Friday, January 28, 2011

Ooo Eee Ooo Ah Ah…CHOO!

I have had a terrible cold for a month.  I have “Seven Dwarf” symptoms too-- Dopey, Sleepy, Sneezy and Grouchy.   I’m thinking I need Doc, but I know what she’ll say:  “It’s a Virus.”  But I’m miserable enough to risk getting the "V" word. 
 
Nice Lady at Doctor’s Office (NLDO):  “What are your symptoms?

Me:  “Green *goo* pouring out many of my orifices and the total loss of 4 of the 5 senses.”

NLDO:  “Do you have a fever?”

Dishonest Wench (still me):“Yes, 101 (always a good number to say when you’re fibbing about your temperature) but I took Ibuprofen so now it’s normal.”

NLDO :  “When can you come in?”

I’m on the schedule, but not home-free.  In years past, green *goo* (which wasn’t a lie) was the ticket to getting a prescription.  Now?  Not so easy.   Mentioning a fever, may make a bigger impression.   I’m hoping I can manage something like a friend of mine, who was bequeathed with a prescription when he “saved” what was sure to be a sensational, slimy “loogie” for an hour until the doctor came in.  He hawked it up right then and there, in its brownish-green glory.    I only hope I’m that lucky.

In the doctor’s office, I’m sweaty, which can only work to my benefit, and coughing. 
   
“You’ll need to wear this mask.” 

Now I REALLY can’t breathe.  My one good nostril is over-extending itself even farther over to the other side of my nose, seriously blocking my already bad nostril.  Struggling to inhale?  This can only be a good thing when it comes to looking pitiful.  30 minutes of re-inhaling my hot, germy exhale later, my name is called.
 
Sadistic Person: “Can you step on the scale?”

Me: “Yes.”

Sadistic Persistent Person: “Will you step on the scale?”

Stubborn Fat- Yet- Sick Person (me): “Do I have to?”  Childishness is definitely a symptom of some kind.  My mental faculties are diminishing.  Doctor—HELP me!!

After only two minutes with the doctor:

Vicious Drug-Withholding Monster (VDWM):  “It’s a virus.”

Honestly Sick Person wishing she had a loogie of any size available (me): “Did I mention I’ve been sick for a month?  Don’t you want to prick my finger or something?”

VDM:  “Why?”

Old Person-because only old people say “When I was a kid” (still me):  When I was a kid… they pricked your finger with a nasty pointy silver stick, and a nurse dressed all in white would suck my pooling blood up into a straw, and, while I was still holding a cotton ball on my throbbing digit, I got some dad-blame penicillin and I felt BETTER!!”

VDM (unaffected by my ramblings): “Doctors have been over-prescribing...”  Followed by mumbo-jumbo, doctor speak that my ears interpret as “I want to take your money and do absolutely nothing for you”.  

Old and Defeated (you know who):  “What should I do about this *virus*?”

Rather than hitting the pharmaceutical lottery and leaving with a piece of paper for my druggist, I took down the formula for concocting my OWN home chemistry-spun “Mucus-cide” (or sorts), instructed on how to use the nasal power-washer and told about the benefits of chicken soup.  None of which worked, I may add. 

Achoo!

Next time I’m skipping the MD and hunting for a WD (witch doctor).  Hit me with a voodoo stick, blow white powder in my face and tattoo my forehead, I don’t care--only fix this snotty nose! 

Ting Tang Walla Walla Bing Bang

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Hunka-Hunka Burning Love

I am a nuclear power plant at night…and it’s making me irresistible!  

Fred, after almost 18 years together, is now polarized to my side of the bed during the night.  His feet take up my foot room, leaving a wedge of mattress space for me sleep on the size of a circus peanut.  He’s drawn there not because I’ve been working-out lately, but by the heat given off by my peri-menopausal hormones clashing together like excited electrons. 

“You are on my side again,” I complained to Fred the other night. 
 
“No, I’m not,” he murmured and cross-country skied his way sideways to get as close as possible.  Attempts to move him over got me kneed in the kidney and partitioned off to the North-west corner of the mattress (2 circus peanuts wide).

“Do I have to prove it to you?”  I said, questioning my judgment, secretly.  I imagined us on some National Geographic type animal reality show like “Meerkat Manner” with night vision…and narrators.

“There—you see, the male is definitely moving in,” some “Bowling Tournament Announcer” voice would describe our activities.

The hotter I get, the more Fred wants a piece of my warm bedside.  The more Fred is on my side the hotter (and bitchier) I get.  If I were to make a cartoon flip-book, it would show the following “night moves” in sequence:

1.    Me sleep-radiating, 2. Fred moving closer, 3.  Me pushing and poking, getting hotter and grouchier, 4. Fred retreating (guarding his ‘manhood’).  

Repeat.  

I thought of putting little army men on the mid-point, so that their pointy guns and jagged edged foot/stand assemblies would burrow into his hip, causing him to roll…but that seems extreme.  An electric fence crossed my mind, but the current would undoubtedly run both ways.

“I’m hotter than Hell over here!”  I, sleep-challenged, coverless and angry, yelled.  I was finally starting to understand why some married couples sleep in different beds. 

 “Back!” Fred sat up.  He turned on a clip-on fan and pointed it at me like a trainer with a chair and a whip.  I was immediately soothed.  He attached it to the backboard and left it blowing on my face all night.
 
“AH!”  I signed, and fell instantly to sleep on my hot, hot side of the bed.

Now I have my soul-mate, the FAN, in bed with me every night.  The fear of getting my hair caught in it during night is totally overruled by my comfort.  

Plus…it makes a good Fred barrier…when I need it.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Ohhhhh, FFFFFFUDGE!

The more I try to avoid chocolate, the more trouble I get in and the lower the Limbo Pole of Chocolate-Related Embarrassment keeps going.

Yesterday, I found two Godiva chocolate bars I was going to put in my kids’ Christmas stockings.  I ate them like Scarlett O’Hara, filthy from the war, mauled that dusty radish on Tara

I got a paper cut on my forehead from putting my whole face against a carton of Whoppers last week. 

“Mom, my malted milk balls are missing!” my daughter announced.  Guiltily, I bought her another box and then had to make it look like the same box by getting “rid” of some of them.

And I'm not imagining things when I walked into a candy shop and the customers in the store looked up at me, in unison, like animals sensing a predator.  They clutched their selections and scurried to the cash register.  The candy clerks became super enthusiastic, determined to make me feel like the most important Demy-God in the entire mall.  When the manager of the store saw me, his eyeballs rolled back and became dollar signs like Uncle Scrooge McDuck.

I wouldn't have tackled them--there was plenty for everyone.

Trying to be a reformed choco-holic, I went to a sporting goods store looking for some new exercise gear.  On the cashier’s counter was a display of extra-long Snickers, next to them Butterfingers large enough to be labeled Butterfeet

“That’s gotta be one of those “Power Bars” with asparagus, bark and antler powder in it, right?”
“Nope, they’re just big candy bars.”
“Ring it up”

Blast you, Chocolate, for lurking in unlikely places!

If Clarence, the “It’s a Wonderful Life” angel would indulge me one of those life without something moments, I think my life minus chocolate would be very different.  On the one hand, I’d surely be thinner, more energetic and with at least one two-piece bathing suit.  On the other hand, would life really be worth living?

Are there other chocolate consumers out there who get woozy when they pass a chocolate donut or hear, “Buy me, you know you want to” whispering voices when they are standing next to a Ghirardelli brownie display?  If so, we must unite and harness this dark power to coexist with candy everywhere.

But let’s wait until after Valentines Day.