Thirty-One (03 of 31)
An old boss of mine, Melanie, was, at one time, so amused by my ability to succumb to a different injury or illness each work day that she bought me a copy of The Hypochondriac’s Guide to Life and Death, by Gene Weingarten. The old routine would involve her asking me how I was in the morning and me responding with an answer akin to, “Fine, except for the pain in my [INSERT ORGAN/JOINT/ORIFICE HERE].” And this happened nearly every day.
It also hasn’t escaped me that every time we have some major baby-related event, I am sick in some way. Previously, I’ve had ear infections during embryo transfers, clogged ears during heartbeat monitoring, and general sickness while administering PIO shots. On Saturday, we attended the first of two baby showers to be held in celebration of our child’s impending arrival. This one was small, limited to Stephanie’s father’s side of the family, whereas the next one will be a bit larger. In any case, what made this one eventful, aside from the wonderful gifts we were given, was that I spent the entire day unable to move my left arm or shoulder. Even having swallowed two Ibuprofen every four hours for the past day or so, I was in too much pain to do anything significant with that arm. I couldn’t even tie my own shoes.
Which brings us to one of the most popular entries on this site, the entry for October 29, 2001, titled an endless supply of snot. THE LINK IS PROBABLY NOT SAFE FOR WORK! And it’s actually the fact that it’s not safe for work that makes it so popular. Interspersed with my rant about the horrors of a cold I’d been dealing with, I included snapshots of a model from a popular men’s magazine. None of them are X-rated, or even R-rated—they’re PG-13 at the worst—but I find that folks perusing Google Image Search in search of further photos of the model they see are coming to this page in droves.
While this is amusing, I’d really like for people to have the opportunity to witness the brilliant writing on display there without the distractions of the half-naked Angelica Bridges. So, without further ado, here’s the entry, sans booty-shots.
(okay, okay… the writing’s not that brilliant either, but here it is anyway.)
an endless supply of snot
I’ve been sick for over a week now. What begin as a cute little cold on the first genuinely chilly afternoon of the season has developed into a full blown sinus infection that delivers a debilitating headache at precisely 4 PM each day. Some days I feel good. Some days I feel bad. There has been only one real constant amidst all this.
My seemingly endless supply of snot.
In the interest of keeping this entry from being too overtly disgusting I am going to insert pleasing images of the female form. I hypothesize that if I supply you with these tasteful pictures culled from the Bastad Library you will continue to read through my epic journey through the Godforsaken land called “Sinusitus.”
When I blow my nose it is like my nose is blowing its load. I swear to God, the other day I blew my nose and it was such a fucking mess that I felt I could finally identify with a second string porno star, covered with the love juice of her co-stars. There was so much mucus pouring out of me you’d think that was all there was to me. You know, there’s this point in elementary school when booger jokes are you’re whole life and having an endless supply of snot would be an exciting proposition.
That time has passed.
This past Friday is when the shit really hit the fan. I had gotten myself on Claritin D for decongestion, and I was super thrilled to be taking the same drug as all those hip cats in the TV commercials. At about 4 PM, my head started to hurt. A lot. My colleague, Colleen, who had mentioned earlier in the week that it might be a sinus infection, told me I should call the doctor. I didn’t.
At 5 PM it was only getting worse. I tried calling the doctor and they were already gone. Not wanting to contact the “physician on call” I decided to grin and bear it.
By the time I got back to my apartment at 7 PM, I knew that was a big fucking mistake. I got on the phone and after being routed through like six Goddamn numbers I finally left a message for Dr. Sachs, a doctor who does not work for the same practice as my doctor, but, if I am right, happens to be the father of one of my old high school friends, and if I am even righter, happens to be the doctor who attended to my Grandpa Clark way back in the day (early 80s) when he was sick.
The funny thing is, I think Dr. Sachs and I know that we know each other and when we spoke we didn’t mention it. I actually had to speak to him twice because he put my prescription through to a different CVS than I thought he was going to. During neither conversation was any mention made of our Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon like connection.
It is now Monday at 9:46 PM. My head is still filled with an endless supply of boogers and I keep getting these fucking headaches. If I didn’t feel generally good the rest of the day I’d think I had the fucking plague.
I am about done with my rant for tonight. I have spent most of my evening downloading songs culled from several Top 50 and 100 of All Time lists. There are a lot of great musical compositions available for free on the internet. I mean, come on… let’s get serious. Am I actually going to plunk down a chunk of change to get my hands on a copy of Ini Kamoze’s “Here Comes the Hotstepper”?
But I will download it and waste hard drive space on it because I am a pop culture whore and sometimes you just need a stupid song like that to make you forget about your nose cumming all over your upper lip.
At least it doesn’t spray it in my eye.