osit, I full of snot
Y'all, I am so sick. I thought it was a cold, but maybe it's not. It might be allergies. Then again, it might be leprosy. I don't know, all I know is that my throat is full of shredded glass and mucinex cannot touch this bad boy. For that matter, neither can tylenol cold, theraflu, dayquil, aleve/advil (for sore throat), or any other means of relief short of cauterization or alcoholism or possibly taking up heroin. Maybe I am just dreaming. If so, I would like to wake the eff up already, and thank you.
Damage, I think I'm going to have to go to the doctor. Pizzafish. Osit (Reid says this a lot. I think it's fitting here). (And no, he did not pick that up from me.)
See, I gave up fast food (again, because it worked last year) and cursing for Lent. In serving Our Lord Jesus Christ Amen, and because my mouth has gotten HORRIBLE lately--I have come to the point where I think nothing of the not-so-occasional "goddamn" and "jesus christ" and y'all, I stopped saying those things when I was 21 years old--I am trying to be more of a...well...sigh. A lady. Okay? A lady. I toned down the cursing to almost nothing when I was teaching, because you can imagine how Satan would have had my head on a platter if I had said a four-letter-word in front of those blessed children (who probably could have taught me a choice word or two, and that's saying something).
Cursing has always been something of an art to me, a release of tension. I don't really see anything bad about it, and bellowing a "shit" or "fuck" in certain situations is oddly satisfying. I always stopped short of the whole "taking the Lord's name in vain" thing because I was afraid of smiting or being struck by lightning, et cetera, but conversations sprinkled liberally with The S Word and The F Word were more frequent than I'd like to admit. After being chastised by my brother ("No offense, but your mouth is a toilet") while my saintly clean-mouthed sister-in-law sat quietly by and my mother voiced her ready approval of said chastisation (a word?)--it has always galled her that her daughter has such a foul mouth--I cut down a lot on the cursing in front of family.
I have never really tried to keep it clean with my friends or in my journals. I like to curse. It makes me feel like a badass. I'm so NOT a badass, but it makes me feel like one. Even at work, where I am cloistered in an office by myself all day and no way to release frustration short of throwing my chair through the window, I curse like a sailor. Last week, plagued by the worst case of PMS I have had in a long long while on top of answering calls from long-winded MORONS, I hung up after the most recent moron and roared, "JESUS CHRIST!" And one of my co-workers, probably my favorite, who is a big-sister type and a rock-star mom in her own right (36, 2 teenage daughters, multiple piercings--nipples!!--etc.), hugged and patted and very sweetly shamed me, so FINE. I have never felt good about saying that kind of thing anyway. Must be the Debil's Work that it does such an awesome job of lifting the scary red curtain from my eyes. Also, Randy has never minded me cursing, but I know he minds the "goddamns" and "jesus christs" because he never says them himself, for one, and he is not a stranger to cursing by any stretch, but either one of those from my mouth gets me a "hey, now," and not in a good way. Lord knows I can't have disapproval from my man, y'all.
I am not saying I'm going to stop cursing altogether. I don't even know if that's possible. It might push me right over the edge, and I do not want to suddenly start babbling nonsense and roasting puppies or something equally horrifying. I'm just going to tone it down. A lot. Giving it up for Lent has already been a much greater challenge than giving up fast food. After Lent, I'm just going to keep it down. And...sigh...stop saying "goddamn" and "jesus christ" altogether because they feel good at the time but then I feel like a naughty preadolescent who needs her mouth washed out with soap*. Like God and Jesus are up there looking down on me, lamenting the fact that I used to be such a good girl, and dear me, whatever happened to turn her into such a heathen?
I just called in sick to work, because it is 1:30a.m. and I feel like poop in a paper sack set on fire. I hate calling in sick, and I feel doubly bad about it today because I called in twice last week for this same ailment. I told the overnight girl to please make a note that I am going to the doctor. Frack. I don't want to go to the doctor, but maybe he will give me some cough syrup with codeine. That would rock. I do have to say that when I get on their scale, if I have not lost weight, I will cry. My scale seems to have stagnated, but I've been looking in the mirror and I swear my face is skinnier. Also, my clothes are fitting differently...just slightly looser, and that includes my boulder-holders. I think I mentioned I bought a stair-stepper, though I have yet to actually use it, because studies have shown that one needs to be able to breathe in order to exercise...another reason why I need to go to the doctor. I am all het up and ready to get going--let's burn some calories! Boo-ya!--but then I feel too bad to do more than sit upright and try to keep my throat from exploding into flames.
Re: work...ah, well. At least they know I'm not playing hooky. They sent me home an hour early today because I had apparently morphed into just a shell of my former self. Randy was off today. He is never off on the days I am off. I think he plans it that way, but I am probably delusional from too much decongestant. I then have Tuesday and Wednesday off, legitimately, so plenty of time to recover. I do dread driving into town tomorrow just to drive back here, and then drive back into town on Tuesday to go to therapy. That is too much driving for a sick person. I wish I had some klonopin...but since I don't, I'll just take a sleeping pill and that will make it all go away.
In other news, my dad's heart has gone back into afib. He had the shocky-thing done a couple of weeks ago and it worked temporarily. He was so happy to have a regular heartbeat again and get off of all the meds he is on that make him tired and cold, plus unable to drink beer (horrors!). We were all quite hopeful. Now he's going to have an ablation done, which means they are going to cauterize some spots on his heart that they think are causing the afib, and then, from what I understand, all will be well. If that doesn't work, then it means major surgery. More major than a bypass.
Seriously, y'all, my dad has had heart trouble for four years now. I have always been...not Pollyanna about it, but rather more disbelieving, I guess, like I can't get past, "he'll be fine." He's my daddy. He's been a really, really good dad. He has not done everything right, and I know that there's a lot he wishes he could go back and change if he could--then again, the same could be said for me. I have always known that he loves me, and I realize just how much he loves me as I get older. Moving back in with them has been a blessing in many ways, because it has allowed us to develop a relationship that we couldn't develop before; there was no time. His heart condition has mellowed him, as the treatment for my brain disorders have mellowed me. We can talk to each other, which is just wonderful. I have always yearned for a daddy's-little-girl relationship with him, which did not last past the age of seven, which is when I started to chunk up and hate myself (helloooooo, depression! whassup, anxiety and A.D.D.! Nice to meetcha). I know I just bewildered him. He did not know what to do with me, his passive-aggressive artistic-wildebeest daughter. I hate that I caused him so much anguish, but I know it wasn't my fault. Who knows how my life would be different if I had gotten treatment for A.D.D. twenty years ago? And the doctor who told my mother right in front of me, at age fourteen, that I was too fat and he suspected I was depressed...how would things have been different if we'd paid as much attention to the "depressed" part as we did to the "fat" part? I lost 25 pounds that year, but I didn't get any healthier or any less depressed. I lived on Ramen noodles and fries with cheese sauce that year, and my only liquid was Dr Pepper. Healthy, I was not.
But this isn't about me, is it? It's about my dad.
When this last shocky-thing didn't work past a week or so and he went back into afib, I started to get worried. All right, I am worried. I am scared. My mom walks around with a pinched look on her face all the time now and I know she's terrified. The thought keeps pushing in that something could happen to him, something could incapacitate him. We could lose him. I can't think about that or I'll go crazy.
He's got so much to live for, so much unfinished business. Reid is only two and will not remember him, even though right now the constant litany is, "Po-OP. Ta-tee (Pop, Tractor)," ad infinitum. He is still not speaking to his only brother, blast his stubborn soul. His sisters call all the time. My mom...God, y'all. My mom would die without him. She has been with him since they were fourteen--that's 45 years! It's not just him we would lose, but her, too. And I don't have any kids yet. I want my kids to know my parents. And let's face it, I am not ready to be on my own yet. I'm still recovering. And then there's the fact, the indisputable fact, that I love him. I love him so much. He is a really, unbelievably good man. I could not have a better dad if I had built him myself.
So nothing can happen to him. He has to live to be a hundred and twelve with all his faculties intact. And I owe it to him to be as healthy as I can possibly be, because he sees so much of himself in me. Not just that I look like him, or that I have the same wry, sarcastic (Kath would say "sassy") manner, or that I am soooooo sensitive...there's the weight issue that he passed on to me, along with his face, his nose, chin, the shape of his eyes, his oily skin, his gargantuan bones and muscles. I owe it to him to get and keep my body at a healthy weight, and maybe I can spare myself this heart condition that we both are pretty certain I inherited from him too.
Damage, I think I'm going to have to go to the doctor. Pizzafish. Osit (Reid says this a lot. I think it's fitting here). (And no, he did not pick that up from me.)
See, I gave up fast food (again, because it worked last year) and cursing for Lent. In serving Our Lord Jesus Christ Amen, and because my mouth has gotten HORRIBLE lately--I have come to the point where I think nothing of the not-so-occasional "goddamn" and "jesus christ" and y'all, I stopped saying those things when I was 21 years old--I am trying to be more of a...well...sigh. A lady. Okay? A lady. I toned down the cursing to almost nothing when I was teaching, because you can imagine how Satan would have had my head on a platter if I had said a four-letter-word in front of those blessed children (who probably could have taught me a choice word or two, and that's saying something).
Cursing has always been something of an art to me, a release of tension. I don't really see anything bad about it, and bellowing a "shit" or "fuck" in certain situations is oddly satisfying. I always stopped short of the whole "taking the Lord's name in vain" thing because I was afraid of smiting or being struck by lightning, et cetera, but conversations sprinkled liberally with The S Word and The F Word were more frequent than I'd like to admit. After being chastised by my brother ("No offense, but your mouth is a toilet") while my saintly clean-mouthed sister-in-law sat quietly by and my mother voiced her ready approval of said chastisation (a word?)--it has always galled her that her daughter has such a foul mouth--I cut down a lot on the cursing in front of family.
I have never really tried to keep it clean with my friends or in my journals. I like to curse. It makes me feel like a badass. I'm so NOT a badass, but it makes me feel like one. Even at work, where I am cloistered in an office by myself all day and no way to release frustration short of throwing my chair through the window, I curse like a sailor. Last week, plagued by the worst case of PMS I have had in a long long while on top of answering calls from long-winded MORONS, I hung up after the most recent moron and roared, "JESUS CHRIST!" And one of my co-workers, probably my favorite, who is a big-sister type and a rock-star mom in her own right (36, 2 teenage daughters, multiple piercings--nipples!!--etc.), hugged and patted and very sweetly shamed me, so FINE. I have never felt good about saying that kind of thing anyway. Must be the Debil's Work that it does such an awesome job of lifting the scary red curtain from my eyes. Also, Randy has never minded me cursing, but I know he minds the "goddamns" and "jesus christs" because he never says them himself, for one, and he is not a stranger to cursing by any stretch, but either one of those from my mouth gets me a "hey, now," and not in a good way. Lord knows I can't have disapproval from my man, y'all.
I am not saying I'm going to stop cursing altogether. I don't even know if that's possible. It might push me right over the edge, and I do not want to suddenly start babbling nonsense and roasting puppies or something equally horrifying. I'm just going to tone it down. A lot. Giving it up for Lent has already been a much greater challenge than giving up fast food. After Lent, I'm just going to keep it down. And...sigh...stop saying "goddamn" and "jesus christ" altogether because they feel good at the time but then I feel like a naughty preadolescent who needs her mouth washed out with soap*. Like God and Jesus are up there looking down on me, lamenting the fact that I used to be such a good girl, and dear me, whatever happened to turn her into such a heathen?
I just called in sick to work, because it is 1:30a.m. and I feel like poop in a paper sack set on fire. I hate calling in sick, and I feel doubly bad about it today because I called in twice last week for this same ailment. I told the overnight girl to please make a note that I am going to the doctor. Frack. I don't want to go to the doctor, but maybe he will give me some cough syrup with codeine. That would rock. I do have to say that when I get on their scale, if I have not lost weight, I will cry. My scale seems to have stagnated, but I've been looking in the mirror and I swear my face is skinnier. Also, my clothes are fitting differently...just slightly looser, and that includes my boulder-holders. I think I mentioned I bought a stair-stepper, though I have yet to actually use it, because studies have shown that one needs to be able to breathe in order to exercise...another reason why I need to go to the doctor. I am all het up and ready to get going--let's burn some calories! Boo-ya!--but then I feel too bad to do more than sit upright and try to keep my throat from exploding into flames.
Re: work...ah, well. At least they know I'm not playing hooky. They sent me home an hour early today because I had apparently morphed into just a shell of my former self. Randy was off today. He is never off on the days I am off. I think he plans it that way, but I am probably delusional from too much decongestant. I then have Tuesday and Wednesday off, legitimately, so plenty of time to recover. I do dread driving into town tomorrow just to drive back here, and then drive back into town on Tuesday to go to therapy. That is too much driving for a sick person. I wish I had some klonopin...but since I don't, I'll just take a sleeping pill and that will make it all go away.
In other news, my dad's heart has gone back into afib. He had the shocky-thing done a couple of weeks ago and it worked temporarily. He was so happy to have a regular heartbeat again and get off of all the meds he is on that make him tired and cold, plus unable to drink beer (horrors!). We were all quite hopeful. Now he's going to have an ablation done, which means they are going to cauterize some spots on his heart that they think are causing the afib, and then, from what I understand, all will be well. If that doesn't work, then it means major surgery. More major than a bypass.
Seriously, y'all, my dad has had heart trouble for four years now. I have always been...not Pollyanna about it, but rather more disbelieving, I guess, like I can't get past, "he'll be fine." He's my daddy. He's been a really, really good dad. He has not done everything right, and I know that there's a lot he wishes he could go back and change if he could--then again, the same could be said for me. I have always known that he loves me, and I realize just how much he loves me as I get older. Moving back in with them has been a blessing in many ways, because it has allowed us to develop a relationship that we couldn't develop before; there was no time. His heart condition has mellowed him, as the treatment for my brain disorders have mellowed me. We can talk to each other, which is just wonderful. I have always yearned for a daddy's-little-girl relationship with him, which did not last past the age of seven, which is when I started to chunk up and hate myself (helloooooo, depression! whassup, anxiety and A.D.D.! Nice to meetcha). I know I just bewildered him. He did not know what to do with me, his passive-aggressive artistic-wildebeest daughter. I hate that I caused him so much anguish, but I know it wasn't my fault. Who knows how my life would be different if I had gotten treatment for A.D.D. twenty years ago? And the doctor who told my mother right in front of me, at age fourteen, that I was too fat and he suspected I was depressed...how would things have been different if we'd paid as much attention to the "depressed" part as we did to the "fat" part? I lost 25 pounds that year, but I didn't get any healthier or any less depressed. I lived on Ramen noodles and fries with cheese sauce that year, and my only liquid was Dr Pepper. Healthy, I was not.
But this isn't about me, is it? It's about my dad.
When this last shocky-thing didn't work past a week or so and he went back into afib, I started to get worried. All right, I am worried. I am scared. My mom walks around with a pinched look on her face all the time now and I know she's terrified. The thought keeps pushing in that something could happen to him, something could incapacitate him. We could lose him. I can't think about that or I'll go crazy.
He's got so much to live for, so much unfinished business. Reid is only two and will not remember him, even though right now the constant litany is, "Po-OP. Ta-tee (Pop, Tractor)," ad infinitum. He is still not speaking to his only brother, blast his stubborn soul. His sisters call all the time. My mom...God, y'all. My mom would die without him. She has been with him since they were fourteen--that's 45 years! It's not just him we would lose, but her, too. And I don't have any kids yet. I want my kids to know my parents. And let's face it, I am not ready to be on my own yet. I'm still recovering. And then there's the fact, the indisputable fact, that I love him. I love him so much. He is a really, unbelievably good man. I could not have a better dad if I had built him myself.
So nothing can happen to him. He has to live to be a hundred and twelve with all his faculties intact. And I owe it to him to be as healthy as I can possibly be, because he sees so much of himself in me. Not just that I look like him, or that I have the same wry, sarcastic (Kath would say "sassy") manner, or that I am soooooo sensitive...there's the weight issue that he passed on to me, along with his face, his nose, chin, the shape of his eyes, his oily skin, his gargantuan bones and muscles. I owe it to him to get and keep my body at a healthy weight, and maybe I can spare myself this heart condition that we both are pretty certain I inherited from him too.
posted by Lori at
12:36 AM
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