In Which I Did Not Perform A Hysterectomy On My Cat With A Crochet Hook

This dead bird photo, which I took two days ago on the way home from work, is an apt representation of my present state:



I sent the following e-mail to the Palinode today:

I'm all dying over here. I just loaded up on Nyquil. Need more.
I'm wearing woolly socks and convalescing on the sofa. The non-peed on sofa.
If I could find my crochet hooks, Lula'd be uterus-less by now.

You just know that your day is not starting out well when the pain in your head has you dry-heaving over the toilet, and your cat, who you wish would finish being in heat already so you could go get her fixed, pees on one of the sofas in a fit of sexiness, and you realize you only have two Nyquil to last you the day, and then you run out of chocolate Cheerios.

This is how one finds oneself threatening one's cat's uterus with lost crochet hooks at ten in the morning and suffering from a monstrous headache just barely downsized from ginormous by a judiciously doled out and nearly gone supply of pharmaceuticals.

Just before I fell into an anxious sleep riddled with dreams of ugly design failures, I managed to cobble together four circles to create a splash page for myself, which has only taken me eight years to get together.

Ta da!



And now my be-socked feet and I are going to retreat back into our delightful haze of Nyquil and episodes of Thirtysomething on Netflix.



The End.

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PS. No crochet hooks will be used to extract any uteri in this household. I'm not good with gore. PETA can relax now.

PPS. Thankfully, the Palinode's ordering out for food, because I can no longer fend for myself. I languished on the couch for an hour this afternoon thinking how wonderful it would be to eat toast, because I could smell toast, and it smelled delicious. Oh, if only I could have toast. It turned out that I had actually put bread in the toaster and then forgotten about it.

My No Good, Very Bad, Crazy, Sore-Boobed, Stressed, Disappointed, And Sick Day

A couple of days ago, I just thought I was crazy because I am crazy. The early bits of autumn weather that start creeping in with the shortening days is usually a warning sign to watch my seasonal depression issues.

Then, my boobs started to feel like someone had been using them as mini punching bags, and my fingers bloated my wedding rings right off, so I thought I was probably just a little bit crazy with a whopping main dish of PMS.

But, then! Then, I freaked out because the floor was damp under my feet in the kitchen. Can you imagine? What horror. I yelled about how horrible that was that my feet had to actually touch damp floor until I realized that my crazy was getting kind of out of hand. I took stock of myself and realized that, while I was still just a little bit crazy with a whopping main dish of PMS, I was also really stressed out about a pap smear redo that I had been called in for. Being that I had a hysterectomy due to cervical cancer three years ago, my stress was pretty understandable.


This was my semi-casual funeral attire style choice
for my pap smear appointment today.

Then, I woke up this morning with my little bit of crazy, my sore boobs, and my stress and went down to my doctor's office, but guess what? She didn't show up, the little minx! So, I re-scheduled my pap smear for next week and added disappointed to my list of ailments.

Then, I went and engaged in some fantastic retail therapy, because I was a little bit crazy, sore-boobed, stressed, and disappointed, and I deserved it. I managed to spend a mere $127.29 on over $510 worth of clothing at The Bay. Wha-cha!

Then, I had to take two sit-down breaks on my way home, because I was suddenly not only a little bit crazy, sore-boobed, stressed, and disappointed, but now I was also SICK, because why not throw more really crappy stuff into my crap bag of a day? I sat on benches and tweeted about nothing and huddled under a sweater and secretly snuffled tears into my collar, and I absolutely did not tackle a strange man for his cigarettes when he walked by sucking on that smoke that bathed the breeze in its sweet, sweet deliciousness.

I've decided to spend the rest of today blowing my nose and watching crap television while snorting vitamins C and D through a dollar bill, except not really, because I am a normal person who swallows them in pill form with water.

The End.

I Don't Do Anything Half Way, Even When It Comes To A Throat Infection

I knew I wasn't feeling very well.



I hate doctors, though. No, scratch that. I hate going to doctors. I'm pretty sure every time I go that they are going to take one look in my ear or down my throat and pronounce me dead in six weeks.

It doesn't help that they told me I had cancer once. That incident confirmed my belief that our bodies are wild things.

One time about sixteen years ago, I was volunteering at a not-for-profit fair trade store. I hadn't felt well when I got there, and, as my shift wore on, my abdomen slowly became so tender that I couldn't walk around the store. When the pain got so bad that even bending my body to sit down on a stool made me yelp, the old ladies I volunteered with shoved ten dollars into my hand, helped me slide sideways into the back of a cab, and sent me off to an emergency doctor appointment.

It turned out that I had an infection. A normal person would have had a bladder infection or a uterine infection or a cervical infection or an ovarian infection. Me? I HAD ALL OF THEM. At least, that's what they deduced from all the swollen everything I had going on all up in my lady parts and how they had to shush me when I yelled AYE-EEEEE after they scraped a sample from my cervix with a wooden stick.

Whoever invented that wooden stick hates women.

Anyway, today I have a similar problem if you replace "lady parts" with "everything above my shoulders". I haven't felt well for about a week, and I started to wonder what was up when my tongue felt like I had sprained it a few days ago.

I'll give you a moment to make sprained tongue jokes. Let it all out.

I had to admit that I was probably in need of some doctoring last night when, on top of the pain in my throat, the pain under my tongue was making it hard to talk, and I was pretty sure that there wasn't supposed to be a white growth there, either.

It turns out that I have not only been blessed with what looks like an infected aphthous ulcer under my tongue but what also looks like a good case of tonsillitis and strep throat.

I say "looks like", because after scraping at the disgusting growth under my tongue with a wooden stick — woman-hater! — the doctor said What IS this thing?, as though I had any clue whatsoever. I don't do anything half way.

On the bright side, nobody told me I'd be dead in six weeks.

Assuming it'll do the trick, praise be to doxycycline!