How do you know if you have a sinus infection?
How do you know if you have a sinus infection?
I don't want you to pace the floors with worry, and end up calling your whole family in for a conference about this, but I stayed home today with a cold. I know. But I'll likely pull through.
I also stayed home because I slept .004 hours last night obsessing over my health and I'll tell you why. I mean, this cold is bad enough, but also I got scared to death by a phone call. As you know, because you never miss a single word of this blog and my every utterance rivets you, I had a procedure on Monday on m'girl parts. I'd had a weird pap smear and needed a follow-up thing. Pap don't preach.
Of course, once I got there and let the sun shine in, as it were, my doctor said things looked pretty boring in my parts and she'd get back to me with any results via letter.
So last night, we were having dinner, and I got my phone out for something or other, and I saw my doctor's office had called at 12:26 yesterday.
"Oh my god," I said, looking to see if I had any voice mails, which I did not. "OH MY GOD."
"What?" said Ned, who is used to me bursting into a panic, so he kept eating.
"My doctor's office called me today. Oh, why didn't I see this? Why didn't they leave a message? Oh, god, why did they call?" I felt sick. I ran upstairs and logged into this patient portal thing they gave me. It's like this private website where you can see your chart and things, which is perfect for me because have you met my hypochondria? But all my chart said was my blood pressure, my weight, an application to be the fat lady at the circus, and the results of my pap, which I already knew and was blue about. I was Pap Smurf.
Well, that ruined last night, lemme tell ya. Oh, I Googled cervical cancer survivor rates and learned all about chemo and basically I was a ball of fetal position nerves, is what I was. I was having pap-itations.
All medical procedures should come with absolutely no waiting. It should be the law. Ima start my own drive-thru OB GYN and call it Jiffy Pap.
When I woke up this morning, I looked at my email to see if maybe the Grim Reaper had emailed a welcome kit or anything. And then I noticed that patient portal had emailed me at 12:26 yesterday. "This email confirms the changes you made to your patient portal," it read.
I signed up for that damn thing yesterday, and while I was filling out the form, it asked if I wanted to confirm it was really me via text or call, and I opted for a call. And right then I knew, my doctor's office had called for that. Not to tell me the end is near.
So that was yesterday's freakout. Now today I have to worry this cold will turn into croup, because you never know.
My last post mentioned my good deeds project. If you want to participate, two important things:
Your partner is not Missus B. I promise you it's not Missus B unless you were comment number 101. She had the lovely opportunity to be commentor 100, and she now has so many partners I fear for her dance card.
So that's that, and if you have already done your good deed, you can start telling from this post on. I will allegedly compile them and list them all at Christmas. Oh, hey, I have an idea. Tell me your deed and at the end write "KEEK!" just like that, then I can do a search and find good deeds easily.
Keek is a Scottish term that means to peep surreptitiously. You know how that happens.
In the meantime, I have a cold and yesterday I had a delightful biopsy, so that was all a great time. I was supposed to go see a play with many of the Alexes, a play called The Snow Queen, which I keep calling The Drag Queen just to annoy everyone. When I'm not KEEK!ing I'm saying Drag Queen.
Oh, lord I just thought of something. Don't say KEEK! in your comments UNLESS it's a good deed report. See what I've done to myself?
The point is, I had my annual girl exam and the results came back wonky, so yesterday they did a biopsy, but while my doctor was down there--and imagine THAT gig. I'm June's vagina doctor!
While she was down there, she said, "Well, you have a boring cervix. I don't even see anything to biopsy. But what Ima do is take this putty knife and remove your entire insides just to be safe." Comfy.
I never. I have always thought I had one of the more engaging cervixes. Ned just emerged from the shower and said he doesn't find my cervix boring at all. He said he's a big fan of my cervix. What does that doctor know?
Anyway, I guess that's a good sign, that it's boring, and speaking of boring, instead of going to dinner and a play with my friends, I went home and had a BLT and watched a movie on Sundance. When did Sundance get commercials?
Speaking of which, the other night I tried to watch something on Oprah's channel, I forget what, and EVERY SIX MINUTES they broke for 700 commercials, which weren't even real commercials, they were ads for shows on Oprah's network, over and over and over again. Yes, I already KNOW, Oprah, that Nate is heading over to Iyanla's house to fix it. He should work on fixing her name, too, because IYANLA?
Yes, Oprah, I already know that sitcom with the bad acting is having a Very Special breast cancer episode this week.
Dear Oprah. You've already got money. Give it a rest with so many commercials. God.
Yes, God wrote that, because even though he and Oprah are like THIS, even HE is irked at all the damn commercials.
I guess God wouldn't say "damn." What if you met God and he swore like a sailor? That'd be unexpected. And way more interesting than my cervix.
Okay, I'm dragging my cold ass into work. Yesterday we switched seats, which makes it the sixth move I've had in three years there. I no longer sit next to cute Ryan, and ironically he now sits where I used to. Everyone was talking about the end of our work marriage, and when he came to my desk to get my old desk key, you couldn't have beaten the comments back with a stick. "Ohhh, they're not even trying the long-distance thing." "Oh, it's really the end." "Who you gonna marry now, Ryan?"
Everyone's a comedian. Except my cervix, which apparently is Easter Island.
Okay, go do your good deeds. Go do the right thing.
What's sad is I can't actually see from my head to my lap, so for all I know I'm typing "puppies are assholes" right now. "Grandmas suck."
So, last night Ned saved my life, which was considerate of him. For the last year or so, my throat feels close-uppy, and I keep thinking it's just anxiety because have you met me? But I also feel like it's kind of hard to swallow. Every once in awhile a drink will go down the wrong way. Which is what happened last night.
I don't even know if I was officially choking choking, because I could still make a noise, but it was only breathing out, sort of, that I could do. We were at a restaurant and Ned jumped up and pulled me out of the chair and Heimliched me. I've never been Heimliched, and lemme tell ya, that shit works.
Ned was traumatized after and said it was the scariest moment of his life. I wonder if I'll get jewelry out of this?
Anyway, I'm calling the doctor, because I'm telling you my throat is swollen or something, and I know this is The End and you will never hear from me again. "You don't have esophageal cancer," said Ned, when I Googled my symptoms. "You've never smoked a day in your life.
Technically, I did smoke a pack of Virginia Slims, one a day, when I walked home from 9th grade for a few rebellious weeks. I'd wait till cool kids were walking by and I'd very pointedly hold my not-at-all-beginner-looking-Virginia-Slim out and smoke it when they were near enough to see me. You can imagine how this shot me into the upper eschelon of the popular crowd.
Anyway, given how much my grandparents smoked around me, I had a pack-a-day habit by age 4. So now I have to pay the piper for all those good times and die of some throat disease.
Either that or I'm just being crazy.
I have a pre-aura right now, which is a migraine thing, and what it means is the screen in front of me is barely visible and what I see instead is a bunch of wiggly lines, kind of like static on a TV. Soon no one will remember static on a TV.
The point is, I can't see to write and my head isn't that happy with me, either.
So, tell me, once I can see again, what you thought you were going to be when you grew up and what you eventually became. I fully intended to be a beautiful princess, and thought I was going to wear the cone hat all the time.
So far today I've cleaned cat barf and can't see out of one eye and I have to go to work anyway and try to proofread things. So, yeah. That happened. Princess happened. Thank god I'm beautiful.
Break me off a piece of that.
Anyway, you? How'd you turn out?
All summer, my city is offering free workouts at parks on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. The schedule is on the refridge® at work and torments me daily. "I really should be doing these," I think, as I head for the pudding inside the refridge.
A few weeks ago, I went to Tai Chi in the park with a coworker who is actually not named Alex. Let's call her Fleeta, which I did not just find in the random name generator or anything. "Hey, Fleeta," I asked her yesterday while she toiled at her desk. "You working out tonight?"
"I'm not sure, June," she said, never looking up from her work. "You asked me last week, and I said yes, and you never showed up."
"Yes. You asked me twice. I went there and you were never there."
Last Tuesday is when Alex 420349393 came over and we did yoga after she couldn't find the workout locale in the park. I must have also asked Fleeta if she was doing that workout in the park, too, then forgot. Honestly, what is wrong with me? "Did I really ask you twice?" I asked Fleeta. She sighed and continued with her work. Fleeta abhors me. Imagine how delighted she'll be when she finds out I'm calling her Fleeta.
"So, you going tonight?"
At 5:00, another Alex was leaving work. Let's call her Alex 5. "Hey, Alex 5, you wanna go to the workout in the park? Tonight it's Zumba!" I'm afraid I did a little Zumba-ish dance, at least what I ASSUMED would be Zumba, as I'd never gone.
Alex 5 looked at me for a long time. "I was trying to think of some reason why I can't, but I guess I can't think of any," she said.
I am super-popular at work.
She had workout clothes with her, so we just went to my house to change. You know, last week, Alex 420349393 came over to do yoga at the last minute, and she had her own yoga mat at the ready. Is this generation just prepared for anything? Had I asked Alex 5 to go ballroom dancing with me, would she have pulled out her burgundy taffeta?
"Let's hunt for grouse!" "Oh, sure! Let me whip out my orange vest."
Before we left, we did a search online for just where in the hell this particular workout was. Because the thing on the refridge was confusing. "At the trailhead!" it enthuses. Yeah, thanks. That narrows it down. When we went online, they called it The Trailhead and Under the Bridge and kind of on Spring Garden and kind of on this one other street and over yonder by the trail, there.
Finally, we decided we knew where it was and wrote down directions. I didn't want to use the work printer for personal use, as I am a scaredy cat about breaking the rules.
When we got to my house, I realized I'd left the directions at work. Son of a...We went online again, read, "At the trailhead!" Got annoyed anew, figured everything out and wrote it down. Then we got in the car, all Zumba-attired out.
The thing is, Alex 5 and I got to talking about our weekend and we missed the turn. Mostly because our directions said, "Turn left on Spring Garden" but the only thing present on the road was an arrow saying "Spring Garden this way" all the way on the right. So we drove on, looking for a place to turn around, and suddenly we were on the highway headed to Charlotte.
Son of a...
We finally turned around and got back downtown, and drove around till we saw anything familiar again, and finally got back where we were and got in the right lane in order to turn left on Spring Garden, which we did and then?
There it was! You know? It was at the trailhead!
"Where do we park?" we wondered. At this point, class had started three minutes prior, but we were still determined to go. "We're just missing the instructions on how to do Zumba without breaking our necks," Alex 5 assured me. And who needs that?
Finally we parked. And got out of the car. A woman approached us. "Is this where we do Zumba?" she asked us. We said we sure thought so. She walked away, dazed. "She thinks we look like Zumba experts," said Alex 5, proudly. Yes, clearly we were Charo and Shakira, over here.
A large group of people headed toward us.
"Zumba's canceled," they all said.
How fervently do you pray that I find another punchline song some day?
The town criers who told us about class also said they were just gonna walk the trail, instead, so Alex 5 and I joined them. And by "joined" I mean we sort of creepily walked behind them and judged their tattoos. But the trail was really sort of lovely, and it was probably two miles or so. Which completely justifies the fishsticks I had for dinner.
Tonight? It's belly dancing with Faun Finley! I should totally have called Not Alex "Faun Finley."
(c)2014, Ned Nickerson. The term "refridge" and all its ridiculousness property of Ned Nickerson, Greensboro, NC. Any uses, mentions, or likenesses of the word "refridge" are to be credited to Ned, because it is the stupidest word invented.
A few weeks ago at work, someone put a flyer on the refrigerator, or "refridge," as Ned likes to call it.
(Once he referred to "the refridge" and then he said, "Why did I just call it that? I've never said 'refridge' in my life." So now naturally that's all we ever call that thing that stands empty in my kitchen.)
(Also, in my family, someone once said "big-boneded" and now that's all we say.)
(OH MY GOD with the straying from the point.)
So, I looked at the flyer, and it offered free fitness classes on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesdays at the park downtown, by the fountain. I like how I clarify that for you, as if you live here. "Ohhhh, by the fountain! Thanks, June!"
"You guys! We should do this!" I screeched to the Alexes at work. "This sounds so great!"
"I don't know, Jooon..."
"OH COME ON! We can go after work, it'll be outside, it's FREEEEE! Look! On Monday it's circuit training! Tuesday has Zumba! Come on and Zoom Zoom Zoomba Zoom!"
No one got it, as Zoom was a thing when their parents were zygotes. Remember when they sang the zip code? Ohhh two onnnne three fourrrr.
Finally I got people to agree to go to damn fitness in the park by the fountain, and I was all excited, then Monday came.
"Oh, I can't go. I tutor my student on Monday," I said.
On Tuesday, Ned and I were going to the movies. Guess who abhors me. Is it every Alex at work?
So FINALLY, last night I went to tai chi, and I was really hoping we'd be taking a class to learn how to straighten our hair, seeing as the word "chi" was involved.
See. I kid in my hilarious way. I know all about the chi, because I lived in Los Angeles, and you could literally go to a tea shop and tell the tea bartender your woes, and he'd blend a tea for you based on what part of your chi was blocked. God forbid you just want a little Red Zinger.
Once I went to an acupuncturist, and one thing Marvin was quite tolerant of was all my appointments to get cupping and detoxified and so on. So I came home from acupuncture and he pretended to care. "How was your appointment? What'd the 'doctor' say?" he rolled his eyes at 'doctor.'
"Well, I'll tell you, but I really want you to cut it out. Chinese medicine is a real thing, and just because you're a white man from the Midwest doesn't mean you have to be so closed-minded. Can I tell you what he said, and you won't act like a dick?"
Marvin promised he wouldn't act like a dick.
"He said my liver chi is out of whack. And that makes total sense because..." I forget now why I thought it made total sense, other than that I am the world's most gullible person. So I went on and on about my liver chi, and how I needed to fix my liver chi, and when I was done, Marvin said, "I just have one question and don't get mad."
"What's liver cheese?"
Anyway, I went to get my chi on last night with NonAlex.
Anyway, there were probably 30 of us, and our leader was 107 years old. YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE SHIT HE COULD DO. He could bend and squat and hold his leg out for 47 minutes and TAI CHI WAS REALLY HARD. Who knew? Also, my ankle that I sprained in November is still screwed up. It really is.
So I will go to more workouts at the fountain, with Alexes or not. It was delightful. Oh, and you might want to hold on to your hat, because afterward I went to the pretentious hippie coop and got hippie baked chicken, vegetarian jambalaya and curried cauliflower. I KNOW. Then I got a migraine.
June, tai-ing and chi-ing out
Yesterday my yoga DVD came, because I've decided to become one of those yoga women. I'll be all sinewy and lean, like Madonna only less gross.
My Tracy Anderson DVD is great, and I lost 10 pounds using that thing, but I got plantar fasciitis when I did the cardio part, so then I gave up doing the cardio because cardio is overrated, with its stupid heart-healthyness and burning dumb calories and all that needless oxygen pumping through your blood and so on. So then I was only doing the half hour of strength training, and figured I'd get all muscle-y and bulky, maybe meet Martina Navratilova.
And while I love the half hour of strength training, all of a sudden I got this twisty-hip feeling every time I stood up. It was as if my hips had just clicked out of place, like I was a Mrs. Potato Head and you hadn't shoved the tops of my legs into my potato just right.
So that was sexy, me getting up from my chair at work and wriggling to and fro trying to get my hips back in my potato just right. It kind of hurt all the time.
My conclusion is that I am old, and perhaps I should not be doing this workout, with its pushups and planks at the same time, which I don't think is even possible, but I was trying to think of Tracy Anderson's more ludicrous demands. You should see her when she does this stuff. "Lie on the floor, turn sideways and lift up, using only your ankles to hold you aloft. Raise your right hand to the sky while you do needlepoint with your left hand. Pen a note to your mother with your left toes, using only a fine-point fountain pen. LIFT your chest to the sky, so when your heart gives up and bursts out of your sternum, it hits the ceiling. Remember to breathe."
The whole time that heifer is telling you this, she is doing it too with the most blank, I-could-do-this-all-afternoon look on her face that makes you want to take your foot and stab her in the neck with your fountain pen.
So, yoga. Gentle, forgiving yoga. I did a lot of research, and by "a lot of research" I mean I was on Ned's couch the other day looking at my phone and I Googled "beth hatha yoga" and this DVD came up, so I ordered it.
Beth hatha yoga. I hate myself. BEST. BEST hatha yoga, is what I meant to type, and I picked hatha because when I was lying here last week dying of a migraine, I read hatha yoga is good for curing them. So okay. Anyway, I went on Amazon and clicked once and I wish I could tell you how much I love fricking efficient Amazon, and any time another site pisses me off (place where I make my Volkswagen payments) (place where I'm paying off my doctor bill) (MeetCougars.com) I think, "Why can't you be like Amazon?"
I ordered my DVD on Saturday, and on Tuesday, it got here. I would marry Amazon. June Gardens Navratilova Amazon. Yes.
"I'm going to become one of those yoga women," I told my dogs as I ripped open the package. They seemed to take this in stride. Edsel just likes anything I do that involves me lying on the floor, so he can commence with the plunking his smelly dog head on top of me and waggling the rest of himself in a desperate, ecstatic manner. That's his cardio.
I got my yoga mat out, which is covered in cat claw marks, namaste, and put in the DVD. The thinnest, calmest man you have ever seen in your life was standing in front of an ocean. Ima go out on a limb and say "Pacific," seeing as he was claiming to be in Hawaii. For all I know he was in Uganda. But he said Hawaii, and he was one of those people who pronounce it "Haw-waaa-eee" all chopped up like he's choking on a little pollen.
"I'm Tamal Dodge," he serened at me, looking like he's never been pissed off a day in his life, even though he's gone around with a name like Tamal Dodge since day one, allegedly. "I've taught yoga since I was a child, and I'd like to teach you right here on this grass in Haa-waaaa-eeee. Let's begin."
And in about five minutes, I was lying on my side, lifting my arm to the ceiling and needlepointing with the other, and I felt my hips click out of their potato.
Son of a bitch.
I have exactly 20 minutes to write this, so it will be hurried and fraught with the errors you love to point out to me, admit it, but I will tell you about my harrowing few days.
I've had this damn migraine since last week, and it'd go away and come back and go away and come back and go--you get my drift. It was annoying. The same day I started getting migraines I also got this bizarre rash on my tailbone, and I'd show it to you but who wants to see that? Well. Everyone who knows me in real life, because I made everyone look. I was like that Coppertone girl with the dog pulling off her bathing suit.
My point is, the last time I wrote here, I ended up getting a King Kamehameha migraine, and it was one of the worst days of my life, and I didn't do anything all day but lie motionless in bed and try not to barf. It was dreadful.
And the dogs. THOSE DOGS. They tried to lie on the bed with me and be my nurses, except Edsel was the world's nervousest nurse, with the pacing and the barking out the window and the jumping off the bed to bark out the other window and finally I kicked them both the hell out even though it wasn't Lu's fault.
At some point, and I mean I was in bed for 24 hours and it's all a blur, but at some point something made them howl. HOWLLLLLL! they both said. WOOOOOOOO! WWWOOO WOOOO WOOOOOO! they continued. Then Edsel did this whole yip-yip-yip-WHOOOOOOO! thing and I was all, what, are we home on the range? Jesus Christ.
Ned told me he'd considered driving over and leaving flowers on my porch, but knew the dogs would bark and carry on and he didn't want me to have to deal with that, and I was all, yeah. Because those two were silent as the grave all day.
So yesterday I got up and hey! Guess who was still coming to dinner? Was it Sidney Poitihey your head still hurts? I realize that made almost zero sense. What do you want from me? I've been in agony. So I called the damn doctor's office, which allegedly opens at 8:00, and I started at 7:58 and got "The office is now closed. If this is a life-threatening emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1."
Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't you go fuck yourself, with your condescending please hang up and dial 9-1-1. I KNOW what to dial in a life-threatening emergency, and YOU'RE about to have one if you don't shut off this goddamn "the office is now closed" message that was STILL GOING ON at 8:03. EIGHT OH THREEEEEEEEE.
I finally got an appointment, and the doctor shot me with a steroid to try to knock off these migraines, and I was just about to leave when I said, "Oh, and hey. What's this rash?" I did my Coppertone impression for her.
"Oh, honey, you have shingles!"
Son of a bitch.
I already HAD shingles. Does anyone remember that? HAD them. I'd say been there, done that but then I'd have to pummel my own self till all the blood had left me.
I ALREADY HAD THEM.
So now I'm on steroids (HELLO WORLD!!!) and the world's largest navy-blue pill and I have some excellent pain pills which I probably won't take because it really doesn't hurt that bad. Shingles have nothing on a migraine.
So that's where I've been, popping pills and being a house. A house where the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire.
Stay tuned for more Blogging with Steroid June, coming your way soon.
I'm glad you liked yesterday's post about my coworker Bill's near-death experience. It has inspired to me feature a New Thing here on this blog: Freaky Fridays. I know. How did you ever think of such an original name, June? When you have a mind like this...
I'll explain Freaky Fridays in a minute, but the part where I just capitalized "New Thing" to be stupid reminds me of something I've been meaning to say. There is a person I am friends with on Facebook, who seems to think Status Updates Need to be Capitalized, as Though They are Titles.
Dear FB friend who does this: They don't. And you are killing me, verily you are.
She'll write: Great Day Today! Or Friday is Here, So Happy. Or Peoples is Funny.
STOP IT! STOP WITH THE CAPITALIZATION WHERE IT ISN'T NEEDED! Do you recall third grade, when we learned that capital letters go at the BEGINNING of the sentence and nowhere else unless you mention, you know, Kraft or your Aunt Harriet?
Or if you mention Jesus, which she sometimes will, and I'm just waiting for her to lowercase THAT, get all ee cummings on Jesus's ass.
Okay, I'm better now. I just had to tell someone, because it was going to be the death of me.
Back to Freaky Friday. Original! Maybe I'll name it something else, because even I am irked by me at this point. THE CONCEPT, however, is that if you have any sort of weird spirit-y story like Bill's near-death story, or a haunty house, or anything you can't explain, email me (Oh, Lord, is my email even visible on my blog anymore? I have no idea. It's firstname.lastname@example.org) and tell me the story, and I'll either print your story verbatim, edit it because you have no Idea when to Capitalize anyThing, or I will email you back with more Qs.
What say you? And then if there is a story to tell on Friday, I will tell it. Won't that be cool?
In other news, I AM SO HUNGRY. ALL CAPS. Well, that's not precisely true. I am just never full, that's all. Like, sometimes I'll go to Ned's and he'll say, "Would you like a peanut?" (he has a lot of peanuts, Ned does. Peanuts he roasts himself. Have you been enjoying Ned's monocle? It's his cane and white gloves that really get me hot) and I used to be able to say, "No. I'm not really hungry." Now if he offered me a peanut I'd eat the SHIT out of it then stampede to my damn Weight Watchers app to see if that counted as a point.
WHICH IT ALWAYS DOES. My oatmeal--OATMEAL!!!--is three effing points. My Amy's Organic Chili was SIX POINTS!!
"Well, what do you expect?" asked Ned, who is smug because he wears a top hat at all times. "What I do, is I bring an apple, an orange and a banana to work every day and eat them when I get hungry."
Honestly, the day I punch that man clean in his shell face, will any of you blame me?
Things should improve on the WW front, though, because the thing is, when I started this diet this week, I had $19 till payday, so I had to live on the food I already had in the house. But I just got paid by Google Ads (thank you, readers, for reading me) so now I can get food that has fewer points and I won't have to eat an Amy's Organic Chili then nothing for the next seven hours lest I run out of
which is all I ever think about these days.
Okay, I have to get ready for work. And when I get there, I can have a bagel thin (3 points) and the teensiest trace of cream cheese you have ever seen in your life. It's like HINT of cream cheese. Is what it is.
Goddammit I better have lost weight.
June. Shrinking out.