I'm feeling quite guilty for being ever-so-neglectful of my poor little bloggy for the last couple of months. But I've been crazy busy and chasing my ass in circles and, oh yeah, I'm still sick. Color me not happy. But I do have two new coloring books. Yay!!!
I don't have any fresh ideas or anything I particularly care to rant about right now, at least not in a public forum where people who I am not terribly fond of at the moment might recognize themselves. Ahem. So, instead, I shall regale you with the tale of the most bizarre dream I have had in quite some time.
In this dream, my lifelong friend and former schoolmate, Dee (Hi, Dee!), was pimping a hookup with a mutual friend--let's call him X (because I will not be sharing that identity here, un-uh, no way, forget it). Now X is not someone I've ever thought about in a sexual way. I mean, I'm sure he's perfectly capable, or a dynamo, or dear God, what horrible road have I wandered down? Never mind. Argh. Anyway, purely platonic. Period.
I'm not quite sure what my marital status was within the dream because Jason was neither seen nor directly referred to, but judging from the furtive, illicit nature of the liaison, I'm guessing my troth was indeed plighted. But the secrecy surrounding the assignation could also have been attributed to my parents staying in the same hotel (in Dallas--apparently, this was an integral detail of the dream because that was, unlike my wedded state, quite clear). Luckily, they were on the 5th floor and I was on the 8th. Whew. Crisis averted.
However, the course of true hookups never did run smooth. Power outage in the hotel. Oh dear. Confounded by the accidental release of some of the caged wild animals also resident in our hotel. This made navigating the hallways quite an adventure. Luckily, the lions and tigers (no bears, oh my) were agitated and you could hear them growling in the dark corridors well before they got near you. To avoid them, you simply climbed up the wall and perched high up out of their reach until they passed by. Yep. What? You were expecting something logical?
After a long and arduous trek through darkened hallways populated by prowling wild beasts, I make it to my 8th-floor room to prepare for the tryst. The power has returned and as I am getting ready, I notice and hazily recall that my goddai friends had all signed my boobs the night before in celebration of my 6-month boobiversary (which really was Friday--happy boobday to me!), clearly accompanied by vast quantities of margaritas, hence the hazy recall. Naturally, the ink will not come off and I am obviously quite discomfited and embarrassed by this because I'm going to have to explain to X why 20 or so of my closest friends have autographed my breasts. Oh well, onward and upward. Winners never quit and oh, never mind.
I would now like to take a moment to thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph, all the saints, Buddha, Hanuman, Krishna, and whomever or whatever else might have contributed to the filter that cut the next scene either from my dream, or blessedly, from my memory. The next thing I remember is clearly after the deed had been done. There was some cuddling (aww, an extramarital sex dream with cuddling--how sweet!) and then I simply kissed him and said goodbye. And that was that. As far as you know.
THE END
Ok, so I have the attention span of a drunken gnat.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
A Banner Health Day
Or not, as the case may be. I woke up yesterday morning with a raging respiratory infection that seemed to have morphed overnight from the sore throat I'd had since Tuesday. I conveniently already had a doctor's appointment scheduled for midmorning due to the abscess on my scar from surgery six months ago. I know I shouldn't be getting abscesses this long after the surgery, but someone forgot to tell my body. Apparently, I'm stitch-absorbing challenged.
Anyhoo, so doc appointment goes fine and he writes me a prescription for cough syrup with codeine so I'm not up all night coughing. The wound has pretty much self-healed (I'll spare you the gory details and you're welcome), so we're just going to keep an eye on it and forego the antibiotics for now. Ok, fine, sure. So, I spend the day pretty much feeling like shit-on-a-stick and popping ibuprofen left, right, and center and a generic dayquil thingy at about 3:00 or 4:00. Typical sick day, right? Ah, a hasty conclusion, my friend.
It gets on toward evening and I'm planning on hitting the sack soon, so I spoon myself up some cough syrup. About an hour later, around 9:30, I get hit with an esophageal spasm the likes of which I have not felt in years. Now, for those of you unfamiliar, an esophageal spasm causes a "squeezing type of chest pain that feels just like heart pain (angina)," to put it mildly. I end up kneeling on the floor with my forehead pressed against the floorboards, whimpering, and endlessly repeating, "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God." Poor Jason has never actually witnessed one of these attacks before but luckily, by the time he heard me and came to check on me, I had enough of my breath back to at least give him an idea of what was going on. Unfortunately, the spasms just kept coming. I managed to get back in bed for the rest of them but this just leads to me flopping around like a fish out of water trying to find some position, any position, that might alleviate the nigh unbearable pain. I tend to curl up in a ball around a pillow and try to get my chest higher than my head--I don't know why, it's just what instinct leads me to do. And I endlessly repeat either the "Oh God" phrase above or "No, no, no" or "Why, why, why?" or some such inane idiocy. I did have the presence of mind to avoid "Help me" and "Make it stop" because I knew poor Jason could do neither.
I think I must have had about five episodes within the space of an hour and because of that damned codeine in the cough syrup, I couldn't take a muscle relaxer and didn't know if I could take a painkiller or not. Jason was starting to freak and I was as wrung out as a dishrag, so we called the hospital to see if there was anything I could safely take. They were unwilling to suggest anything on the phone because of the possibility of an allergic reaction (and also a liability issue, I'm guessing) and recommended that we come in to the E/R. Several hours, an EKG, a chest X-ray, a couple of valium, and a late-night episode of What Not to Wear later, I was released on my own recognizance and into the care of Bossy McBosserson, the alter ego of my mild-mannered husband. One, ok two, little sedatives for me and my, but doesn't he feel awfully superior all of a sudden. I think he's just envious that he doesn't share the same strength of character (read: mind-altering drugs) that enables me to happily be seen in Safeway in the middle of the night in my pink Supergirl pajamas while still wearing my hospital ID bracelet. Party on, Wayne. And a happy Friday the 13th to you all.
Anyhoo, so doc appointment goes fine and he writes me a prescription for cough syrup with codeine so I'm not up all night coughing. The wound has pretty much self-healed (I'll spare you the gory details and you're welcome), so we're just going to keep an eye on it and forego the antibiotics for now. Ok, fine, sure. So, I spend the day pretty much feeling like shit-on-a-stick and popping ibuprofen left, right, and center and a generic dayquil thingy at about 3:00 or 4:00. Typical sick day, right? Ah, a hasty conclusion, my friend.
It gets on toward evening and I'm planning on hitting the sack soon, so I spoon myself up some cough syrup. About an hour later, around 9:30, I get hit with an esophageal spasm the likes of which I have not felt in years. Now, for those of you unfamiliar, an esophageal spasm causes a "squeezing type of chest pain that feels just like heart pain (angina)," to put it mildly. I end up kneeling on the floor with my forehead pressed against the floorboards, whimpering, and endlessly repeating, "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God." Poor Jason has never actually witnessed one of these attacks before but luckily, by the time he heard me and came to check on me, I had enough of my breath back to at least give him an idea of what was going on. Unfortunately, the spasms just kept coming. I managed to get back in bed for the rest of them but this just leads to me flopping around like a fish out of water trying to find some position, any position, that might alleviate the nigh unbearable pain. I tend to curl up in a ball around a pillow and try to get my chest higher than my head--I don't know why, it's just what instinct leads me to do. And I endlessly repeat either the "Oh God" phrase above or "No, no, no" or "Why, why, why?" or some such inane idiocy. I did have the presence of mind to avoid "Help me" and "Make it stop" because I knew poor Jason could do neither.
I think I must have had about five episodes within the space of an hour and because of that damned codeine in the cough syrup, I couldn't take a muscle relaxer and didn't know if I could take a painkiller or not. Jason was starting to freak and I was as wrung out as a dishrag, so we called the hospital to see if there was anything I could safely take. They were unwilling to suggest anything on the phone because of the possibility of an allergic reaction (and also a liability issue, I'm guessing) and recommended that we come in to the E/R. Several hours, an EKG, a chest X-ray, a couple of valium, and a late-night episode of What Not to Wear later, I was released on my own recognizance and into the care of Bossy McBosserson, the alter ego of my mild-mannered husband. One, ok two, little sedatives for me and my, but doesn't he feel awfully superior all of a sudden. I think he's just envious that he doesn't share the same strength of character (read: mind-altering drugs) that enables me to happily be seen in Safeway in the middle of the night in my pink Supergirl pajamas while still wearing my hospital ID bracelet. Party on, Wayne. And a happy Friday the 13th to you all.
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