This is going to be one of those early 21st century-style posts, all babbly and mindless and cathartic, without an ounce of photography or consumer input or philosophical balance and all of those other things we've (yon bloggers) matured into.... not that those things aren't also babbly and mindless and cathartic, especially in this space.

What I mean is that tonight, as I scowl at the screen with a migraine remnant and a puff of will keeping me from starting to freak out that it's 2 a.m. and I get up for work in four hours, I'm writing as if it's 1997 and the background is repeating and the buttons are beveling.

Saw The King's Speech the other day. Really excellent. (Thanks K... er, "Lucy"!) I know it's not possible to go wrong with Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush, but I've come to dislike Helena Bonham Carter's recent characters so much that I thought she could possibly ruin it, but this movie reminded me that there was a time and reason when Lady Jane and Lucy Honeychurch could be watched over and over and...

On the other hand, neither Mike nor I could stand The Social Network. Walked away after an hour. My students are appalled, but I found the main character so underwhelming (and worse), and not in a good way that keeps you watching. Darth and JR he is not. Some of the dialogue didn't even make sense - people just seem to respond to the delivery. (Like when he cheekily chastises the head of security for not knowing to look in his window instead of taking four hours to track him down. WTF? What is that supposed to prove? Nothing more irritating than someone thinking they've pulled off an OH SNAP! when they haven't.)

However, I'm willing to concede that it's a work done well (if you say so) in a genre not to my taste, like a Ke$ha song, so in "real life" I try to just say it's not my cup of tea... and then duck as the abuse comes. People sure do like that movie.

Maybe I'm just a crabby old lady, especially now that I'm a junior member in the migraine club. The post where I went for the MRI over Christmas break still has yet to show up from my supposed smartphone, but as I think I mentioned in one of the (two? pft!) recent posts, everything in my brain is normal. Yay!

(I mean, obviously not everything. According to a student on the yearbook committee, I was just voted the "second-most creepy teacher" at school. What? Second place? I don't even want to be on this list unless I'm going to win! Then I found out who won first place, a person I don't think of as creepy at all, which I suppose only shows how far gone I am in my own creepiness. Except apparently not far gone enough because I can't even appreciate the mastery of the category winner. I think it's because he's tall. I can't compete with that. I'm doomed to be Mary Todd to his Abe Lincoln.)

So, my doctor basically said, well, that's that, the MRI is normal, nothing to talk about here. And I was, like, "um, I'm slamming down the full prescription dosage worth of ibuprofen day in and day out, and I'm still in pain, so what's what?"

Plus at that point my feet were hugely swollen and my heart kept fluttering and I'd had a rather full-on panic attack the night before. Mike - literally running his hands through his hair - thought to look up ibuprofen overdose symptoms and wondered if this was a possibility, as swollen feet and palpitations and panic attacks all go with that. but that just got us a long homily from the doc on the perils of looking things up and making assumptions. ("Are you taking more than 2400mg/day? No? Then you aren't overdosing. And have you ever reacted to ibuprofen before? No? Then that's not it.")

We kept interrupting with, "We know we're not doctors and can't trust Wikipedia on this, that's why we're asking" but the most the doc would say is that feet often swell when a person is "chubby." (It's sweet the way the doc ignores the elephant in the room on more than one level.)

I stopped taking the ibuprofen about 16 hours before the appointment, and the swelling finally went down a little at the same time, but then I was unhappy with pain... The doc said I should keep taking the ibuprofen and if my feet stayed swollen (not that they were anywhere as big as before) then we could look further, but I didn't want any more ibuprofen. He sighed and said that headaches were just part of getting older (big long story about his own headaches) and then he gave up and prescribed some preventative medicine that his wife takes.

Look, I just wanted to talk about other possibilities for the sometimes raging and debilitating pain: my back injury (which re-flared up around the same time), menopause, chiropractors, acupuncture (he does this), special exercises, special pillows... I mean, the waiting room was empty...

One trip to the drugstore later and I had an acetomenaphine-caffeine-barbituate combo pill. Mike and I: "Barbituates?!" I feel like Patty Duke.

But you know what? I took one, and the next day I only had a little headache. I took another one the next night, and the headache disappeared. For the first time in weeks, months, I was headache free!

But it's been trickling back, a little stronger every day. I guess that means I should pop another one. Maybe it is just a migraine - sunlight is still bothering me more than it ever has before in my life, and I do feel the "waves" come back when I'm more stressed.

The Bloggess (I won't link because then she'll see this lame post and I can't be so spazzy in front of her) used to have a wonderful commenter on her site - Nancy Kappes, paralegal - who passed away late last year. The inimitable Nancy liked her pills and would, via The Bloggess, refer to them as her "Judy Garland Trail Mix." I love it. And the phrase just echoes in my mind as I contemplate the notion that I have a prescription for barbituates.

I am my own special episode of Maude, really.

(I wish.)

(Hey, I led our guys vs. girls trivia team on the last cruise to a victorious first point by knowing Maude's last name. Normal Lear Cred - I haz it.)

Now, I do still like my doctor, who is also Mike's doctor so I don't want to piss him off, and I appreciate that even though a clear MRI means "case closed" to him, he did write up an order for an EKG because of the fluttery feeling in my heart at the time. (I don't even want to talk about what happened when he tried to administer the EKG in his office. Just picture the four of us - me, Mike, doctor, nurse and/or receptionist - in a tiny room with what was surely and ancient dot matrix printer and everyone trying not to look at my floppy breasts as I get more and more defensively cheerful by the moment. I'm already cringing at the memory.)

Unfortunately, I didn't get to the hospital for the EKG the nexy day because I was back at work and had to catch up from missing two days, then the day after I had my after-school club, then the next day was Friday and I didn't feel well so I came straight home... and by midnight had launched into a new one-woman show called The January Plague.

It's a very hot script at the moment; almost everyone I know has taken on the lead role recently. Performances began January 7th. I returned to work the following Friday after four days and a weekend in bed.... and I still felt cruddy. It's the 28th now and the cough still lingers.

I'm a mess.

"You know," says my dad, "you're not supposed to start falling apart until you're sixty or so." I laugh. "I mean it. You need to... you know... do what you have to do to get better."

And, for the first time in ages, I'm sort of jazzed about taking some steps to improve my health, now that I'm in the interesting position of actually being too unhealthy to just jump into exercise - let's not even get into the knee I smashed into my desk last year or the arm I banged up after a fall on this last cruise - both of which seem to have bumpy bone chips floating near them, but whatever, have I mentioned how a few months ago a tooth that was displaced by a never-removed wisdom tooth suddenly crumbled out of my mouth?

(This is where I joke that I'm glad that my mother never saw what became of all of those dentist visits made dutifully every six months, of the jeopardy I've visited upon my "naturally straight" teeth. But - hoo boy - do we even want to get started on my mother? Ben Weatherstaff will brain us all with his rake if we try to scale that wall.)

As long as you're all taking notes, if my period is 79 days late but I swear (super-swear with implied pinkies) that I'm not pregnant, does that mean 79 more days of winter or February showers bring March dours or what? And yes, I've seen those television shows where women have to go to the bathroom and - SQUOOSH! - unexpected baby, but I swear (and super-swear, and imply the pinky, and OCD-wash my hands in limited edition cranberry Method again) I've used all available science to make sure that Alys (Remember Alys? This is sometimes a blog about Alys.) is the only one birthing young around here, so we all need to clap or not-clap or whatever J. M. Barrie hoohah-hoodoo works to ensure that this is it at last, the Menopausening, even at the earlyish 41. (Hey, I'm "chubby"; it could happen.)

As for my health: too many variables! Worst sudoku ever!

But to speak of pleasant things, last night - after nearly seven weeks - we finally named the last of Alys' surprise gummies: Teddy (Theodore), Russell, Lauren, Vanessa, Adora Belle, Caroline, and Madeleine Aurora.

Who, for those who've lost count, join their mother Alys and their father Paul, and the six opals from the SPCA that are probably a previous litter of Alys' from two months prior: Glenn, Dudley, Roy, Julian, Neil, and Charlotte.

Who, for those feigning a deep interest, came with an order of Clark on the side, who moved in with old Stanley and they are best friends.

And Thomas still lives alone in his weird way.

And the two Djungies (Winter Whites) also live separately - Saffron and Truffle. Truffy has actually turned nearly all white and is gorgeous.

(But, like I said an hour ago, no photos at this time.)

(Yes, it's a lot of hamsters, but Mike being a uni student again makes that easy. For me, anyway.)

I have a feeling that some of my lesson plans might change for tomorrow... er, today... er, three hours from now.

The curtain falls while the chicken and egg are still spinning...

28 January 2011 |


 We built a house. 

 Rabbits tolerate us. 

  We play modern board games.  

 I hunt the dead.