The plague hath descended

A couple of weeks ago, we drove to my brother’s place in Montana for a few days of skiing and such. Normally, we’d venture to Red Lodge or Big Sky - also in Montana, but more commercial. I’m happy to say that the accommodations were lovely (my sister-in-law is awesome and their house is huge) and the snow conditions were glorious (spring skiing is the only way to go, if you are like me and prefer not to be cold while playing outside in the winter; I know, I’m weird).

The only drawback was that Banana was coming off a hellacious spring cold, complete with sinus issues and a cough that sounded like it should have it’s own diagnosis. We were trapped in the vehicle on the way out with her, a full 12 hours, and again on the way home, another full 12 hours. Muffin and I caught whatever malady Banana brought along and we spent the next week, including Easter weekend, sniffing and coughing and generally feeling like death warmed over.

Just today, I’m starting to get my energy back. Muffin is at school. I hope she isn’t contagious anymore.

*Cough*

*****

Somehow, Chad has managed *not* to catch whatever this is. Yet. I hope and pray he doesn’t catch this as he is terrible at being sick. I hibernate. I self-medicate. I hide. I spend inordinate amounts of time in the tub with lots of hot water and a vat of Vicks VapoRub. He…doesn’t. And he is a terrible patient, demanding home-made soup and medicinal monitoring that should grant me an honorary medical degree.

I’m thinking it may be a step down from pneumonia; however, most everyone in his extended family is dealing with variations of the Alphabet Flu (H1N1, H3N2…hence, the title of this post). And since I was delirious from getting zero sleep, as coughing all night is the only way to spend three or four consecutive nights, I didn’t even consider the chills and sweats were probably fever induced.

*****

I’m sure there is cosmic justification for everything that happens or doesn’t happen, so my suffering through snot and exhaustion for the past week must have something to teach me.

Or not.

Cheat day

More Like Cheat Weekend:
The cousin managed to get married, despite the rain and wind and outdoor setting. Mud. Lots and lots of mud. And a very steep hill. And women in high heels (me, being one of them). And battered umbrellas. But the deed has been done, and I’m so very happy (that it is done).

Friday was the rehearsal dinner, and the weather was quite lovely for that, of course. But the meal was served buffet/picnic style, which means lots and lots of Things I No Longer Eat were taunting me. I stayed away from the chocolate cake frosted with buttercream and Heath candy bar crumbles and stood instead next to the deep fat fryer where perch and walleye fillets were being cooked to a tasty crisp.

Saturday, the diet officially flew out he window. Pulled pork with BBQ sauce. Potato salad. Baked beans. Wedding cake. Vodka Sours. I would have been fine, really, with what little I ate of The Bad For Me Stuff. The drinking part? Wow. I don’t remember the last time I drank that much vodka and remained coherent and conscious. And vertical.

And then we went to the lake on Sunday and Monday for Labor Day, and there was much too much food consumption going on.

All told, I gained back three pounds. Not bad, really. Chad gained back seven.

Gravity:
Did you know that Diamond Dallas Page of professional wrestling fame sells Yoga DVD’s? Did you know that I own several of them? Did you know that I’ve never cussed a blue streak while attempting yoga moves, except when I use those DVD’s? Insane, I know, and it is really a good thing no one is home to see me sweat and hear me curse - and fall down - while trying to be graceful. (Ha!)

Falling down is hugely humbling. I tell myself it is a good thing, get back up, and cuss and swear and sweat some more. Some mornings I wonder if there is a dial for gravity and someone has spun that thing to 11.

New Music:
I recently purchased Depression Cherry by Beach House and Talking Dreams by Echosmith. Not sure how I feel about either, yet, but they are on constant rotation during the day.

Take a walk on your hands

Lists
The bills are paid. The house is (relatively) clean. The laundry is done. Random chores are complete. Phone calls returned. Questions answered. Supper is defrosting in the sink. I’ve blazed through my list and now - at the bottom of that list - the word “write” sits there waiting to be crossed off.

I’ve joined I don’t know how many writing groups, self-help email/motivational list-serves. None of that does any good. Instead of putting “write” at the bottom of my list, I just need to put it at the top. Maybe that will fix me.

Or is that too simple?

Sleep
For the past few nights I’ve been having trouble sleeping, and I’m not sure why. Usually, I can chalk up a fitful night to a brain that won’t shut off or external stressors that must be obsessed over at 3am. But this time my arms hurt. Or ache. Or something. And it is keeping me awake at night.

Is there such a thing as “Restless Arm Syndrome”? Like Restless Leg Syndrome, where your legs feel like they need to move and kind of ache in a really uncomfortable - not-in-the-muscle-more-like-in-the-bones - kind of way…but in your arms? I’ve tried sleeping in different positions. I’ve tried all kinds of different over the counter sleep medicines (with the exception of the Trazadone I still have from a previous round with insomnia/anxiety). I’ve even cut back on the caffeine, thinking that after all these years, I’ve finally developed a sensitivity to it.

No such luck.

Fall
This time of year is weird in The Northland. Cold one day and hot the next. Jeans and a sweatshirt complete with socks and real shoes, then shorts and a tank top with (maybe) flip-flops. Sometimes Cold and Hot in the same day.

It all just foreshadows Winter.

And I’m not into Winter. Not at all.

Until it happens to you

Mashable

The end of August/start of September means back to school, yes, but also doctor appointments and random yearly “stuff” that must be crossed off a list somewhere so as to maintain my family’s membership in the club of humanity. Apparently.

And now that I’m “of a certain age” I get to have additional appointments that require the squishing and squashing of body parts that should never be squished or squashed so severely. Ow.

In fact, I was so discombobulated after that appointment that I didn’t notice until I was getting undressed for bed much, much later in the day, that I’d forgotten to remove the little pasties the technician applies. I’m sure they serve a purpose - a medical purpose - and are not just something to point to and laugh.

Getting old is fun!

More weather observations

Today is hot. And sticky. This morning was 72 degrees at 7am with humidity hovering around 95%.

That kind of sticky weather requires all the insides of windows be wiped down or risk warping the wooden sashes. That kind of sticky weather also requires the full-time use of no less than two dehumidifiers or risk the health and life of the AC unit.

Heat and humidity do not bother me in the least. As long as I do not have to don panty-hose or wear makeup, I could not care less about hot and humid weather.

But.

And there is always a BUT.

This weekend, one of Chad’s many cousins is getting married, and that requires dress clothes (no panty-hose, however) and makeup and probably even clean hair. The wedding is an outdoor affair - and therefore it follows that the forecast calls for rain, thunderstorms, wind, and probably a plague of locusts or maybe just a tornado or two.

Cornbread muffins on the easy

On dieting:

I hate it. I hate it - oh for the love of all things holy - I so very much hate dieting with the white-hot heat of a million suns. I hate counting calories. I hate figuring out how many carbs (and therefore how many teaspoons of sugar) is in the food I want to eat. I hate reading labels and obsessing about what is in a recipe that I’ve used for 30 years.

But what I hate even more than all that is not feeling comfortable in my own skin. Feeling fat. Feeling unhealthy. Feeling…not like myself.

I love the results that come from all that miserable dieting. As of this morning, I’m down 31.5 pounds. And while it is kind of fun to brag about losing that much, I truly find it mortifying that I had it to loose to begin with. I’m not done. I have a long way to go before I can say I accomplished my goals - and really, with dieting, is one ever really done? There is always a Peanut Buster Parfait lurking around the corner just waiting to smack me into a (much welcomed) sugar coma.

The thing about dieting, though, is that, no, you are never done. It isn’t like many other behaviors that attach the word ‘addiction’ to it. For example, you wouldn’t tell a drug addict to shoot up three times a day (with a snort in the afternoon and another in the evening to hold you over ‘till morning). Well, maybe you would. But a recovering drug addict, trying to get and stay clean? I’m guessing no. But that is what we do with people like me with - essentially - an addiction to food.

So I diet. I cut out (or severely limit) sugar. No beer. No chocolate. No Cheetos. (My lands, I miss Cheetos.) I drink water like a crazy person. But I have to eat.

Not a fun party-goer, am I.

Back in a jiffy
 
Jiffy makes a cornbread muffin mix that is so simple and so good: milk, egg, muffin mix, and 15-20 minutes at 400 degrees. And now my house smells positively delicious.

I think I may be getting a sugar high just from the aroma.

Excuse me - I may have to step outside until I have regained control.

Slum-Lords-R-Us
 
The rental property we own in town is currently rented to three college students. That is a very misleading, overly simplified statement. To get that rental property ready for those students to move in to was a Herculean Effort. I have earned my place at the side of Zeus, let me tell you. Washing walls. Painting every flat surface I could throw a paint brush at. Scrubbing floors. Taking apart light fixtures so as to remove 4+years of neglect. Moving appliances. Cleaning carpets. Fixing garage door openers.

Oy.

After I had everything back together, fully functioning, and clean, I wanted to move in there myself because I could only imagine how desperately my own house - you know, the one I actually live in - needs to be overhauled.

Misplaced anger

Club volleyball season is upon us and thus goes the weekends in the spring. Muffin has practice a couple of times during the week, and man-o-live, I really appreciate how much easier my life is now that she has a license to drive and a vehicle with which to do so. Of course, I now get to worry about her eating at Budget Burger before practice instead of going over to her sister’s house or her grandparents house for something to eat that does NOT come from a greasy spoon.

But the weekends. Oy. Driving hither and yon. Spending an entire Sunday watching volleyball match after volleyball match - from 7:30 am to whenever they finish tournament play (after what is probably hours and hours of pool play) - gets long. And exhausting - and I’m not the one playing.

For whatever reason the scheduling gods have graced our team with a weekend off this weekend. I plan to spend Sunday with my feet planted firmly on the kick-out footrest on my recliner.

*****

I finally had it with all the plastic containers clogging up my cupboards and random lids for said containers stuffed into various drawers and cabinets in my kitchen. Muffin and I went through them all, pitched the ones that were cracked or missing lids or were just random Cool Whip containers (Why? Why do I keep such things? AH AXE YE?), sorted all of the containers and lids purloined from my mother-in-law (and gave them all back to her). Then I ordered Pyrex storage containers complete with matching lids.

No. More. Random. Plastic.

 It felt awesome to do that - to purge and then to replace with something of value and function. I like finding containers for leftovers now. Unbelievable, I know.

Next is the spice cabinet. Maybe tomorrow or Friday.

Hey - I never claimed to be an overachiever. At least, not that I recall.

*****

The oldest child is going to walk the stage for college graduation in May. Granted, she officially finished her degree in December of ’14, but you gotta know that walking the stage is the only way to commemorate such an accomplishment. That and a party. So we sat down with some fancy-ish stationery and invited a few family members and some friends over to her house in town to celebrate.

My mom is ordering cake. I’ll throw some hors d’oeuvres together and call it a win.

I’m looking forward to it. Very little fuss. Even less muss. The best kind of party to throw.

Funny to think that she will have graduated twice before Muffin manages it once. Such is the sitch when siblings are spaced that far apart.

*****

This morning, I tried on a bunch of clothes in my closet. Specifically, dresses and skirts that have not seen the light of day for about six or seven years. Some fit. Some didn’t. Some really didn’t. In fact, I gave myself that claustrophobic my-god-I’m-going-to-have-to-rip-this-off-my-body panic feeling more than once, trying to pull a wow-that-is-way-too-tight-sheath dress back over my head.

I have more work to do. Not that one can tell I’ve done any work at all. So I walk. And I yoga. And I drink water (and occasionally sneak in a Diet Coke, because come on). And I grill instead of fry. Bake instead of … I dunno.

I’m not seeing or even feeling any improvement at all. Unless you consider my achy, tired, and crabby self an improvement over my previously uncomfortable, exhausted, and ornery self.

*****

Playlist: paused

And still

I am still a flurry of crumpled Puffs Plus Lotion and ChapStick and Lycall and borrowed (XXL) sweaters and oversized slippers and heating pads and hand sanitizer and decontaminating/washing All The Things.

Gawdamn. I hate the tail end of colds. You know, the kind of Just Sorta Sick that hangs around after Officially Sick exits stage left? Just Sorta Sick makes you sneeze for no apparent reason. Cough unexpectedly while trying to have a phone conversation. Hovers around the top of your head, threatening headache but then dumps a metric shit-ton of snot into just your left sinus. Then walks away.

Just Sorta Sick is an asshole.

It has been a week. A week. And I’m still not 100%.

*****

Smoke has officially forgiven me for the trip to the vet the other day. My bank account, on the other hand, is all kinds of pissed off. It wasn’t terribly expensive. In fact, I was expecting much worse. I just wasn’t prepared to deal with an additional expense right now. Which begs improvement of my financial planning skills, such as they are.

*****

I need a job. Or a hobby that makes money.

*****

Playlist: Classical Chill station on iTunes

Found it

Last night I was bouncing around putting groceries away, getting laundry going again, putting animals in or out based on current demands, and figuring out supper when a brick fell out of the sky and landed on my face.



That is the best way I can describe it. I was fine. Totally fine. Busy and engaged, fully functional and coherent. Then suddenly not. My eyes started to water. My sinuses filled up with goo. My throat felt like I’d run it through a paper shredder. My ears crackled and snapped every time I tried just to swallow my own spit….(which isn’t much of anything considering the Sudden Onset Mouth Breathing required in order to maintain minimal brain/organ function, such as it is.)



I sat down, put my feet up and didn’t move from that spot until I dragged my sorry ass up to bed. Groceries be damned. Laundry can wait. Animals? I’m not the only person living in this domicile. And supper? That, my dear friends, is why I keep a freezer fully stocked with frozen pizzas. Co-habitants had to fend for themselves. I was informed that no one starved.



Despite the fact that I did take the dog out for a walk this morning - a much abbreviated walk because of the brick currently lodged in my face and because it is bloody effing cold outside - I’ve not managed to do more than throw supper in the slow cooker and stare at my laptop screen.



I’m on Alka-Seltzer Cold and Puffs Plus Lotion. I’m also currently in search of my ChapStick and heating pad. I doubt I’ll find either, since they are not located within arm’s reach of this chair.



~~~~~



Playlist: Paused