I have the beginning of nasty Death Throat happening, so on Thursday night I paid a visit to Dr. Perky to hopefully stave off the impending misery. She prescribed me the usual Zithromax without the Prednisone chaser, as my lungs hadn’t quite given up the fight yet. I felt somewhat vindicated in that my temperature was batting 100.1. It always surprises me when I’ve managed to diagnose myself correctly. If I think I’m feeling under the weather and start telling myself that ‘Ok, you might be getting sick’ then I will certainly have vague free floating yucky feelings that may or may not have anything to do with the state of my actual health. It’s a curse, this having an imaginative brain. I could probably talk myself into a tumor if I’m not careful.
I also got one of the mythical flu shots. Love my doctor. Not only can she see me at quarter to eight on a Thursday evening and tell me that I’ve lost ten pounds (which had been plus pounds before, so nothing terribly exciting, but fun just the same), she also unlocks the flu shot vault. Of course, it’s because of my asthma that I got the flu shot and it’s because of Dubya that you can’t get one. Oh shit. I didn’t say that.
However, I did decide to take a sick day on Friday, given my general feelings of hoarky chills-n-sweats. I slept late and woke up around 10 am, to wander with a stuffed head into the dining room, where I encountered my mother painting doors. For a second, I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming, but no, she was really there working. I stood in the shower for a half hour, then got dressed and stumbled into the computer room. My mother followed me and commenced painting those doors and prattling to me about the antics of Jonathon’s friend’s parents or something. I don’t know. It was sort of hellish, as though the prattling coworker that I had escaped for one day had followed me home in the guise of my mother. Or I might have been imagining it all.
I powered through a bunch of cranberry/grape juice, but was really spent and worthless all day. Friday evening entailed lounging on the sofa watching a DVD. On Saturday, I was starting to feel a little better, but the weather was absolute shyte. Dismal rainy crap. I had to watch my niece so I decided to employ my favorite ‘Pretend you feel fine, and do not allow yourself to dwell upon your misery’ technique and get dressed and go about my plans. I managed to do one and a half loads of laundry (technically one load, because I left a load of jeans in the washer and they became infected with the dreaded basement funk and thus must be rewashed four hundred times to eradicate the smell) and also put the handles back on the refrigerator. With, I might add, an actual screwdriver. I know! I mean, sure, it was touch and go for a few minutes there when I kept unscrewing one instead of screwing it in (because an upside down screw somehow defies the ‘lefty loosey, righty tighty’ mantra) but I persevered and now we have handles on our refrigerator again. Apparently I am a handy girl! Who knew?
I picked up Abby from her cousin’s house and then caved under hardcore manipulation tactics and took her to see the abysmal ‘Shark Tales’ movie. Have you ever noticed that when Pixar comes up with a clever idea, Dreamworks follows up with a similar project? Bug’s Life, meet Antz. Toy Story, meet Small Soldiers. Big scary monster teaches the world that what counts is on the inside. Is that Monsters Inc? Or Shrek? Not to mention’Finding Nemo and its counterpart Shark Tales. It wouldn’t be so offensive if it weren’t following almost the exact same development timeline. Gah, Spielberg, get your own ideas.
After Mo picked up Abby, I started on dinner, which was a Martha recipe for tenderloin stroganoff and, quite honestly, not any better than my normal method for inventing stroganoff without a recipe, the only difference being the inclusion of cognac and Dijon mustard and about an extra half hour of prep time waiting for the stock to reduce. This endeavor basically wiped me out, and for the rest of the evening, it was all I could do to hold my head upright and micromanage my Sims while Esteban cranked away at his never-ending backlog of analytical work.
On Sunday, however, the ill feelings that had plagued me two days earlier came back and with a vengeance. We attempted to go out for bagels at the Hippy Mafia deli, but when we got there, I could only sit in the car feeling green while Esteban braved the throngs of self-righteous liberals. I nibbled on my bagel afterwards but then curled on the sofa under a quilt and watched the Detroit game with complete apathy tinged with hints of nausea and sprints to the bathroom. Around three in the afternoon, I decided that the only thing that would make my stomach feel better was a green caramel apple from the delicious Seroogy’s in De Pere, so with this delight in front of me, I managed to get up, slip on some shoes and drive the ten miles to the confectionary. However, when I got there, there was not a caramel apple to be had. Apparently, they had made 200 that morning and sold out by 2 pm. Curses. Foiled again. I actually stomped my feet in frustration, right in the store. There is nothing like getting a glimpse of salvation and then have it dashed by happenstance. Mickey Fickey caramel apples. Instead, I trudged home, walked directly into the bed where there was a pile of clean laundry waiting to be folded, heaved it onto Esteban’s side and then fell into a deep coma, broken only by the ghostly shrieks of my wheezing lungs.
I woke up at 8 pm, freaking out a little that it was now dark. I made myself get up and managed to eat a roll with peanut butter and then drink the broth out of a bowl of chicken and stars soup (because I may not be feeling well, but damned if it will keep me from ingesting unhealthy levels of sodium!) and continued to make visits to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. Then I realized that Esteban had finished the last of our precious Nyquil the night before, so if I had any hopes of sleeping through my wheezy lungs, I would have to go out and get more. So if you’re wondering who that crazy lady with the slept-in hair and white socks with black loafers, angry groping her Nyquil and E.L.Fudge cookies (because angry tummy loves it some Elfin’ Magic), that would have been me.
Now that Saturday Night Live has proven what everyone should have suspected all along, Ashlee Simpson should sort of sink back into her role as ‘Jessica Simpson’s Sister’ because she’s only marginally talented (about as much as, I’m sure, Kato Kaelin is or perhaps Tom Arnold). Also, I hate to say this, because I hate to reduce people to the sum of their physical parts, but she’s sort of fug. And when faced with a technical difficulty, instead of just sucking it up and singing the wrong song like a professional because she was on live television and that is what you do, she did this weird little Dosey Do maneuver and then ran off the stage where I hope Lorne Michaels yelled at her for it and made her cry. Then afterwards she did a Home Alone ‘Oh No!’ face, as though she oopsied and we should forgive her for being an untalented hack because just look at how damned cute she is. Except that you’re not, Ashhhleeeeigh. You’re not cute. You’ve got a hooky beak nose and you look like you should be a character in a Lemony Snicket book. Stop believing your own PR.
Have a lovely, non-congested week.
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