I used to think people who complained about colds were . . . well, kind of wussy. Never again will I think such a thing. From here on out, the moment someone near me sneezes I will rush to their side, murmuring words of sympathy and offering my deepest, most heartfelt condolences. Well, after I douse my entire body with Purell, of course.
I’ve been sick for so goddamn long I can’t remember what it’s like to feel normal. On Monday my doctor gave me antibiotics (”These won’t actually shorten the length of your cold, but they might prevent additional bacterial infections”) and cough syrup with codeine (which does seem to help with the middle-of-the-night consumptive hacking fits, although it tastes like seventeen flavors of ass), and noted that my resting heart rate is a jolly 110 beats per minute, which probably means I AM DYING, or possibly just having to work extra, ridiculously hard to perform such strenuous activities as inhaling.
I assumed that once I actually complained to a medical professional the cold would instantly disappear, the same way your computer suddenly starts working perfectly the minute you summon a sysadmin to come look at “this weird problem I’m having”, but no. I’m using up sick days right and left, just lying around the house feeling sorry for myself. The other night I randomly burst into tears as I stood in the kitchen blowing my nose for, literally, the nine millionth time, and told JB that this virus has officially made me clinically depressed. Loss of interest in normal activities? Check. Feeling sad and hopeless? Check. Impaired thinking? Check. Fatigue? Check. Low self-esteem? Oh my god YOU try leaving the house with a face that looks like it went fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson and not feel bad about yourself. Fucking CHECK.
My husband, who I have spent many a blog entry poking fun at, has been a goddamned saint over the last few weeks, putting up with my near-constant whining, snotting, hacking, and general state of disrepair. He’s entertained Riley for hours on end while I’ve laid on the couch whimpering, he’s gone to the store for peppermint ice cream at 11 PM, he’s uncomplainingly moved to the guest bed in the middle of the night when my walrus-like snorings/gaspings hit 120 decibels. Saint.
And now I’ve complained to you for five paragraphs in a row. God, I’m sorry. Let’s move on to some festive holiday-related content!
My mom gave me this a couple years ago, it’s a letter I wrote to Santa as a child—I like how I appear to be both greedy and (insincerely, probably) generous. I wonder if I got the pocketknife, I’m guessing that would a NO. Also, “Mad cop marathon game”?
And holy shit, check this out:
I hope that wasn’t the Santa I wrote to. Because that is the creepiest damn Santa I have ever seen, ever. Note how his eyes follow you, whispering how he’s going to sneak into your chimney on Christmas Eve and stab, stab, stab your whole family to death.