road trip up with me up to Canada and fill a 16 gallon Rubbermaid container with Tylenol 3. It will be my precious. We’ll take a pug dog along for company. And dress him like a Mountie to charm the border police.’
Ok, it’s not that clever.
Gah, my mouth still tastes like ass from that breathing treatment. For this, I blame the maggots.
I hate sick days. I hate that they are so completely worthless. I hate that I just spent a half hour of my life watching Rachel Ray make stuffed artichokes in 30 minutes or less. I hate that I have a slight sheen of sweat over my entire body. I hate the way my hair feels when I am sick, as though the individual hairs are all asleep and can’t be bothered. I hate sick hair. And, strangely enough, I hate that it is warm outside, quite possibly the last warm lovely day for six to seven months, and I am spending it looking at my house which needs to be tidied but I’m too sick to do it.
Fuck. I should just shut up.
Actually, I was digging around in Word the other night and found a recovered document from last December, when my computer was mysteriously restarting itself with half-written documents sitting unsaved in Word. Thus, a bonus entry to make up for my whining.
Scene: Weetabix and Esteban are watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
Weetabix : Did you ever notice there are no bones in a Who Roast Beast? Like, what the heck is wrong with that animal? They just slice through the center, like a watermelon. How did they walk? Is that why you never see them anywhere in Whoville? Because they’re like The Blob? They’ve got those two legs’ how do they use them. It’s such a mystery.
Esteban : I think’. I think they might be other Whos.
Weetabix : EEEEK!
Esteban : Like’ a neighboring tribe of Whos.
Weetabix : The They from Themville?
Esteban : Yes’ Them’s tasty.
Weetabix : Heee heee heee. Where are you going?
Esteban : To do some dishes. Write that in your diary. I, ESTEBAN, WEETABIX’S HUSBAND, AM GOING TO DO DISHES, AS I DO EVERY NIGHT.
Weetabix : No one will even believe that last bit’ make sure to wash your mouth out with Dawn after that bit. Wait’ will you take my glass?
Esteban : What? Touch your ass? You want me to touch your ass?
Weetabix : Yes. Then take my glass.
(Esteban wiggles his butt in front of Weetabix, then takes her glass. Sounds of washing dishes from the other room. The Grinch’s heart grew three sizes that day. Da ro Domis Welcome Welcome Da roo Romis. Then he returns and stands excitedly in front of Weetabix.)
Esteban : You know what happened to that little girl?
Weetabix : Cindy Lou Who?
Esteban : Yeah, her.
Weetabix : What?
Esteban : She posed in Whoboy.. that magazine by Whoo Hefner.
Weetabix : Yes, you’re very clever.
Esteban : I am your very clever husband.
Weetabix : You’re my goofy Xander Harris.
Esteban : I am NOT Xander.
Weetabix : Yes, you are. That was so Xander.
Esteban : I am way cooler than Xander.
Weetabix : No’ sometimes you achieve Xander, but most of the time you simply strive for Xander. You stood there in the kitchen, didn’t you, thinking up that joke.
Esteban : Really, I’m just the Dork Cabal. Admit it’ I’m like those three losers.
Weetabix : They’re very cute, the Legion of Dim.
Esteban : I am so not Xander. That was a very good joke.
Weetabix : You went too far. You hit the ‘Who’ too hard. You need to be more subtle. It would have been funnier if she were, say, waiting tables at Whooters.
Esteban : Now that’s just lame.
Weetabix : Uh huh.
Esteban : Whoo Hefner. That was gold. Gold!! (waves his dishtowel around for emphasis). Um’.This is what you’re talking about right here with the Xander thing, huh?
Weetabix : (shrugs) I’m just saying.
