So two Sundays ago was the February bout and last Sunday I did a Quilty shoot, both of which were really cool things to do! You have to do cool things! But would it kill you to remember that Sunday is your day for putting yourself back together and that if you miss two of those in a row, the universe has not suddenly become bereft of hope. Wasn't the universe fine two weeks ago? What are the odds in the whole grand scope of time that suddenly everything went wrong in the last two weeks? You just need to hold yourself together until next Sunday, and everything will be okay.
Wednesday morning, I determinedly tackled the whole mess. I clean from the back of my apartment to the front. I made the bed and picked my laundry off the floor. For whatever reason, my system is to throw my clothes on the floor every night and pick it all up at the end of the week. It's very tide like. On the other hand, I do the dishes as I cook. Except when I don't cook, the sweetie man cooks and he does not do the dishes as he cooks. I haven't been cooking, and the dishes have been piling up. So I tied on my apron and plunged into the dishes. After I finished all that, I was about to overlook the mess in the refrigerator again. Everything that I've made in the last couple weeks has only been okay and I haven't been eating it. It's just been piling up in the refrigerator going bad. I have been eating cake. Don't get me wrong, I love cake. Cake reminds me of when I was a kid. Do you remember what it was like to be a kid? Right. You were psychotic. I felt bad, I kept grabbing vegetables in their plastic bags and thinking, oh, I can make a nice pasta with this, only to find upon closer inspection that something yellow and sometimes foamy had taken over inside. But after I cleaned it all out, I made an amazingly delicious savory oatmeal with the only vegetables, half a pint of cherry tomatoes, that hadn't turned into oozing Grandpa Simpsons. And then I pushed out to the front room, which included paying all my bills.
The bathroom is still gross, the bathroom is like the appendix of the apartment. Because the bathroom is off to the side!
Thursday I work, and then there's scrimmage, and then we wanted to get milkshakes at Earwax one last time. But there was an hour wait, because everybody wanted to get milkshakes at Earwax one last time. So we ended up at Sultan's, and I had a falafel sandwich.
So far so good, except for the bathroom.
Friday morning, I woke up feeling like I had been beaten with a stick. Luckily I watch House now, I diagnosed myself with a stomach virus. The stomach part got over and done with in the first hour, and the virus part went on for the next twenty-four hours. I mean, I had a fever. And fun fact, my body temperature is normally about 97.6. I say this without ire, but my ex-husband never took my 99.1 temperatures seriously. Whereas the sweetie man is putting ice packs under my head at that point, which is how I know he is the man for me. But seriously, my temperature was at 100.7 for most of the day and night and I'm stubborn about not taking fever reducers because isn't the fever supposed to be killing the viruses? Of course now I have a sardonic voice in my head that says, "And your brain cells, you idiot." And fever makes you feel so bad. So I did take two ibuprofen at some point, though I don't think they did anything. I was saying "everything hurts" at ten minute intervals and the sweetie man would respond "I know" in a loop for four hours. Which is also how I know he is the man for me.
My temperature was normal when I woke up Saturday morning, I felt guilty about having cancelled plyos. "Guess I could have led them after all," I sighed to myself, heading straight from the bed to the couch and getting under blankets.
About an hour later, "I think I'm still sick."
I did feel better Saturday, though. I didn't get off the couch. I felt well enough to write all of the above. I watched television and napped and wrote in my notebook. All I needed was a good night's sleep to set me up for Sunday again. Except that I woke up at two in the morning and threw up, and crawled back out to the couch for the rest of the night.
When the sweetie man comes out to check on me at about 7:00 AM, I tell him that I had a terrible night and threw up and my stomach hurt and I took Tagamet and then my stomach felt better and I did fall asleep for a little bit, but now my stomach hurts again and I keep seeing these weird faces when I close my eyes, though I think that last part was the sleep deprivation talking.
So much for Sunday, again.
I did have a good night's sleep last night. And some crazy person has been writing stuff for my blog. And the weird thing is, I've had a stuffy nose for, I don't know, a few months? And I don't have the keenest sense of smell, which is like the opposite of a recreational hazard. I can totally breathe this morning. And I can smell, the sweetie man is up making his coffee...
So now this rough beast is moving her slow thighs into the shower.