Sickness struck me down. For the past couple of days my idea of a good time has been flannel pajamas and Nyquil. Woooo. Party party. Thankfully, it is not the F-word. It seems to be just a mild cold combined with a general worn-down-ness that comes from doing too much in too short a span of time (otherwise known as Martha-itis). I’m taking it easy (yes, me) and I’ll be okay. I wan’t joking when I said I can’t get sick until January. I will take this as a warning and get some rest.
Speaking of which, what have they done to Nyquil? I can remember when a dose of Nyquil would knock me out for twelve hours and I’d wake up the next day feeling pleasantly floaty-like. Now I take two pretty green capsules and wake up three times in eight hours (which is my normal sleep pattern). What happened to the good drugs?? I even swapped to Allergy and Cold Benadryl, which used to wipe me out so bad I couldn’t function the next day. Not anymore. Now I sleep hard for a couple of hours and wake up in the middle of the night. Bah humbug. I want the good drugs. How am I supposed to get well if I can’t get any sleep?
Last week was one of those weeks. You know, one of those weeks. Craziness, a million things to do, staying up until 3 a.m. night after night, getting up before 10 a.m. (ack!). That sort of week. Last night I played hostess for a party (aka “Navy function") which involved cooking, baking, table setting, flower arranging and, because I run a small zoo out of my house, corralling the pets upstairs. Henry the WonderDog (aka “No Knees") went into the office, the cats went into my bedroom, Lola the crazy bird went into her cage. The fish, thankfully, do not harass guests as a rule, so they got to stay downstairs.
I left Jay in charge of gathering the pets and didn’t get a chance to check on the cats until I went to get dressed.
Begin Small Digression
When the invitation says 6:30, it MEANS 6:30, not 5:53. If you leave your house two hours early so you won’t get lost, PLEASE don’t come ringing my doorbell forty freakin’ minutes early. Go buy yourself a Slurpee or check out the neighbor’s giant inflatable snowman from Hell, but DO NOT show up at my house and expect me to greet you with a smile when I’ve been forced to get ready at the speed of light so as not to make YOU feel uncomfortable as you sit on my couch sipping your beer and looking at my half-finished party preparations.
End Small Digression
So, I go into my bedroom and the cats are doing their pitiful “we are so abused to be confined like this” meows and I’m taking a head count. One: Wilbur, the purr monster Siamese-looking old man cat; two: Annabelle, the gracefully aging princess calico with dainty paws and hunter instincts; three: Savannah, the baby brute tortoiseshell who terrorizes the other cats and is in love with the dog. They all stare expectantly at me from the bed and floor as I scan the room again and do another head count. One, two, three. Where’s four? Where’s Orville?
Then I remember. Orville died in July.
It’s funny how that happens, how I sometimes forget he’s not here any more, even after all these months. He was Wilbur’s brother and my baby cat, a cuddly tabby who would let you hold him and pet him for hours. Thirteen years old, blind and suffering from a thyroid condition that left him painfully thin, he’d find his way through the house to where ever I was, meowing loudly so that I’d respond and he could locate me. He died in my arms which I hope made it easier for him to go.
Having so many pets, you’d think I wouldn’t miss Orville so much five months after he died. The little guy is still in my heart and there are times when I feel his presence and I can almost convince myself he’s still here, sleeping on my pillow and begging for cheese. Which is why at the end of a hectic week, in the midst of doing the hostess thing, I found myself standing in my bedroom and crying because three wasn’t the right number of cats.
Number of Christmas/Hanukkah cards I wrote tonight: 31
Total number of Christmas/Hanukkah cards I’ve written: 104
Number of days until Christmas: 10
Number of days until Hanukkah: 4
How it feels to have finished my cards before the holidays: Priceless
A Saturday off and fun things to do,
Getting cards in the mail and packages, too
Christmas good cheer and the excitement it brings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Shopping for friends and buying them stuff
A warm mug of coffee and a book full of fluff
Being pleasantly surprised when the telephone rings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Wrapping gifts until midnight using bright colored bows
Soft fuzzy socks to help warm up my toes
Elvis, Blue Christmas and, oh, how he sings
These are a few of my favorite things.
When the bills come
When the alarm rings
When I’m worried about getting the flu
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so blue.
People are dropping like flies around me. I’m surrounded by colds and flus and strep and stuff exiting from various orifices and the air is contaminated and no surface is safe to touch. I’m washing my hands 1,364 times a day until my fingers are shriveled and the cuffs of my sleeves are wet in an attempt to stave off the big, bad bugs and the sneak-up-and-slap-you-in-the-back-of-the-head bugs and the starts-out-small-but-turns-deadly-just-like-Jim-Hensen bugs.
I do not want to get sick. I do not have time to be sick. Sickness is for people who have written their holiday cards, finished their shopping, wrapped their gifts and done their baking. Sickness is a luxury I cannot afford. Sickness is for good little worker bees who have lots and lots of sick time accumulated because they only use it for--gasp!!-- sickness. I am too busy to be sick. Sickness would be wasted on me because I couldn’t even enjoy it, I’d have to keep on going and pretend I wasn’t sick.
I cannot get sick in December, but if it’s absolutely necessary, I might be able to pencil in a couple sick days in January. If I must. Until then, if get sick I’m going to have to smack someone.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
