Tag Archives: home doctorin’

Is it time to eat again?

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Germ warfare continues at our half-packed hovel. Yesterday we managed to pack two whole boxes between coughing fits. Then we took a break to eat whatever was in the freezer and watch a movie featuring attractive people and improbable gunplay. Glamour, story glamour everywhere.

One church billboard has updated ahead of schedule. It reads “When doing heavy lifting, bend at the knees.” My first thought was that this was some sort of sex tip, but then I realized they were talking about praying. Oh. The other billboard rallied with something about casting your cares onto the Lord. Hang on, Lord, get ready to help me pack the spice drawer.

Stereotyping

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I do not like living up to the Vomitola name, I’ve decided. Whoever is holding the voodoo doll this week decided to add some actual vomitola to my bird flu. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of your eyeballs shooting out of your nose at the same time as your stomach lining. That’s how I spent my Tuesday. What did you do, Bono?

On the plus side, if not for lying on the coach moaning and watching Entertainment Tonight, I never would have found out about this: Hilton leaves Renee Zellweger naked!

Where’s the wahmbulance?

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I can’t write content today because I came down with the bird flu overnight. I asked Mr. H to write my content, and he helpfully dictated “Wah, wah, wah, I’m sick, wah wah.” That’s about right, but I’m divorcing him anyway. So here I wallow, watching terrible TV and trying to take advantage of my good nostril. So far, I’ve seen a preview for “Skating with Celebrities.” What about “Brain Surgery with the B-List?”

is good to be beautiful

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I went to Russian Dentist this morning. He is a rare delight beyond comprehension. He changed the poster on the ceiling above the chair to a print of Dali’s “Atmospheric Skull Sodomizing a Grand Piano.”

So we listened to opera, and he half-heartedly tinked away at my teeth with a scaler, muttering that my teeth are too good for his business. Yes, my teeth are exquisite. I can’t help it. Don’t be jealous.

He said that people must eat only fresh vegetables and spend more time listening to beautiful music and looking at beautiful things. “Go, go to museum of art!” He said looking at ugly things is a terrible idea, and one will have mean, ugly children if one does this. At last, I said, medical advice to divest myself of all my unattractive friends.

And then I thought about it, and I realized I actually don’t have any of those. Prevention is the best medicine! We laughed and laughed together, and then he commanded “You spit now!” When in Minsk.

I could tell you why the ocean’s near the shore

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OK. It took me a good fifteen seconds to correctly retrieve the correct spelling of “shore” from the linguistic trash heap in my brain. “Sure.” Nope. “Shower, that’s got to be it.” “Shure?” No. “Sore!” Closer. At least I finally got there before I had to Google it.

OK again. Now it’s two days later than when I first started trying to write this post. I forgot what the hell I was going to talk about in the first place, but I’m sure it was snotty and self-righteous. I consumed a ton of narcotics yesterday, for legitimate reasons even, but that whole sure/shure/shore mess took place Stone-Coldstone Creamery Steve Austin sober. I blame the Shure Fine, a convenience establishment down the road. I also blame the drugs I did in college. And I blame George Bush, for leaving this child behind. I blame a lot of people for a lot of things, but most of all I blame myself.

My long weekend of rage concluded with a trip to the ER for an ovarian cyst, which is how I got the narcotics. Turns out you can be mad enough to actually explode. Also turns out the bigger the fuss one makes about grinning and bearing it, the more forthcoming they are with the goods. Those folks in New Orleans should have clearly played harder to get instead of waving white flags and chanting “Help.” I told the nurse it was our second wedding anniversay, which it was, and she scuttled right back with apple juice and a giant syringe full of demerol. Guess where she stuck the syringe, just guess. According to Mr. H, the needle was “this long.” I am going to try telling people it’s our anniversary wherever I go. This might get me a free Bloomin’ Onion or something. But what I’d really like is world peace!!!!!!

And in this panel, Super Toad goes kerplooie

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Tuesday in cats: The Flaming Lips sure can clear a room (of cats).

Tuesday in Zellweger: Alert readers pointed me to this. So this is where Zellwegers come from! I am not sure what happened to my Zellweger. I sent her out to return my empties two days ago. She seems distracted lately.

Tuesday in my head: The front part hurts, sort of above my eyes. I think this is called a headache.

Tuesday should be Saturday: because then I’d be done with the worst of my work, and I’d be riding a bike around an island. Maybe this bike would have a sports bottle filled with margaritas. I had better get used to riding a bike for when we run out of oil. And I’ll get a chance to learn to be handy with a u-lock for beating zombies. Come on, apocalypse. My dad has been waiting for you for seventy years. Don’t keep an old man in suspense.

Boulevard of broken spleens

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Today I am Honoring My Feelings, and I feel that I should eat an entire chocolate cream pie. But Feelings Are Not Facts, so I won’t. Or something. I think I need some Vitamin Tequila and some Me Time. See, I am coming to terms with the crushing realization that I have virtually no problems save being me and nipple confusion. Damn you, mother!

I got a hot tip that I could probably haul an abandoned CAT scan machine out of a dump in Brazil, so I have new plans to convert Mr. H’s Saabaru into a roving radiology wagon. If I pry the rear seat out, I’m sure the machine would fit. For good measure, I’ll install lead plating somewhere. And I’ll need an air-brushed sign: CAT scans, $20, meow meow! I can diagnose a brain bleed just as well as a trained professional. Look, this one is in the shape of Cookie Monster. If your brain is bleeding, I can’t help you, but I will be sure to let you know, as if you had toilet paper on your shoe. I will do it politely but firmly.

Oh, I am taking a moment to enjoy watching that dog dash away from the boulangerie with a string of sausages. Well, look at you! You are so cheeky! Run.

And….pie!

Where do bad folks go when they die?

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Still in the future here. Looking good, looking good. Cars don’t fly, but all the highways are underground now. Also, I live in Canada. Did I ever tell you that story about moving to Canada? It was way back in ought-seven, and I sneaked over the border after killing a trucker. I had to survive the first few cold nights inside an elk carcass. I eventually got a job sewing fake Kenneth Cole shoes.

Oh. None of this ever happened, you say? That’s too bad. I always have super vivid dreams, and sometimes I’ll think of some piece of a dream and have to remind myself “Naw, you did not really push that person into a volcano.” It’s a bummer.

These days I have this new thing where I do whatever I want as it occurs to me. It’s going well so far. My wants are few. Today I wanted chocolate chip cookies, so I bought some. I’m also enrolling in off-shore medical school. My experience in the ER proved without a shadow of a doubt that I have the right stuff to be a doctor. Yes, follow my finger. I diagnosed the child in the next room with a case of poor lineage, and I gave myself a skull and crossbones tattoo with Betadine. I also diagnosed several people in the waiting room with obesity.

Diagnosis: delicious

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I seem to be operating on some kind of tape delay. This is yesterday’s post (Sunday), but I am writing it today (Monday) about events that happened today. We have a slingshot-around-the-sun situation on our hands. Are you with me? Follow my finger. Left…right…up…down. Ok, now touch your left index finger to my index finger and then touch your nose. Back and forth. Quickly now.

I had planned to saddle the internet with an extensive pictorial on my current lack of a hairstyle, but things happen, and we spent the day in various waiting rooms while Mr. H got expensive medical tests. They still don’t know what’s wrong with him, but it’s not the di-uh-beet-us or a stroke. Time in the ER waiting room operates on a different frequency. Ellen came on the TV, but the wall clock still read 10:55. No es possible! Rather than puzzle through this break in the space-time continuum, I busied myself learning Tagalog from the “Your right to a medical interpreter” poster.

Tomorrow (Yesterday today): hair. I am tired. Good evening. I’m going to press against the palms of your hand now. Push back, hard. Good, good.

There’s always more to worry about

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I am convinced I’ve got a pre-cancerous spot on my left shoulder. Also, I need a new belt. Who knew that eating nothing but croissants and ham for a week could have a salubrious effect, particularly in the area of the waistline? Of course the croissants are half the size that they are in the US, and the ham is served in tiny portions because it is more valuable than gold. Or something.

Yesterday we were invited to our nephew’s “baseball recital.” This child wants nothing more than to DANCE, and he is quite good at it. But he is doing a sport instead. He was going to be in a parade for the opening day of the season, and in his mind I know he saw himself wearing a sequined jacket and riding an elephant. In the end, the league put the wrong date on the mailing, and it’s actually next week. So we all milled around a park for a while, and finally went out for pizza lunch once the mix-up was exposed. He was fine until the cheese slid off his pizza, and then the entire restaurant was filled with the most plaintive, soul-shaking howling.

Here’s some vacation pictures!

The first three are Madrid, then some from the train, and then we remain in Barcelona for the duration. Click one to enlarge it, and then you can tab through or run a slideshow.

I called the white dog Flash. He was so fast. Flash! You are so fast.