Getting Sick Sucks
I Hate Germy People
Well, Thanksgiving has come and gone, left me with some good memories, gravy stains on my shirt, and a cough from hell.
Tradition demands that we all meet down in Sugarland at my great-aunt's house for the meal. I volunteered to drive my parents down, since we're rarely in the same place long enough to have a decent conversation. BIIIIGGGG mistake.
See, Mom's got some sort of temporary ailment that's got her hacking up a lung every 10 minutes or so. It's painful to listen to, and has to truly suck from her POV. Still, she swore up and down "the Dr. says it's not contagious!"
In spite of her being in the back seat of the Caddy, she still expelled enough cough juice up into the front seat for me to get a good dose going there & back.
I've already got a chronic cough, caused by my blood pressure meds. Some little gizmo in the drug mix interferes with the enzyme that controls your cough reflex, making mine more sensitive than most folks. It's not that big a deal, just a dry *kaff kaff* every so often.
Well, now I've got a nice deep chest cough, full of those juicy little morsels of phlegm that just beg to be hawked across the room at the cat. Fortunately, I like my cat, and she gets enough fur tangles as it is, so Kleenex suffices.
The real test of whether I'm getting sick is the fever dreams. Any time my body starts getting out of whack, my already surreal dreams increase their weirdness by a factor of 4. It's almost enjoyable, if it weren't for the achy body, night sweats and general feeling of having been massaged by a 10 lb. sledgehammer.
Take last night f'rinstance... had a doozie where my Beantown buddy Flygirl decided to get involved in historical re-enacting with a middle-aged spectacled accountant as a partner. For whatever reason, this involved her wearing those ridiculous Stevie Nicks-ish shawls over a hoop skirt, dyeing her hair a brassy blonde color, and hanging out in a campsite full of old canvas tents and Civil War-era camp chairs. She had a booming business selling historically accurate lapdogs.
It's hard to say which weirded me out more, the shawls, the accountant or the blonde dye job. The lapdogs? Well, yeah, I could see that happening.
At any rate, it looks to be a horizontal weekend, accompanied by plenty of fluids and sleep. Might be light blogging as a result.
Well, Thanksgiving has come and gone, left me with some good memories, gravy stains on my shirt, and a cough from hell.
Tradition demands that we all meet down in Sugarland at my great-aunt's house for the meal. I volunteered to drive my parents down, since we're rarely in the same place long enough to have a decent conversation. BIIIIGGGG mistake.
See, Mom's got some sort of temporary ailment that's got her hacking up a lung every 10 minutes or so. It's painful to listen to, and has to truly suck from her POV. Still, she swore up and down "the Dr. says it's not contagious!"
In spite of her being in the back seat of the Caddy, she still expelled enough cough juice up into the front seat for me to get a good dose going there & back.
I've already got a chronic cough, caused by my blood pressure meds. Some little gizmo in the drug mix interferes with the enzyme that controls your cough reflex, making mine more sensitive than most folks. It's not that big a deal, just a dry *kaff kaff* every so often.
Well, now I've got a nice deep chest cough, full of those juicy little morsels of phlegm that just beg to be hawked across the room at the cat. Fortunately, I like my cat, and she gets enough fur tangles as it is, so Kleenex suffices.
The real test of whether I'm getting sick is the fever dreams. Any time my body starts getting out of whack, my already surreal dreams increase their weirdness by a factor of 4. It's almost enjoyable, if it weren't for the achy body, night sweats and general feeling of having been massaged by a 10 lb. sledgehammer.
Take last night f'rinstance... had a doozie where my Beantown buddy Flygirl decided to get involved in historical re-enacting with a middle-aged spectacled accountant as a partner. For whatever reason, this involved her wearing those ridiculous Stevie Nicks-ish shawls over a hoop skirt, dyeing her hair a brassy blonde color, and hanging out in a campsite full of old canvas tents and Civil War-era camp chairs. She had a booming business selling historically accurate lapdogs.
It's hard to say which weirded me out more, the shawls, the accountant or the blonde dye job. The lapdogs? Well, yeah, I could see that happening.
At any rate, it looks to be a horizontal weekend, accompanied by plenty of fluids and sleep. Might be light blogging as a result.
posted by El Capitan | 3:36 PM
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