May the pours be with you

I spent the last week doing what a lot of people around here have been enjoying lately – having an extended and unplanned out-of-body experience.

Nope, we aren’t new age freaks, we’re just in the epi-center of an epidemic of flu, strep throat, or a mutant form of viral cold, and any combination thereof.

I, thank the Dude, fell into the latter category so I could move around and stuff but I couldn’t feel myself doing it.

Except for the water boarding, which I’ll get to later.  I could feel that.

Ever-thankful I have so far escaped the flu (knock on all wood, forever), this thing I’ve had carries it’s own set of rituals.

First, sleep. So much sleep. For a few days, I was averaging about 14 hours of relative unconciousness.

Second, self-inflicted water boarding which is the antithesis of sleep, but necessary in exorcizing  the demons. Each day I would do this to myself by way of something you can legally purchase at a drug store called a Neti Pot.

I call it a snot genie, but whatever.

It flushes out anything within a 6-inch radius of your nose that may be harboring snot, but not before it takes you on an epic journey right up to the brink of death by self-drowning.

Seriously, you haven’t lived until you watched yourself do this in a bathroom mirror, my only survival technique was to pant like a dog. Again, this was the only time last week I was consciously in my body and it isn’t a pleasant memory.

Third, I poured. A lot.

I poured saline water into the snot genie, then into my face.

I poured cough medicine with codeine down my throat.

I poured a few cups of NyQuil and learned to love it.

I poured a shot of Crown. Maybe more, who was counting?

Each time I poured, I quickly toasted to the quick return of health to all the people with the flu and strep, and for those who have avoided it,  because I knew if I didn’t hurry I would soon be unconscious.

But if you do get this stuff, may the pours be with you.

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Burn the keyboard and pass the Kleenex

I had to lay down my tissue, my antihistamines, nose spray and pride to write this week.

I can only hope the maid I don’t have will remember to disinfect my keyboard, or burn it, whichever. It matters not to me at this point.

It’s been a confusing week, at best, for me as I wasn’t sure if I have been afflicted with allergies ,a cold, or my most recent self-diagnosis: death by head implosion and snot.

Again, it makes no difference at this point, because I’ve resigned myself to sit in a sea of Kleenex, and let my clients believe that I am bringing small horses to see them.

I had talked to my pharmacist, Joe,  about it Monday, who told me allergies really have been bad in the past week, so I loaded up on antihistamines. I took his advice because the last time I thought I was dying I went to the doctor.

I paid $150 that time to find out that I was not dying, but in fact had the worst kind of cold….the common kind. The kind nothing can be done for, except paying $150 to find out you have it.

This time, I started treating allergies that I believed had the ability to kill me, but would opt not to because I had a lot to do this week. My allergies, I like to believe, have a heart.

By Tuesday, I was suspecting I had a cold because I was sneezing, coughing, blowing and walking around begging for a 24-hour long nap in a string of words that were unintelligible. That last thing is not unusual and the reason nobody took me seriously.

The same day, I was talking to a client on the phone to let her know I was on my way with a photographer to do a photo shoot for an ad. I said, “I may be bringing my cold with me.” She heard, “I may be bringing my colt with me,” and prepared to accomodate me and a small horse.

She was relieved when I showed up in my car with no pony in sight.

I arrived at work Wednesday to find out I had spread my allergies to my boss, the publisher, who also suspected she was dying.

My sweet husband, who is more afraid of my germs than my cooking, has been air-kissing me from two feet away all week. My dog doesn’t even want to give me sugars. It hurts.

So, as I write this I am in an office that sounds like the tuberculosis ward in a duck-call factory, and looks like a cannon shot used Kleenex into my work area. Kevin and Sherrie, my co-workers, won’t come near me and have begun flying their copy to my desk via the “paper airplane” method, and taking cover when I blow my nose.

beautiful sick woman in bed taking medicine

My boss is just glaring at me from behind a Kleenex.

Good times at the Leader.

Update: September 22, 2016. I arrived at work this morning bearing gifts of wellness and cold medicine to a boss (who is also my mother) who now hates me. A lot. She is ill, very ill. I crammed the medicine down her throat; then found out my other two co-workers who were just fine yesterday are also sick today. So, I crammed the medicine down their throats. I’m sick. I’m unpopular. And, I’m ready to go home.

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