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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I just called (77,000 times) to say I love you

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Today is the fourth of July, and while my sweet husband is doing what millions of men are doing on this holiday – smacking a small white ball around green grass in search of a just-larger hole for it to go into – I have been doing math.

This is unlike me.

I’ve been doing math because A) I don’t play golf well enough to cuss when I do it badly. And if I can’t cuss while being competitive, I’m probably not going to do it at all; and B) I read a news story that required not only math to get my brain wrapped around it, but a willingness to accept that mental health issues can make people perform pretty impressive feats even if they do need tremendous amounts of help.

Case in point: A 28-year-old Albuquerque, New Mexico, woman was arrested this week for calling her ex-boyfriend more than 77,000 times in a week.


 The comma in that number is in the right place. And if that were not enough to make me whip out my dusty calculator, there is more.

In addition to the 77,639 times she felt compelled to call him (she was using three phones at the same time, by the way), she also sent 1,937 emails, 41,229 text messages, 217 sung messages (yeah, I don’t know what those are either – I’m guessing she sang to him in messages that many times) and 647 letters in the same seven days.

Folks, this is what happens when mental illness, an impressive ability to focus on the task at hand, and technology collide. Or cuddle, as the case may be.

According to news reports, what is believed to be the “most extreme case of stalking ever recorded in this country” began after the man and woman ended their three-week relationship.

 So I did math on purpose, because all of that data did not seem possible to a person who cherishes sleep and watching DVR’d episodes of Super Soul Sunday as much as I do.

This woman committed 121,669 separate acts of questionable devotion to this man inside of one week. Given that there are 604,800 seconds in that same week, the stalker in question was doing one of the aforementioned things every 4.97 seconds on the average for seven days straight.

Before now, I didn’t know there was enough meth or energy drinks to make that a reality.

We’ve all had relationships that we weren’t ready to see end – with men, with our favorite shoes, a really good book we’re reading – but no man and no thing have ever compelled me to hole up in a bathroom for seven straight days with a week’s worth of food and every electronic device I own at my disposal.

When I told my husband about this breaking story on our own three-year anniversary, he said this, “Well, that’s how you landed me . . .” For the record, I don’t even own three cell phones.

And not to make too big a deal about it, but he is golfing without his cell phone today.

Happy Independence Day to you, and to that poor man in Albuquerque. Freedom is sweet.


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