this island life

I know what you were thinking… maybe I should call Lora. What if she’s dead in a gutter somewhere or maybe she fell to the fate of a firey auto crash or what if she got stolen and eaten by cannibals at what she thought was the petting zoo but turned out to be a trap set for small children or maimed in the ghetto while out saving the world from poor parenting practices? The bad part about reading people’s blogs if you have no other line of communication with them is that you never know what is going on in that person’s life unless they are posting. Well, I’m not dead, but I was horribly ill and I didn’t want you to catch my germs so I stayed off the world wide interweb for a little while.

A few weeks ago, my ENT gave me some sort of steroidal nasal spray to clean out what was left of the garbage that had been living in my face for the past fifteen years and it turned out that every damned side effect listed on the tightly folded onion skin patient info packet went straight from the paper and into the core of my being.

Dizziness, nausea, bloody noses, headaches, sore throat, earaches, trouble with swallowing, trouble with eating, trouble with sleeping, trouble with breathing, trouble sorting out your troubles. All there. All me. So, I didn’t go to the doctor because I am so incredibly above being sick with any actual illnesses and I assumed it was all from this medication because I am way too good and way too pretty to ever get sick. Fast forward two and a half weeks of misery and I found a little flashlight in Jake’s grubby hands. I snatched it from him, pointed it into the deepest recesses of my throat, and almost puked. I would have, but my throat hadn’t worked right in three days so I just got that weird heartburn that you get when your stomach wants to empty itself but your mouth says “no, I simply cannot allow this to happen. Not here, not now”.

It looked like someone had emptied a carton of cottage cheese in there ten days after the expiration date and six days before I got a chance to look at it. If you do the math, that’s just a bit over two weeks of lumpy rotting dairy product. In my mouth.

When I finally dragged myself to the pit of humanity that is the Methodist ER, the doctor gagged a little when she looked down my throat. She loaded me with steroids and penicillin and sent me away fast so as not to infect the teenaged gunshot victim with no insurance, his two giggling friends, the immigrants who wouldn’t stop saying the word trabaj√°bamos(which coincidentally was my favorite word in the Spanish language until that point. Go ahead and say it. You’ll love it), and the woman who was teaching her son to drink his own urine if he ever gets trapped in a hole because “they just don’t teach things like that in school, but it is important to know that”. When I made it to my ENT three days later, he told me I was disgusting and he hadn’t seen a case of infection that bad since he worked with the homeless and that was after twelve doses of penicillin.

And penicillin is fun, isn’t it? Diarrhea AND a yeast infection?!?!? Yesssss!

There are tons of topics I’d like to blog about, but I just haven’t had the time. I’ve been working hard on boycotting television because it is sapping my time, energy, motivation, and general will to live. I used to be an avid bookworm and a halfway decent housekeeper until Jake was born, and since he is almost at a point in his babyness that I can just about read and keep an eye on him at the same time, I figure now is as good a time as any to start up again. I read American Psycho (good, but I can think of grosser and more revolting things to do to people and their corpses. Corpsi? Whatever… I was a bit disappointed, but maybe if I had read it back in the early nineties before the current World War and Marilyn Manson and Rob Zombie and Quentin Tarantino and the BBC News and other shockmonsters ruined my soul and desensitized me to what goes on in the world I would have been appalled). I’m currently eating- er, reading- This Book Will Save Your Life. I like it, but I don’t love it. Next is This Side of Paradise, and then I’m going to finish The Idiot, which has been kicking around my bedside for three years now. So, I’m feeling better about reading more, but now that is cutting into my housework. What is a girl to do?

I went to a DC United game on the 20th with an old friend. Well, a young friend, but we’ve been friends for a long time. We used to work together at the bar a thousand lifetimes ago and now she is a hotshot editor at the Smithsonian even though she has yet to see her twenty-fifth birthday. When I first met her she was really into all-night raves in Baltimore warehouses and glitter eye make-up and house music that no one else had ever heard of and we called her Marajuana behind her back because she was a little soupy sometimes. Who knew she was secretly a straight-A genius who would run circles around us all? I was a little overwhelmed at the big city life of Our Nation’s Capital and was more than ready to jump on the Metro and hightail it back to 95 North where I could return to the safety of my small town existence here in Little Big City, USA where everybody knows your name and no one pushes you around and there is room to walk and you never have to touch someone’s shoulder with your own and they’re always glad you came.

Other news, other news… Someone called me Mrs. the other day and I almost flipped. Never once have I been called that. I simply don’t allow it. I hate it. It was bad enough that I changed my name upon marriage let alone call me Missus. Okay, I changed it because I was tired of people asking me if I was related to the band. Or the (fictional, people! He’s not real either!) doctor. I measured people’s intelligence and literary prowess by whether they asked if I was related to the band or the doctor. It was a fun game, but it’s over.

If you don’t know me, you probably don’t even know I’m married. I don’t usually wear wedding rings even though I have a good half dozen of them, I don’t talk about my personal life with people who aren’t loyal readers or close friends. Someone I boss around at work introduced me as Mrs. SoandSo. Gross. She won’t do it again, I can assure you that.

Work is going well. Knocking heads together as usual. My yummbly mummbly wooshy gooshy class is over. I actually learned something there. SomethingS, as a matter of fact. The greatest thing I’m taking away from it all is patience with others who don’t understand what I am trying to cram down their throat and why I am doing it. Note that I didn’t say I learned tolerance. I still get really pissy, but now I can sit in my piss and use the skills I have gathered to guide and teach and love and hug and make the world a little bit better than it was when I woke up. It has helped immensely when I’m trying to teach people how to use the crappy city-run database that was outdated in 1985. Which I have to log onto now and do what they are paying me to do while I sit at my desk pretending to look busy.


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