Christopher Street

Spent my whole evening tearing the house apart looking for six pairs of contacts that, it turns out, weren't exactly lost. They had just fallen behind a chair.

Of course, the anxiety of believing that I had lost six pairs of contacts meant that I had zero interest in dinner.

And now, I'm hungry.

And it's too late to eat.

Stupid contacts.

...and that was sort of a mistake. I managed to get through the two meetings that I had scheduled in the morning, and when my third meeting cancelled, I went home. I had called to make an appointment with the doctor, but they couldn't see me till three. I left work around 12:30 or so, which put he home around 1:30.

Which gave me a glorious hour to sleep before I had to go to the doc.

I didn't even make it upstairs. I staggered into the house, and collapsed on my chair. I was asleep within seconds.

I awoke an hour later contorted into some sort of human cat's cradle...literally. I had fallen asleep on my right side. Somehow, Owen had managed to get me onto my back, and managed to fashion a hammock out of my legs. There he was, flat on his back, sound asleep.

I will point out that the sheet and the black thing on the couch are deterrants so that the cat will stay off. Since he can't be on the couch, well...he chooses to be on me. :)

 

 

 

So, I managed to feel human for about three hours today, and took full advantage. I showered, got dressed, slapped on a little makeup and went out to lunch with my sweetie.

We went to one of my favorite new restaurants, Matchbox in Rockville.

Yummy mini-cheeseburgers, the best onion straws EVER and some pretty yummy pizza besides. Win. The pizza was so good that I almost forgot I was sick. :)

Then I came home, collapsed on the bed for two hours, and now am back to the whiny place. Ow, ow, my throat hurts, ow.

This needs to not linger...I have TOO much going on at work this week to be sick.

Bleh.

So, here's a cautionary tale for all you kids out there.

When the doctor tells you to get your tonsils out, just get them out.
Yes, it will be scary and it will suck. But you're nine. You'll get
over it. You won't die, and you'll get ice cream.

When I was nine, I had not one but TWO doctors tell my parents that my
tonsils needed to come out. That they were--and remain--the size of
Azerbaijan and would just be a blight on my health for the rest of my
days.

Those docs were right. My tonsils--which support an independent
government and house several federal buildings--are nothing but a germ
sponge. It's like having several kindergarten classes living in my
throat. I am a germ factory.

So, why didn't I get them out? Because I was a stubborn, spoiled brat.
Because I didn't want to. Because I stomped my feet and told my mother
that I understood that I was a child and that she could, in fact, MAKE
me do this but that she should keep in mind that if I were to die, it
would be her fault.

How she didn't kill me before I turned 18 remains a great mystery.

So, here I sit, 35 years later with tonsils that could sway the
American Idol vote if I let them have phones, and I can't
sleep--again--because I can't swallow without feeling like the tiny
razors that are embedded in my tonsils will mutiny and slit my throat.

Which would serve me right, I reckon.