You, yes – YOU, you very sick person!
Never, ever, ever come back here.
I was reminded tonight of something that happened to me once. Something that might fill most people with immense fear. I suppose I technically could add it to the list of times that I’ve almost died, but for me (and one complete stranger), I don’t think of it that way at all – and it was one of the most incredible mornings of my life.
I lived in Florida at the time. I grew up there, but had gone away for many years. I came back, helped a bit, and screwed up a bit. I was still trying to find a place to fit back in, in the place that used to be my home, and I had found a job at a horse stable – the kind of place that keeps stalls that other people rent to keep their horses. It was rather far away from where I lived, and it paid nothing at all. At that time I had little ‘professional’ horse experience and wanted more, so I took the job despite the low pay and crazily early hours.
Horses get up early, you know. Because of the distance, I had to get up even earlier to be there in time to make sure they got their breakfast on schedule.
I had a pretty long commute. There were two bridges to cross. Here’s the first one, courtesy of this place (as I have no photos of my own). Please let me know if you don’t wish me to use your image.
It’s not terribly arched, as you can see, and as evidenced by a barge smashing the hell out of it this month. But in such a flat place, even a little bit of height meant you could see a long distance. What I could see ahead of me was a massive black and grey storm wall lit by flashes of lightning.
Oh, how I wish we had digital cameras in 1998. It was amazing, and I was about to drive into it.
It was six, seven miles from that bridge to the next one. I waited, fascinated, as I drove straight into the storm – with beautiful Florida dawn sunshine all around me, sparkling off the white sand on either side of the one-and-only road I could take to my destination – the dark wall looming in front of me, blasts of lightning forking down (up, really) without cease.
I wanted to post a picture of that next bridge, but everything I find online breaks my heart. The ‘good’ pictures all face away from my old home town now, as it has been made so ugly by unchained development. I feel somewhat physically sick after looking at the photos online. So we won’t go there visually.
My bridge (the one I remember being built, the one I could walk to from my house and played under as a child) has a higher arch than the other one in the photo. An arch that, as a driver, came at you as a vertical climb. But before I reached the bridge, I had entered the storm front and was inside the black. The rain was so heavy and intense, there was nothing my wipers could ever do to make a difference. It would have hurt your skin to stand in this rain, I am sure.
It was a thunderstorm the likes of which I had never seen. Usually FL storms are afternoon ones, over and gone before they do much more than raise the humidity another few degrees. I wasn’t used to being up that early, so perhaps it happened more than I knew.
The lightning was now so frequent that I couldn’t even tell that I was even on a bridge. I had lost the ability to see the lines on either side of the road. My vision was of nothing but sheets of rain lit by stroboscopic flashes so close together I had to trust to instinct to keep moving – stopping wasn’t an option when anyone could have been behind me and there hadn’t been a ‘side of the road’ for anyone to pull on to for safety for miles. I couldn’t stop, as I couldn’t be sure someone wasn’t about to ram me from behind and send me off the bridge entirely.
What I knew for sure is that I was about to be a single human in a metal box at the crest of the highest point around for miles, with lightning striking so often it wasn’t seconds, not even one second, between strikes.
What could I do about it? Not a dammed thing!
It was the most exciting and joyous moment of my life. I wasn’t scared, not one bit. I looked death in the face right then and there, and I screamed, shouted, and sung nonsense in jubilation, as I smashed my right fist against the roof of my truck over and over – and I did that to get as close to the highest bit of metal that I could, so the connection to pure voltage would be lessened (I looked for a dent later). My heart and my head shouted this dare to nature, “Come and get me, here I am, and I choose this way to die if this is my time! Yes! Let me go out happy and amazed and screaming for joy!”
Well. Clearly I didn’t cop it that morning. I rolled down the other side of the bridge into town, and into places where the buildings and telephone poles were much, much higher than me and my little Dodge Dakota. But I wasn’t just small and low anymore – I wasn’t alone.
The traffic lights were still working – somehow all that electric madness hadn’t hit anything of importance and the power was still on. I stopped for a red light, still in the left lane (the ‘fast lane’ in the US – the way I drive I usually stay in that lane). As I sat there quivering and coming down off of my adrenaline high, another car came to rest to my right, waiting as I was for the light to change. It was just us two, no other cars to be seen in any direction.
A streak of pure energy lit up the intersection as an electric/telephone pole was struck by lightning. It was on my side of the road, but on the other side of the intersection. I screamed again, and again for joy – not fear – I still thought I was going to die that day and it was, indeed, a good day to die. I know I wasn’t afraid, because I immediately looked to the only other witness of this near-brush with mortality – the man in the car next to me.
I had a huge, huge grin on my face, and so did he. I let loose another of my barbaric yawps, and so did he. And we grinned at each other, sharing the moment of ‘omygoddidyouseethat?’ until the light changed and we went our separate ways.
I suppose these days I’m not likely to die by lightning. But if I do? Be assured I will go with a smile on my face.
Do you want an interesting life? Or would you rather your life be settled, routine, ‘normal?’
The supposed ‘Chinese curse’ is may you live in interesting times. That is by no means the same thing as may you have an interesting life. Interesting Times happen TO you. An interesting Life, hopefully, is your choice.
What would you define as interesting? What is interesting for some is tiresome, tedious, or downright horrifying for others. I think crocheting is interesting, but I’m terrible at it and it makes me angry that I suck at something creative that I also want to do. I think mountain climbing, or rock climbing, is fucking dangerously stupid and why would you want to do that!?!?! But, I have a friend who loves it.
I’m reading Koontz again, his Odd Thomas series. Main character, Odd, is constantly approached by dead people needing help. He’d rather be a short-order cook, or a tire salesman. Well, he is a short-order cook, because the rest of his life is just a bit too interesting. But, he makes the case that he would never want to be famous. I don’t think I’d want to be famous either – not with the lack of privacy and the downright creepy attention people pay to everything you wear and every wrinkle or bulge on your physical body. Perhaps that’s only something famous women have to worry about? I can’t really care about my body’s appearance when I live entirely in my mind. And, if I had a choice, and lots of money, I would dress like a three year old goth: Spongebob and skulls. I don’t want to ever be put in a situation where millions think way too hard about the crap I’m wearing. And I will only wear makeup these days when it is socially expected (which I resent heartily) or I feel like hiding behind it.
There are innumerable women who stay with abusive men because (combined with other reasons) the excitement, the passion! involved is interesting. If and when these women break free, they absolutely miss that excitement. I totally understand that. Adrenaline is addictive.
So. All this comes about from a comment on my Gory Story Time post. Tom basically said that my life was too interesting and he had nothing close in his history to what I’d gone though. And my first reaction was to laugh – because that’s not a big story in my life at all. That’s an amusing side note, a small anecdote, a bit of nothing in the larger history! My life has been truly interesting – but I’m only now realising that it’s pretty much all been by my own choices. These, for the most part, have been pretty stupid choices. But goddamned exciting, nonetheless.
After I grew up a bit, I thought my biggest problem was that I have a tendency to run away. And I do, going back to childhood. But as a ‘growedup’ I would find a great relationship and stick for years – until I got bored, and/or cheated, and used that as an excuse to run away. I’ve also never worked a single job longer than four years straight – pretty impressive as I had my first ‘real’ job at about age 10. I’ve a history of moving around America, town to town, job to job, that finally ended up with me moving entire countries. On a whim, in retrospect. I didn’t have to. Not that I don’t love my husband. But I could have moved him to the US instead. Truly, it made sense for me to move here. BUT – and that’s a big but, that’s why it’s in all caps – I went looking for a man in Ireland intentionally. Because I was bored. I didn’t know that then, this is a new insight into my own motivations. I thought I just didn’t really like the US, and had finally realised that moving from redneck Lower Alabama to Big City Ohio didn’t make a difference – I still didn’t “fit in” with American culture.
Well fuck me, but I sure as shit don’t fit in here, either. After nearly eight years (an all-time record for me staying with one person and a growedup record for living continually at one address, since I was about…14), I’m bored again. I don’t know what is my trigger this time! Do I think I’ve learned all I can about where I live and this culture and all the people that I know? Is it just that the job I’ve had for the last year+ is one I dislike intensely? Am I, deep down, just a lazy feicer and I really, really miss the almost two years I was unemployed as it finally gave me a chance to feel that I had a right to be creative – to write, to draw, to start this blog?
Is it all of the above? How am I supposed to know? Is there something else I’m still missing? I’ve had a few shrinks and therapists, and not one ever pointed this rather important bit of insight out to me.
I know this much: Tom’s comment was a revelation for me, once I gave it some thought. I was pretty damn surprised, because it gives me hope – if only I can figure out what I can do to save myself that doesn’t involve running away. That’s a hard one, as the feeling of being trapped is, for me, something that inspires fight or flight. I fight for a while, but in most situations in my past, I have picked flight. The fight right now has nearly deserted me, leaving only a serious dearth of flight choices that gives me depression in spades. You can guess, if you’ve had depression, what the ultimate choice for flight is when all other options appear to be closed.
But, for now, I’m at penultimate. Because I am still fighting this! I had nearly given up, until Tom’s comment. I’ve fought before when things got this bad: I once decided that getting in my truck in Florida and driving to Maine, with nothing – nothing at all than would fit in the cab (including a very angry and upset Siamese) was better than suicide. Why? I’d never been to Maine, and Stephen King lives there. Those were my only reasons. My point being that I can still see that insane changes will make a difference, for me, rather than the one, irrevocable, change that I will come to, eventually, by choice or not.
I understand that this truly is a revelation, and I don’t expect deep thoughts or even good advice. I needed to write, and this is my outlet. I have written my thoughts and discarded them so many, many times over the last few months – because I don’t want this to be a negative space. This blog is my happy place and I just couldn’t ruin it. I hope I haven’t ruined it now? I still have a lot of stories to tell and – maybe – some art still left in me.
My current life is so… uninteresting, for lack of a better description. But I feel the need to write. So here’s a true story that is educational, and quite disgusting if you’re squeamish. Don’t say I didn’t warn ye.
When I was 16, I kept getting colds and bronchitis all the time. It got annoying. So my parents and I talked it over and decided that I should finally have my tonsils out. I was sort of old for the surgery, but I have been a lot less prone to that sort of illness since having them out.
I don’t remember much about the surgery itself. I know they made me take my shirt off, and I clearly recall my surgeon saying to the others in the room as he moved the sheet down (why!?!?) to expose my chest, that I was “very mature.” That bothered me for years. I was ashamed to even speak about it. It felt like visual group rape. I’ve often wondered: did he/they give me a suggestion to not talk about it when I was all the way under the anaesthetic? because after I told someone the first time, it got easier until it didn’t bother me any more.
What will bother me until the day I die is that not that he was a bit scuzzy and inappropriate, but that he cut too far down on the right side. Really, really far down. I have a pocket between my tongue and what should be throat-meat, but isn’t. Quite often, food that is small and hard gets stuck in there (peanuts and popcorn shells are the worst) and the only way to get it out is to fish it out with my index finger or suck it out while making vile-sounding slurping snotty noises. Thanks, doc.
I haven’t even gotten into the disgusting part yet. Honestly, it gets worse!
We were given a slip of paper with post-operation instructions. It said: ‘about a week after your surgery, the incision may open up and bleed. This is nothing to worry about if the amount of blood is a teacup or less.’
What the leaflet failed to mention is what to do if it was more than a teacup.
I have a mental picture of when it started: a combination of my actual view and a sort of distanced movie of where I was and what I was doing. I was outside, at the end of our driveway, right by one of the odd, light grey, cinderblock-and-concrete-stucco pillars that lined the road in front of our house. There was a small popcorn tree behind me, and I was facing toward our red-clay driveway. I was talking to one of the two beautiful, white long-haired cats that ‘belonged’ to a neighbour (my grandmother adopted one later, the other was a tom and went feral). I leaned over to pet the kitty, who had trotted across the street to see me, and suddenly I had a strange tickle in my throat.
I opened my mouth to talk to the kitty and blood sprayed on to the driveway.
I can no longer recall if I ran right inside, or gave myself a moment or two to figure out what was going on. I’m not prone to panic, and blood has never bothered me, so I’m guessing I didn’t scream for mom and run inside immediately. When I did go in, we found the leaflet and read it. One of us grabbed a smallish coffee cup (no tiny teacups in our house) and when I had filled that up, mom brought out a massive, three-quart, square Tupperware container from the cupboard. The very same one my sister and I had puked into for years when we were small and very sick. It was so deep there was little chance of splash-back, you see. Mom was practical like that.
Even better, this thing had measurements on the inside of the bowl so we could see just how much blood I was losing. The measurements were in quarts. We dumped in the coffee cup-full of blood, in the interest of accuracy. It had jelled already – perhaps due to the properties of saliva, perhaps that’s what blood does anyway – and it slopped into the bowl, keeping the shape of the cup. That was when I first realised that what was going on wasn’t “normal.”
The spray was at the very back of my throat (probably coming from the right where Dr. Inappropriate had cut too deep; it directed to the left). My mouth was constantly full, and I swallowed quite a lot without meaning to. That didn’t bother me, either. What did bother me is when it finally stopped, and I discovered that I had clots of blood everywhere inside my mouth – the worst were stuck in the top surfaces of my teeth the way potato chips do sometimes. I had to pick them out with my tongue, and swallow or spit.
The bleeding had stopped, so I grabbed the relevant Encyclopaedia Brittanica off the shelf to see how much blood someone of my age and size should have inside them. I’d lost almost a quart, according to the awesome Tupperware bowl. Brittanica said I should have about 4 quarts (a quart being about 950ml). Current Googling gives me a lower number.
In any case I was fine, it had stopped, no panic, and we’d all learned something interesting.
Then a short while later it opened up again. We rang the doctor, and he said to go to the hospital. I kept spitting into the container – good data for the hospital, right? Before we left, it had stopped again. I had closer to two quarts in the bowl, and I now knew that wasn’t a safe amount.
It was a small Florida town, and we had a (new at the time) hospital in town so the drive was short. I was fine, cheerful and chipper as I could be, and the bleeding had stopped again for the longest time yet. They decided I should to to another hospital in the next town over, and have Dr Inappropriate cauterise the area to stop the bleeding. They put me into an ambulance.
They strapped me down, as they do in ambulances apparently (this was my first and only experience inside of one). I started bleeding again on the way. I was tied down on my back, spraying blood at the back of my throat, not even able to talk because I would choke, and unable to sit up and spit it out. I always thought from movies that when a kid was in an ambulance a parent was allowed inside, too? Stupid movies. I remember feeling a bit of panic at that point, waving my arms as much as I could under the straps and gurgling for help. I swallowed a lot more blood before they let me up and I could spit. Into my mother’s bowl, still keeping track. I know I had lost over 2 quarts by then – over half my blood supply in a jellied square mass on my lap. That’s not counting the amount that I had swallowed.
By the way: ‘human’ vampires are bullshit. I know, for a fact, from this experience, that the human body can not digest fresh human blood. I will never forget what it looked and smelled like coming out the other end.
I might have gone a bit light-headed by the time I’d arrived at the other hospital for the cauterisation. I don’t remember anything else.
I know that my mom was irritated that she never got her awesome Tupperware bowl back, though.
I think I’ve titled a post ‘Where’s my head at?’ before. Shame. I doubt I did it justice… but there’s no chance I’m going to make anything resembling sense right now.
Screen shot of a “free” app I have, called Paper. The app is a bit, um, up it’s own arse, to be honest. But daaaamn, my handwriting never looked so good. In one take, too! In the head-space I’m in, also! Normally my writing looks like a 7-year-old on acid was writing with her off hand.
I’m not sleeping, my intestines are on strike, I have eczema on my hands and one foot (no cause determined, but no fungus thank fuck, that’s just too narsty. And too easily cured, of course). Possibly stress-related, possibly contact-related. Oh, joy. It’s not enough that my joints, my digestive system, and my heart have all jumped on the stress-symptom-bandwagon, now my goddamn hands and left foot have gotten into the act. What’s next? Oh yes, the twitch in my left eye for the last three weeks, perhaps? Who knows what my pancreas is plotting, or what my spleen is scheming?
Anyhoo there’s too much going on in there for me to discuss at length. So (hopefully, as I seem to have lost the knack for embedding a vid) here’s a video that I think of quite often when my brain is all over the shop (or the locker, or the shower, or in a a dog’s mouth…)
So – I can’t do it right. Here’s a couple of screen shots. Copyright I’m sure Stephen King or the TV company, sorry.
I’ve not devoted a post to my little Siamese boy Lokii in a while. Actually, it’s been over a year since “Let’s Meet Lokii” and “Let’s Meet Lokii’s Dark Side”. However, he’s been disgustingly adorable the last few days, (and it’s not even that cold in here!) so I
got the chance was forced by cuteness to take a few pics.
First, a shot from Monday, when he was helping me watch a David Attenborough documentary on predators and prey. I’ve never caught him really watching TV like this before (but he is fascinated with iPad games, not even the ones made for cats). Not sure if it’s the size of the new screen, or the lions on it that got him so interested.
Wednesday night, Lokii came to bed with me. I always curl up on my left, with my iPad open to an e-book propped against hubby’s pillow. He Lokii-poked to get under the covers, and curled against my chest with his head under my chin and, as it happened, his whole head in my right hand. He fell asleep, purring, and after a while the purring dropped into silence. Then…a while later…a faint rumble started again. Neither he nor I had moved or made a sound – it was just him waking up a tiny bit and realising where he was and who he was with. That’s cat love for sure, and it gave me a much needed happy feeling after a hard day. (Apologies to Cats n Co for pretty much reposting my comment on her blog on ‘Do Cats Love?‘)
Thursday we had a really, really hot fire going. Too hot for me, but just about right for the heat-seeking Si-missile that is Lokii-mon. He was so happy sprawling in different directions on my legs that I couldn’t conceive of getting up to get a better camera. Sadly, these pics are all from my ever-present iPad and they are accordingly terrible. Sorry. Hope the cuteness shines thru all the static caused by taking close-ups by firelight!
Ahh, laps. And fire. Ahhh. That’s a yawn, he’s not about to eat me. Promise.
See? Chin-scratches. Nothing could be better, for him. Me? I had to take this, and the next few pics, with my nose. Yep. One hand is holding the iPad, one is scratching precious kitteh – my nose was my only option!
That’s the biggest of dozens of holes I had to sew shut. I need advice! I’m really worried he’s going to get horribly sick from eating fabric. We can’t stop him. Take away one thing, he finds something else. He’s really great at listening, remembering, and not returning to the scene of the crime again when we say NO! (ok, I say, as I’m the observant one) but he is also good at making sure he never hears ‘no’ in the first place. There’s no blockage in his guts – yet – but I don’t want there to be one.
How can such a smart kitty be so damn dumb?
IDJ and I ‘tag-team’ the laundry duties. He puts the clothes in the wash, and I do all the rest. Not entirely fair, but I really dislike measuring out the soap and whatnot. I don’t know why. It’s not like I get a thrill out of sorting and folding the shit, either.
So, anyway, we do laundry at weekends because that’s the only time I feel like sorting it for him. And this weekend (well past now as I meant to post this Saturday), I was folding the clean but still fur-coated clothes and matching up the socks when I had a revelation (and, just now, another- I cannot spell revelation. How annoying. It just looks wrong).
It was the socks. I had bought four new pair of socks before Christmas for myself. I have trouble finding socks I like, as they can’t be too long or they ball up below my knees and hurt, or they are too short and puddle around my ankles. Men’s long socks do the job, women’s not so much. Anyhoo, two pair were identical black men’s long socks, and two were fun stripey women’s ones, but still in colours I can wear to work. Since I bought them, I’ve been rotating these along with my one remaining pair of long socks (bought in America October 2010) that I haven’t sewn up too many times, to make a weeks’ worth of work foot-wear. And I had to tell you all that because one
putz person I know, after hearing a short version of this story, had to try to joke that I has only two pair of socks that I made last five days. Sigh.
Been wearing these socks at least once a day since mid-December. Wash them, in one load, every weekend. Match them up, ball them together, every weekend.
And I only just now noticed this:
The stripey ones aren’t identical. How could I have missed this quite essential bit of information for nearly two months? What have I been wearing to work? Why did my brain decide, ‘same colours, same brand, both have stripes = same thing!’
I really am a bit worried about this, despite poking fun at myself. I’m meant to be artistic. How could I miss something so…basic? For so long? I really have to wonder what else I might be looking right at, every day, and not seeing.
I’m blaming it on the thin pink stripe. I hate pink. It threw off my game.
I can already tell I’m going to have some typos here. My fingers can’t move fast enough. Oddly I’m using my middle finger on the left and my index on the right to use the touch-screen, I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that before. Could be something I’ve adopted because my left index finger has, for the first time in my life, decided it wants to grow a proper, decent nail and the sound of it ticking on my iPad screen is completely annoying. It might be okay if both index fingers made a sound but they don’t and that confuses my widdle brain.
But fingernails are actually something I wanted to talk about, sort of. I’ve never mentioned my annoying, weird, skin-thing here. Mostly because I have no idea if I’m making the problems up or not. Hell, I shat blood for years before I realised that wasn’t normal. Okay that really is off-topic. But bear with me, fingernails are related to the skin and hair, that keratin thang, and I’ve got some odd shite going on with all of it. I think.
My hair is done growing and that is that: it won’t get any longer. I’ve never had really long hair, and I believe there is a genetic cut-off that says ‘done!’ at a certain length. Hubby hasn’t reached his limit after over 6 years without a haircut, so I’m a bit jealous. I seem to be finally coming out of a months-long hair loss trend that pissed me off and also worried me a bit. I can now actually stroke the last few inches of my pony-tail and not have dozens of hairs come out in the process. So that’s good – but why was it falling out and why did it stop?
My fingernails (see I said I’d get back to that) have always been really thin and soft and squooshy. A while back (could be years, I have a terrible sense of time) I noticed one or two on my left hand had an odd texture. Heavy ridges, and little bumps like sand dunes on a beach. Google wasn’t any help to figure it out. Then my left index actually started making a real nail that didn’t break when you looked at it funny (and turn into a deadly razor-blade), or rip off below the nail-bed and make me sore and bloody for weeks. So: second question – why is my hair falling out but my nails are improving – but also doing funky patterns?
Last issue is the biggie, and the reason I finally am going to talk to my GP on Monday. I have very dry skin. It looks pretty good, I have to admit that. I don’t physically appear to be over 40 – in the summer, at least (I’ll get back to that in a bit). But, it’s thick skin (maybe why I don’t have the wrinkles I should, considering my childhood in Florida when sun lotion meant putting on baby oil or something else to get a better tan). It’s so thick that it requires, as I get older, an immense effort to exfoliate. I’m talking a lot of damn work that I resent a lot.
I have to use those gloves that are super-scratchy to take off the dead skin. I have to soak myself in hot water – and I have never liked hot showers – first, and then again and again after each scrub. If I run out of hot water, which is bound to happen, I’ve left a layer or three of damp, itchy, dead cells on my entire body that drive me INSANE for the next hour or more until I dry out entirely. Baths are much better, especially if I beg hubby to do my back, but our water tank is small and it takes ages for me to fill a tub, and then another 2 hours for the bath. And…the dead skin floating in there is just…horrible. I have photos that I might share with the doc, if I’m not too embarrassed to do so.
Skin lotion doesn’t help much. All it does is make the un-shed skin still stuck to me stay wet longer and prolong the itchy nightmare. If I really get to do a thorough scrubbing-job I’m always debating if I should use lotion or not. I want to, because I get so damn dry, but I rarely see that it makes a difference. Currently I can do an Ally Sheedy impersonation just by rubbing my leg, arm, or forehead – I’m talking about her fabulous dandruff-snowfall in The Breakfast Club, of course. My forehead annoys me the most right now. The dryness has extended down below my eyebrows. My goddamn eyelids are peeling! Ick. You’re not supposed to use exfoliating gloves on your face, but I can’t get the dead skin off any other way – and if I use face-cream more than once a day, I’m a mass of zits. Quite annoying at my age when I didn’t have a problem as a teen! So, I’m sort of hoping that a professional will be able to help, as I can’t and won’t buy every face-cream on the market to test it out, that shit is crazy expensive.
Well, I’ve been dealing with the skin-issues for years. It’s gotten worse in the last eight but I couldn’t say if is it due to the damp, sunless climate in Ireland, or if it’s just me getting older. I do know that I mentally crave sunshine, and that my face ages five years in the winter. I suspect a vitamin D deficiency, but I’m not going to play around with taking tons of different vitamins and waiting seasons for a result just to experiment on myself.
I finally am going to ask for professional help because since Christmas morning, I seem to have developed a fungus, or something. It started on the sole of my left foot as a clump of tiny blisters that looked like a particularly nasty cold sore and itched like mad. Google told me it was likely athlete’s foot, a fungus. I then caught the local creeping ick after new year’s eve and stayed home for a week taking antibiotics – and the very next week at work I noticed a load of tiny little bumps on the sides of most of my fingers. I thought it was a soap allergy, as I had just used a liquid soap in the bathrooms at work that I usually do not use. However, within two days it had progressed to the palms of my hands. No longer little bumps that didn’t bother me, I have had, since the first week of January, leopard-spots on both palms that itch and refuse to be cured by the miconazole ointment I bought and have used at least once a day since. The hospital-grade antifungal soap at work I prefer, and use about four times a day, also hasn’t helped. The little bumps on my fingers have peeled around the edges, but haven’t gotten smaller. The ones on my palms, and the original spot on my foot, also have a ring of peeling skin but the crud keeps coming back. This also worries me as I am a very fast healer. Sweating and hot water make it itch worse – not very great when I require hot water for the other skin BS, right?
I believe there is a pill I can take to cure the fungus that will have to be prescribed – but the thick-skin issue that seems to have prevented the ointment from working now has to be addressed. It isn’t going away, and if continual fungal infections are my future I Am Not Amused. I’m also not keen on the theory that I might need a sun-bed in the winter months (even if my whole being cries out for sunshine).
If you’ve bothered to read this far: any ideas or advice appreciated, especially as regards what I should ask or tell my GP.
I haven’t learned anything much since before the holidays, so I haven’t done what I wanted to be, and meant to be, a weekly Sunday post. Ah well, ignorance is bliss, right?
I might have learned that taking photos while driving is easier when I’m in the passenger seat, as about to be evidenced below.
Here’s a blurry pic of me going to work in freezing fog. This was taken going the opposite direction but in the same stretch of read that these were taken.
Through a lens, you can tell that despite my admittedly aggressive driving habits, I don’t bully other drivers by getting too close, especially when the weather is bad and I can’t see and there’s no damn way I can overtake. No point in getting that close, is there? I’m talking to you, car three. Back the fuck off of car two before we all get in trouble, willya?
Wow I’m having déjà vu while writing for the blog. That’s… unsettling.
Same three damn slow-ass cars in front of me, still. I also have no idea why the sky changed colour. I didn’t putz about with these photos. You’d think it would get brighter with time – and, I’m driving directly into the sunrise, if there actually was one – instead of deeper blue. It was really, really foggy; perhaps coming into a town and the heaviness of the smoke-laden air made a difference?
This is Friday morning, the coldest this year so far at -2.5 before I left the house (C, in F that’s about 27.5), but it was dry enough the two days previous so no worries about ice (a worry that’s been much alleviated for me since we replaced the two front tires on the Mini). It turned sunny later and the sun itself was absolutely gorgeous on the way in to work! If I had time, and any place I could have pulled over, and our ‘real’ camera, I would have had an award-winning shot at one point. As it was, my screen-washers froze up and I had a hard go of it seeing anything through the smeary muck on my windshield. You can clearly see that this is not a clear photo. It was clearly not fun for me, either.
Finally, finally! A pair of socks I got for Christmas. Either they have no idea where the knee on someone who wears a size 8-to-10 (approx 10-12 in US women’s sizes!!!) sock is, or I’m a friggin’ giantess.
Hubby’s closing in fast on one of those birthdays that ends in a zero. He’s got over a month to go, but he’s already been shopping for his desired big present. Actually, we already bought it on Sunday. I don’t even want to know how much research he put into this, but he is a very very good technology shopper and looks at reviews, energy consumption, warrantee, and pricing (in at least three countries). This is why he gets to buy his own prezzie. I’m just the one who says if it looks pretty or not. Yes, I’m nothing but a pair of educated and opinionated eyeballs – especially when we’re talking about a new TV.
I wasn’t going to say what we bought – I sure didn’t announce it in Facebook – because it’s kinda dumb to announce to the world you got some new stuff ripe for the stealin’. But I don’t think any of you are so hard up as to drive or fly over here, try to find my house, and then brave the dog just to take a telly you could probably get cheaper where you live. And trust me, with the amount of time it would take to unhook the umpteen things connected to the TV, the dog would have made good progress on removing bits of valuable anatomy. It wasn’t expensive (we are cheap and broke), it’s not huge, or even the newest model or anything, so it’s not worth it. Really. Disclaimer/discouragement ends.
I had one stipulation: that as we removed the old TV, we cleaned the hell out of the components and the corner the whole shebang sits in. This had not been done in the almost eight years we’ve lived here. It was well, well past time. I’m hairy, iDJ is hairy, and over the 8 years the animals have gone like this: 1 cat, 1 big dog; then 2 cats, 1 big dog; then just the 2 cats. Currently, 2 cats, one big dog. And both big dogs would blow their entire thick hairy coats twice a year, yay! So. Bound to be a fur-fest back there, despite my semi-monthly attempts to stick the vacuum hose behind there. Very half-hearted semi-monthly attempts. Probably bi-monthly. Maybe bi-annually. It wasn’t high on my list of stuff to do, in any case. And moving all the gear out of the way was never, ever going to be a job I did alone.
I was quite pleased when he agreed. It had to be hard to wait to play with his new toy until after everything was vacuumed, wiped off and tidied up. It did take over an hour, if not two. Here’s some of the evidence:
The worst one. This was what was underneath the Sky box, which was underneath my DVD player, which was underneath some stuff I didn’t know how to use. Note the nasty SCART cables: this could not have been good for the electronics. Yuck, yuck, yuck.
There wasn’t as much fur as I expected, and only one sticky spot on the floor under the stand itself (we believe this may have been beer at one point, spilt at an impromptu get-together). One thing I am proud of – yes I can still have some pride after sharing this disgusting mess – is that me and the Dyson kept hubby from having an allergy attack during all this. Usually dust gets him sneezing like a donkey.
Perhaps new television sets are a placebo cure for allergies?