Since I've been felled--FELLED!--by this illness, I've watched approximately 40 episodes of my Sex and the City. Not that I own the franchise to that show; if I did do you really think I'd be sitting around here talking to the likes of your impoverished ass?
I mean my box set of the show, is what I mean. Any time I drag myself up out the bed, I hobble to the couch and cover up in what at this point is a smallpox blanket that
Dear Ned, We should wash
and watch more of my show.
"I'm going to go upstairs and kill myself," Ned announced the other night, when he returned home from the gym to hear the familiar samba music that is the intro to my show. Which I own. I own a mansion und a yacht.
Even worse is when Ned deigns to sit with me and try to read while I'm watching. Twice he's looked up and said, "Oh my GOD, I know what's going to happen in this one. Not because I've seen it, but because you've recapped the plot for me. GodDAMMIT."
Then he threatens suicide again, or to go upstairs and look at porn, which is fine by me because Sex and the City is my porn.
Anyway, I've gone through the plots about Mr. Big, which I just mistyped Mr. Bug and slayed my own self much like Ned wants to do, and Aiden--who was robbed--and now I have all those boring years to get through till Alexandr Petrovsky, who was hot with his lack of letters, I don't care what you think. Self-centeredness is sexy.
Which brings me back to me and my cold, which is here, still, but I am on the mend. It was MORE than a cold, which is what my father always says, but really, it was. I was flat out dead for days, and Ned must be sick and tired of coming home to the Mucinex character every night.
Once maybe 10 years ago I had strep throat, which went away and came back. The second time was accompanied by a fungal infection, which all had to do with my idiot neighbor Rik and his pigeons, and anyway the point is I was sick for three weeks in a row. They were exactly, to the day, the very days Barry Gibb was in town doing an album and I was too ill to stalk him, which had been my plan.
Anyway, Marvin, who really was nice to me generally speaking, came home after like day 17 of said illness. "God," he said, "you look awful. Why don't you clean yourself up?"
You know those things people say that you'll never get over?
So the other night, when I was the Mucinex character, I thanked Ned for never telling me I needed to clean up. "Well, you're welcome. You're beautiful," lied Ned. "And, to be fair, you probably looked a lot worse then than you do now."
See. I can't even REWARD Ned with the Price is Right losing horn, so awful was that line. All I can do is sneeze near him.
Okay, I have to go. I worked from home today and am in the middle of something. I just took this time out to talk about really nothing.
I woke Ned up in the middle of the night. According to my Fitbit, it was somewhere between 2:47 and 3:08. "I'm sick," I announced, not at all dramatically. "My stomach is sick."
"Oh, no!" Ned jolted up. "Come here! What can I do?"
Now, see, there's the difference between Ned and me. I'd have been all OHMYGOD STOMACH SICKNESS! I'M GOING TO A HOTEL!
"There's nothing you can do," I said to him, not at all dramatically. "I'm going to sleep on the couch." And I did. Lily slept on my stomach, which I thought was going to be awful but was in fact not so bad. The 49 times I had to get up and run to the bathroom last night, Edsel accompanied me, and now I have an image of me on the pot and Edsel playing accordion.
The point is, now I feel better, and I'm going to work because stoic, and I weighed myself and lost like a pound, which is completely unfair. I promise you I dropped Mrs. Brown off at the pool 90 times, and Mrs. Brown's been retaining water.
Does that ever happen to you, where you wake up horrifically nauseated and you feel awful and you finally fall asleep and your body's all, eh. Better now, mostly. What is that?
In other news, don't forget that we've got a new book club book, and that book is Forever by Judy Blume because it's 1976 right now. Red, white and blue everything and the bicentennial minute.
Also, Ned and I went to that Chris Rock movie, Top Five, which I did not even want to see but he showed me the preview and I said, Oh, now I want to see that. So we did, and it was great. I didn't even expect to like it, and I don't know why because I like Chris Rock. Anyway, I recommend. And look at us, going to a mainstream movie! We're so basic. We totally shoulda gone to Applebee's after.
I have to go, which I always say and then I talk 72 more minutes. Here's my latest Purple Clover and here are photos I've taken recently that're on my desktop that I keep meaning to add here and never do. June Gardens' School of Organized Thought. Instructor: June--oh, wow, look at that!
She's 109, and she can still jump to the top of the wardrobe. She'd be one of those old ladies who still cuts her own grass.
Hey, how's that the-dogs-aren't-allowed-in-the-living-room thing going?
When my coworker, Griff, left for Christmas, we decided to all chip in and girl up his workspace. Sadly, you can't see the MILF someone put on his wall in glitter letters.
And finally, in summation, Faithful Reader Paula sent me TWO Real Romance magazines and I have read them thoroughly. I read them thoroughly the minute I got them. Ohmygod, they were FABULOUS, and I forgot that each narrator is a cute girl with a pert figure. "I was 26 years old, with honey-blonde hair and a pert figure." They're never a dog.
Okay, it's late. I gotta dress like a sexpot and get to work.
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.