Tag Archives: home doctorin’

924: I’ll give you something to cry about

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Dearest innernet, I realized that I have been remiss in apprising you of my widdle doings. It’s not on purpose. I just get caught up in other things. You know, day trading, taste testing yogurts, macrame. I have two eyebrows, and they BOTH need my attention. So get in line.

Last week, I threw my back out by, er, well, never mind. Did I mention Mr. H has lost four pounds? Just as this was mended thanks to tough love from my chiropractor, I was felled by strep throat. I have spent countless minutes trying to take a picture of the back of my throat, for it is truly a remarkable vista. Think the surface of the moon, white and pocked, a fragile crust wrapped around a molten core of pure agony. This is by far the most disgusting thing that has ever happened in my mouth. And that’s saying a lot, given “the nineties” and that time I had oral surgery and found a spare sixteen yards of gauze crammed somewhere back there.

So who knows what the next week will bring? Right now, it’s all over but the whining and a few more days of antibiotics. I am going to unionize for more sick days. Ybab still had the nerve to expect to be fed and entertained while I was feeling poorly! As I sprawled on the ground, drifting in and out consciousness, shirt off to allow her to eat once in a while with no actual effort from me, I wondered if my soon-to-be dead corpse would continue to produce milk to at least tide her over until Mr. H got home from saving orphans with Angelina Jolie or whatever it is that he does these days. Can you believe ybab doesn’t know how to make an omelette yet? I have to go look that up, post-mortem lactation. Google, get ready for me! I want to be number 1 for “post-mortem lactation” now. Get to linking.

920: Begin again

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Oh, hi! I didn’t see you come in. That’s because I can’t turn my head to the right. You don’t want to know. Soon, you may find yourself entertained by a famous guest columnist. Do not be alarmed! I can scarcely form a thought, and that was even before I ate frozen blueberries soaked in booze last night. I’ll be on a holiday as well, and Mr. H and I have specifically picked a place with no internet access. That’s right! Such places exist. If we cave mid-way through our vacances, we will have to swim over to a giant floating Starbucks and pay $8 a second. But I doubt we will, because that water is motherloving cold.

914:Spacebar(Ineed a new)

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It’s about time I had fans with deep pockets, fans who can shower mewith gifts.The time is now, fans. Thanks for sticking with me until I needed you.I’m sure you feltperipheralattimes. But that is no tthe case.The universefunctions in strange ways. The strangest. Myspacebar doesn’t work quite as it should. This is incredibly distressing to me.As ifthis time ofyearis not distressing enough. Oh, I should have bought Apple care.Wait, I did buyApple care. And there is a funny story about Apple.Lastweek Mr. H said we should buy Apple stockbecause it isabout to split or something, and Isaid “howmuch no money are we talking,” and hesaidit cost something like$80 a share.And I looked, and itwasa lot morethan that. Iwonder where he got$80? But I bought it anyway because I like making impulsedecisions. This has servedme wellin all areas of life ornot. And then I noticed just yesterdaythat I have a strange new freckle with irregular borders, soIreally hopethe stock splits because I am going to need massive surgery soon. I’d do it myself, but after the homemade botox, I wasput on notice. The homemade botoxisstill good on toast, at least.

Ah, yes.This machine has evenbeen to the Apple spaonce already. But I am sure that this next process of recuperation isabout to become tedious, with an 800 number orfillingout a form. I donot dotedious.I banned tedious at the end of the winter term. I will keepon posting, even if you can’t understand me, at leastuntil I reach 1000 posts. With or without youuuuuu. W cn rd thngs wth n vwls, s why nt n spcs?What if I made this reallyhard and switched tosome other language I know? Like javascript. That’s not a language. Or is it? Damn it.Ihave a thing to do, sorry. And Idon’t remember any javascript anyway.I amblessed.

Witty and relevant

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I got two hours of sleep last night! Hi! Someone is installing multiple tooth-boulders at once. Someone’s tract does not agree. Kick and bite and scratch and pinch. Scream all you want, we’ll make more. Someone is a monster, an alien dropped from the planet Kill You. Tonight I will break out that bottle of laudanum. For me.

And that’s how it goes around here. Torment interspersed with rapid innovation. We climb. We eat raisin bread. We still love dogs. I got a noise cancelling Bluetooth headset, and unfortunately I can still hear the person on the other end of the phone. Hello, hello, we have FEEDBACK. Let’s REACH OUT. And TOUCH BASE.

I have no real problems, but let’s try complaining anyway. This being a blog. I am parked in the parking spot. I eat lunch. A percolating case of PTSD, sure, we’ve got that. I got into an e-fight about whether or not c-sections are traumatic. No, surgery while wide awake when you really don’t want it is AWESOME. That is my FEEDBACK. AWESOME. Let’s DO IT AGAIN. Or not. Let’s just try to stop having nightmares about it. Let’s stop sitting down in the shower and wanting to cry. Not that we get to take many showers these days, what with the ceaseless innovation and refusal to sit in the damn bouncy chair. No. We have to go spelunking in the toilet. On belay.

The more I ignore me

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Yesterday my lunch resigned from my stomach on short notice. As I was hunkered on the floor, a caustic freshet of broccoli dill soup shooting from both my mouth and nose, I realized it was the fourth anniversary of Vomitola.com! Actually, I realized that this morning. And the anniversary is really last Monday. No, head in bowl, I thought “Heather would know just what to play!” That’s a compliment. Once I threw up during a college radio shift, and while I was off horking up my tacos, she played “The Choke” by Skinny Puppy. Oh, nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen…nobody knows but boddddyyy.

I also realized that I haven’t thrown up in seven months and two days. Say, that’s the exact age of a ybab. Say. I threw up ON her on the most auspicious day of her birth. Should I put that in the memory book? Of course I’m going to. Where is the memory book, anyway? Mr. H has not thrown up in the entire six or seven years that I’ve known him. His take on the situation? “I’d rather crap.” Well, wouldn’t we all. Wouldn’t we all!

Take your protein pills and put your helmet on

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I am hoping my new vitamins make my claws strong and my coat lustrous. I think I’m malnourished. My current diet tops even the “chew n’ spit” diet for sheer brutality. Try it some time: strap a twenty pound squirming weight to your front while grocery shopping. Then lug whatever you buy down a two-block long hallway, up some stairs, and through an elevator. When you try to eat any of what you bought, someone will start screaming at you. I think “eeeeeaaaaahllllltpppppthhhh” means “You have cankles, you hideous dugong!” The only solution to screaming is vigorously bouncing the twenty pound squirming weight. The weight likes deep knee bends the best. Food gets crusty on the table, and who wants to eat that now?

I so don’t have cankles, for the record. I am seeing numbers on the scale that I haven’t seen since not eating in college. A ybab should stop trying to starve me to death. Is she in cahoots with a cat? They are just waiting to eat my face when I finally collapse. If my returns keep diminishing, I will no longer test well with the vagrants by the bus station. That would be terrible.

S.O.S.

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A ybab recently decided to install teeth in her mouth. This feat of dental rennovation is apparently painful and time-consuming, the kind of thing you should really consider offshoring. One tooth is now “in,” which means she looks like a hillbilly who broke one off in a bar fight. She is flailing on the floor now, thanks to the sweet, sweet relief of Tylenol. I’m sure the hippies will come revoke my hippie license, but we already tried homeopathic tablets and “gum-o-mile” oil, which only seems to enrage her. I’ll leave the lights off all to day, recycle something, and apply for a liver damage offset credit.

And see here, the problem is that I was supposed to go to the mall and get some clothes for Mr. “I have nothing to wear” H, as he was too overcome by the vapors to do this while he was AT THE MALL YESTERDAY. His real excuse must have been that he ran short of time BUYING ME A FABULOUS PRESENT I JUST DON’T KNOW ABOUT YET. Taking a screaming ybab is clearly easier than standing in line! Actually, I bet if I did take a screaming ybab, I’d be quickly helped. But the thing is that I don’t want to go at all. Zellweger is in a pout because I asked her to fold laundry, and she’s locked herself in the bathroom. So I’m going to apply for a helper monkey.

What? You say having a ybab is my own damn fault? Perhaps, but I bet people who drunkenly dive into shallow water and break their necks are not denied helper monkeys. Why, now is the time to apprise you that I once knew a person who knocked out all his teeth after performing a dive. He had a new set put in. Maybe a ybab should just look into that.

Everywhere you look

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Suddenly I find myself doing time in Conjunctivitis Junction. Or maybe there’s a rare flesh-eating bacteria gnawing on my optic nerve, waiting to get into my brain. I couldn’t really say. All I know is that my eye hurts like a mofo, and it’s spewing stuff. I am waiting for the “primary care physician” to call me back. I would like to get some ointment and maybe a poultice as well. Oh, and an eyepatch. A white one would be way more fetishy.

I’m also trying to figure out which kindergartener I should string up for giving this to me. Or is this some vile cross-contamination from the instruments at Kindermusik? As if trying to pretend Littles is interested in overly arranged childrens’ ditties isn’t bad enough.

Near blinded with pain, I find myself reflecting on karma. The last time I got conjunctivitis, it was my sixteenth birthday, and I called in to school sick. Only to actually find myself blighted by disease. Oh, the unfairness of it all. I still went to driver’s ed, because damned if I was going to be stopped from getting my license. The driver’s ed instructor liked to make students drive him around, periodically stopping for errands. Mail Boxes Etc., Subway, the dry cleaner, what have you. I made sure to wipe my hands all over the instructor’s wheel when he wasn’t looking.

If I don’t get a call back soon, I’m going to have to treat this the Little House on the Prairie way – a squirt of breastmilk (shaddup, it’s antibacterial) and some expired Vicodin.

Hey, wanna buy a monkey?

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No? How about a baby?

No? How about a cat shaved up like a baboon?
No? A husband who is psychologically blocked from putting his clothes anywhere but next to the hamper?
No? I got it then. You want my cursed condo. The one that floods and threatens to explode.

The electrician was in to see about the sparks shooting out of the breaker box, and he kept muttering and asking “You sure no one’s done any work in here? This isn’t right.” Oh boyyyyy, Ren. No, it’s just as we found it when we moved in. Home surgery, sure, but no home electricianing for me.

Clearly, my housing problems must relate to some personal failing or stolen tiki idol. Track record as follows.

First home: was a trailer.
Second home: unfortunately my parents lived there too.
First apartment: contained a roommate who played Vampire: The Masquerade and had loud nerd sex clearly audible through the wall. Next to train tracks. Total stranger climbed the balcony and came into my room, although I marched him out the front door with the fake gun from my Wild West set from the toy store.
Second apartment: Bathroom ceiling collapsed on the night I moved in. Upstairs neighbor’s toilet rained liquid.
Third apartment: Bathroom ceiling also collapsed. Co-dependent relationship ended in complicated appliance custody.
Fourth apartment: landlord barbecued/distilled something in basement over open flame and caused carbon monoxide poisoning. Landlord also backflushed radiators and neglected to turn off water in the boiler, causing massive jets of steam to shoot out of radiator.
Fifth apartment: mice. And hoochie roommate who enjoyed having all her townie RI friends come to visit so they could screech “OMG I am sooooo wasted” while drinking Coors Light.
Sixth apartment: Living room flooded. Haunted. Upstairs neighbor a piano teacher and casual child abuser. Living room flooded again in new location. Air conditioner exploded twice in two weeks.
First condo: I don’t want to talk about. We can’t have nice things.

Accomplishment Friday

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One week after Bastille Day (ce n’est pas Bastille Day), a baby achieved five weeks of breathing. A baby had seen better weeks, what with having the little thing that holds her tongue in her mouth removed and all. Long story, but she did really well, and the people at Children’s Hospital were very nice and simultaneously achieved the desired results while not accidentally killing her. I almost handled the dying for her, because my heart broke wide open from seeing her little head bobbing over the nurse’s shoulder when they took her into the OR. Oh shit, you have no idea.

Clearly her mouth developed improperly because of Something I Did While Pregnant. Did I take a Sudafed? Was it because I came within a few feet of the litterbox? Was it the sushi? See, I am pre-emptively guilt tripping myself. She’s going to have so much more free time as a teenager. Whenever she’ll start with “It’s all your—” I’ll be like “Gotcha covered, kid. See: July 2006, where I walked around with rocks in my shoes as penance.” And she’ll shrug, steal some of my Valium, and leave to go buy a slutty outfit.

We all needed a break on Friday night, so we tempted fate by walking downtown to get ice cream. A baby obligingly fell asleep in the sling, which is great because going somewhere in public with a baby is a bit like handling dynamite. Handling dynamite was covered in a episode of Lost, if you need a refresher. Results were mixed. We made it within a few doors of the ice cream place when a man scurried up to us and said “The guy from Lost in Space is at Gary’s Ice Cream!” We said “Oh,” and he helpfully offered “Not the old guy, the other guy.” Well, whoopee.

So we get in there, and Major Don West is signing photos for a bunch of obese older people in sci-fi themed t-shirts! Wow! He even had a seven-foot-tall replica of The Robot. Why did we leave the house without a camera?

Thus distracted, I made a fatal error when ordering my ice cream. I ordered a scoop of one flavor in a cup, and a scoop of a second flavor, intended to share the cup. But because I didn’t yell “PUT THEM IN THE SAME CUP,” each scoop arrived nestled in its own cup. Mr. H asked them to put the two scoops in the same cup, and panic ensued. The counter person couldn’t process this request, so he brought in the seventeen-year-old manager. “What’s the problem?”

“Um, we want both of these scoops in one cup.”

“What?”

Finally, after we employed hand gestures, switching to two other languages, drawing a crude image on a napkin, and holding Major Don West at knife point, TeenMgr squeezed both single cups into…another cup, single sized. At that point, I ran out screaming and threw the whole dripping mess in the trash.

At least a baby slept all the way home.