Dec
15
I got up this morning and realized that I had actually been breathing through my nose for part of the night, for the first time in maybe three full weeks. Well, there was an hourlong stretch where one nostril plugged completely shut and I woke myself by tweetling a high-pitched whistle type of snout-noise that, as I lay there, actually made Dog get up from her bed and pad out to the living room where I heard her gruntingly clamber up on the couch, probably cursing my name the same way JB does when he tentatively whispers, “Babe? Is there any way you can . . . not snore so much?” (The answer is no, I cannot snore less, nor can I roll from one behemoth side to the other without a heaving moan of exertion, nor can I go for half an hour at a time without getting back out of bed to pee. Welcome to the third trimester, sweetheart. Just remember: YOU DID THIS TO ME.)
I hesitate to say it, for fear of jinxing myself back into the land of All Mucus, All the Time, but jesus god I think this cold is almost over. Finally. I expect my Purple Heart to arrive in the mail any day now.
In other news, I have three things to tell you:
Thing the First: I escaped my family, the laundry, and a sink full of dirty dishes this afternoon to see a movie with Ashley, and while I think I would have enjoyed any piece of crap that was playing, just because it was such a treat to get out all childless and fancy-free like that, we saw No Country For Old Men, and if you’ve been on the fence about seeing it, I recommend that you run don’t walk to the theater, because two. Thumbs. Up. It’s vintage Coen brothers: dark, funny, and filled with fantastic dialogue, particularly every single sentence that comes out of Tommy Lee Jones’ character’s mouth.
Thing the Second: I am going to be writing for ParentDish on a regular basis (RIP ClubMom), and I hope you come visit me there. I don’t know if I can add my entries to a widget or not, but in the meantime here’s a direct link to my posts.
Thing the Third: my child is on a food strike and he’s currently living on crackers, peanut butter sandwiches, and the occasional Frosted Mini Wheat. This sort of thing would have made me batty several months ago, but now I just slip him a vitamin, shrug, and hope for the best. Either I’ve mellowed in a good way, or I’ve officially lowered the parenting bar to the floor. Not sure on this one.
Dec
12
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.
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