little_tristan: (Otters Significant Otters)
He's not okay, but he's a little better than yesterday. The insurance debacle got bigger and stupider and in the end we were forced to cave. Remember back when we decided to buy the plan that we couldn't afford so we could go to our own hospital? There was a misunderstanding. When Kaiser said we could choose hospitals, what they meant was we could choose to go to theirs and be fully covered, or go to ours and pay fully half the total cost out of pocket. (With a deductible of either seven or eighteen thousand; I never did get that figured out.)

Last night's post was written in a state of denial, after we made the bold decision to stick to our guns and do what was right for Mark. Today there was a lot more information dumped on us. With actual numbers. In writing. Bad, bad numbers. And by the time the ambulance arrived, it was so late Russ and I couldn't go, what with him having to be home in bed an hour ago.

The most hateful, hurtful part of all of this is that the doctors here all say the same thing: he really isn't ready to be moved. There's still a chance of decompensating on the 205. But Kaiser says no. They hear pneumonia and breathing without a vent and stamp him good to go. But since we had to make the ultimate decision about whether to go bankrupt or not, and therefor whether to put him on the road, he also had to sign a goddamn fucking waiver absolving them of responsibility in that very event. Or any other, really.

I'm having a very Ted Quinlan Catbread Underwater moment here. Every time I think I've met my limit of hateful, hurtful, downright goddamn hard things--my life just kicks in again. Mark's alone and scared with his lungs 1/3 full of fluid, and yes, he'll almost certainly get well, but I promised I wouldn't let them take him away, and now I have to find away to get out of these clothes (which I've been wearing since yesterday morning) and go to bed alone and I can't stop crying because if something does happen I'm two hours away.

It barely matters at this point that I won't get a shower this week. But it still kinda does.

I wish I had one of those best friends who comes running when things go to pieces and hugs me until the world makes sense.

I'll see Heather tomorrow. She'll probably hug me. That'll be good.

I'm sorry I didn't reply to any comments yesterday. They made me so happy, in a hugged sort of way. I might not reply to any comments here, either. Tomorrow's going to be a mess. But any offered hugs will be gladly accepted and deeply felt.

Last night I didn't sleep, but a few times I was sort of half awake and suddenly felt Mark lying beside me. He used to do that when we were dating, when he was too tired to drive home. He'd go to sleep in the living room but I'd wake up in the middle of the night to find him on the bed, fully dressed, just watching me sleep. It seemed like it should have been creepy but it never was.

All day I've been feeling him, a warm, skinny arm across my back, a little shiver of tobacco and geeky t-shirts.

He called as I was writing that sentence. I knew I felt something.
little_tristan: (Kitten WTF)
I haven't been able to find anything about this on Google but something weird happened. I mentioned before that we've been putting ointment in my eye for what felt like an infection. It wasn't getting better, though. It was, in fact, turning into another hasty trip to the doctor.

Last night Mark put the ointment in and we started getting ready for bed. After about five minutes, the inner corner where the pain's been worst started itching like a son of a gun. I gave it a very careful scratch, sort of scooping out excess ointment with my fingernail in case that was the problem. In the blob of ointment was a tiny, shiny, perfectly round and very hard white bead. I couldn't even break it with my thumbnail. The itching stopped after another minute, and I realized it hardly hurt at all anymore.

We're still using the ointment because it feels so good in this ridiculously dry environment. But whatever that little white bead was, it seems to have been the problem. I'm wondering if it was a bit of pet hair or peat stuck in the tear duct, and my body built a smooth protective deposit around it until the ointment greased the way out.

I also wonder if oysters would feel this good if we could take their pearls out without killing them.

Do oysters feel anything at all? I can probably Google that.
little_tristan: (Default)
Sunrise here, at least. It could be noon where you are. I don't know.

Murphy Sloane is eating! Mark brought home a Fancy Feast assortment and he took right to it. This means it will now cost as much per month to feed one seven pound cat as it does Ranger, a 70 pound dog. But it's Murphy. He has to eat.

I can't stop thinking about the scene I wanted to write for The Dancer but couldn't fit in. Now I'm thinking about sliding those two characters into the new story that I'm thinking about. Not as a sequel, it would stand alone just fine, but it would happen to involve them. That may or may not be a good idea. I'll probably throw some words on paper soon and see what happens.

Today I have to call all those people who haven't been calling me back. Heather's making plans to come out tomorrow with Tammy and take our VW out to the mechanic. It has no taillights right now, and an incorrect number of turn signals. We've made all these plans, and yet haven't actually talked to the mechanic about it because he doesn't answer his phone.

The dentist didn't get back to me with an appointment date on Tuesday and my teeth hurt. I hate to nag her since I'm such a bothersome patient, making them put out the ramps, and put me in the big chair of loathing. But my teeth hurt. And our insurance might change again. There's always a waiting period after it changes.

I'm going to watch Supernatural until everyone's open.

I forgot to mention that our fridge is fixed. There is water again! I'm even remembering to drink it sometimes.
little_tristan: (Bloom County cutter john)
Otherwise known as driving to Portland with the arch-nemesis. Interestingly, this will only be the fourth time I've ever been in a vehicle with him. The other trips were no more than 10 minutes each way and that was A LOT. This one will be closer to 4 hours. Hopefully he won't notice if we get extremely high before and during.

Actual conversation that took place between Mark and I on the phone a few minutes ago:

Mark: Just be careful, and--I don't know. Watch the van* and--be careful.

Me: Pet, don't forget. I have an iPhone, credit cards, and Heather. There's no problem we're going to have in the Portland Metro area that I can't solve with those three things.

Mark: Oh, right. Okay, have fun!

Well, I won't be having any fun, but I appreciate the trust. I'm still going to make a couple maps, though. Google Maps on the phone are awesome when we're suddenly lost, but printouts are bigger and more efficient. We're also going to try to get the a-n to buy us lunch.:)


*I think the van is fine but Russell insists it's going to drop dead at any moment. Mark never drives it and is easily swayed.
little_tristan: (Kitten Horror)
Hopefully it will be a while before I lose the use of any more digits. First it was the Murphy bite on my right thumb that got infected within seconds and cost me the use of my right hand for typing purposes. I got an antibiotic that I was told could cause mild stomach pain if taken without food. Substitute mild pain for agonizingly violent, inside-out level vomiting and it would be closer. But it's working, and Mark has almost forgiven Mr. Sloane. I don't need to forgive him. He gave me a warning. Not quite fair warning, imo, but the cat's opinion of fair is the one that counts.

On Sunday I shocked my left thumb trying to plug in the battery charger for my broken chair and it was numb for the rest of the day. I didn't get anything done after that. My only consistent internet presence is Twitter, because I can use my phone and it's super easy. (You can follow me @bonnybedlam if you want to keep up. It's kinda boring, though.)

The good news is it's making it easier to read and catch up on tv. I'm on book 3 of The Dark Tower, The Waste Lands, and I'm pretty sure it's my favorite. But I haven't read the newest one yet, which goes between 4 and 5. It's very exciting having new Roland stories to look forward to. Now that I can comment again, I might even take a whack at LJ. Probably still too tired to resume writing--it's a terrible strain on my hands taking up for injured digits--but maybe soon.

Criminal Minds is fascinating me to the point where I wish I was still completely irresponsible so I could buy the whole series on DVD and watch it in a week. This one disc at a time Netflix thing is getting old. Maybe I can drop some of the cable channels we never watch and go up to two at a time. It's a tough call, since the cable is shared with people who don't get to add discs to the queue. The real villain here, of course, is A&E, which refuses to air the syndicated eps in order. Maybe they're getting a cut of the DVDs.

My broken chair, btw, is still broken. The repair guy brought new batteries and wheels, but the seat tilt actuator the other guy ordered was wrong. Like, nowhere near the right size or shape. And the last guy didn't even write down on the work order that the motors and trannies are bad. That's why it needs fixing. The drive wheels don't even turn at the same rate anymore. If I'm going down a ramp, the right wheel will start to go faster than the left and it'll whip around in a left-hand circle if I don't stop it in time. Stopping is also a problem with worn gears, btw. I got out of it when it started rolling down curb cuts on its own.

Apparently insurance companies are tired of paying for the motor/tranny replacements every year, though. At 2 for $3000 I'm not sure I blame them, but their solution sucks donkey. The guy wants to come back with a programmer for the computer (which he didn't have with him yesterday, because why would you carry a programmer for a chair you're going to be working on?) and see if he can make it "compensate". Meaning the programming is correct but the parts are worn, so maybe he can fuck up the programming so it brakes more sharply or the left wheel turns faster or something. Not that it will solve the problem, the parts will just get worse, but it might mean Providence won't have to pay for it until later.

The repair guy, if that's even the correct name for someone who would suggest such a solution, seemed quite calm about it. I'm scared almost to death. I mean, even if I do survive the winter depending on a doubly-fucked machine, what about when it does get fixed? Will they even remember what they did to the computer, or bother putting it right? Somehow I doubt it. These are the same people who used to give me loaner chairs that were literally broken worse than the ones I brought in for repair and tried to tell me they slewed and dog-tracked because "the speed is set too high". Which makes exactly the same amount of sense as passing off a car that automatically self-destructs at 50 mph. If it can't attain factory approved speeds without jittering around like a bug on a skillet and slamming into walls, THAT MEANS IT'S BROKEN, ASSHOLE. But what do I know? He's been out of Screwdriver Turning School for five minutes and I'm just a cripple who's been living in the gorram things for 12 years. How the hell would I know when something's wrong? And why do I deserve to have it fixed when he can just fuck it up worse and write the job off as complete? Which will also make it a lot harder to get it fixed for real later. Actually, given the sheer number of wheels they tried to slip through on this invoice (10! for a 6 wheel chair that actually got 4 new wheels), I wouldn't be surprised if they were planning to charge for the motors anyway.

I've looked the other way on a shitload of Medicare fraud over the last 12 years, but if they do that, I'm SO turning them in. There comes a time when the line must be drawn. This far! No farther!

And on the subject of broken down stuff, the a-n has decided to grasp at straws in spite of his apparent determination to die. Heather and I are taking him to Portland next month to meet with a vascular surgeon and see if he can be saved. His doctor told me that the only procedure that can be used on him doesn't always work and isn't possible to do on everyone, and his chances of survival were summed up with, "His health is not good, you understand." But he wants to do it now. (The a-n, not his doctor.)

I've explained all of these things to him, how he may not be a good enough risk, and the replacement part might not fit him anyway (it's very new still and they just have the one size), but his only question, repeated ad nauseam, is, "Are they gonna do the procedure the same day [as the initial visit]?" The one time I got him to comprehend that they might not do it at all, he asked what they would do instead. Being me, I told him the truth. Nothing. They won't try if it means he dies right then, where it's their responsibility. He didn't seem to understand the implications, that medical intervention has its limits, and went back to asking if they'll do it the day of the first meeting. I'm not entirely certain they'll even find him competent to consent at this point.

He's considering giving me medical power of attorney. I wonder what I'd do with it.
little_tristan: (Kitten Perpetual Pre-Pounce)
Finally, good news for the one kidney-ed cripple! I think everyone knows I'm worried about the possibility of kidney failure, which happens a lot in my family, because UNOS won't give an organ to a person with muscular dystrophy. They seem to think we're already fucked, so why waste precious life resources on us. (Sometimes my life is a little bit like being devoured by jackals while the powers that be stand outside the pit and concur that one jackal more or less wouldn't make any substantial difference.) That still leaves private donation, but my sister can't and the rest of the family is probably too distant to match.

Then, today, I read about this group in our local newspaper. A woman here in town got a kidney from a total stranger through a nationwide exchange program. It's FreeCylce for kidneys, y'all. When a person in need signs up to get a transplant, they sign up a healthy friend or relative to give one to whatever other person in the group matches. It's totally the answer to the age old problem of I want to do it but I'm not a match. You're probably a match for somebody, somewhere in America, and giving that gift to a stranger is your loved one's ticket to a new kidney of her own.

And maybe throw in a little bone marrow while you're at it. You don't need much and it grows right back.
little_tristan: (Kitten Oxygen)
It's still too early to call the doctor, but I'm seriously looking forward to it. That eye infection I had a few weeks ago? It's in my left eye now. At least this time I know what the odd stabbing pain is so I don't have to wait for it to get worse. We're putting leftover antibiotic ointment in it until I can get to the doctor. More work for Steve.

I Googled my antidepressant and it's possible that it's "interfering with my ability to fight off infection", as they say in the commercials. I was okay with the eye thing and the skin thing (don't ask) and the foot wounds that don't heal, but only as long as I wasn't depressed. If I'm going to be depressed anyway it's really not worth it.

Honestly, and I know this is something all mentally ill people say at some point, I kind of want to try going without antidepressants again. Stick with the mood stabilizer and the tranquilizer (which I'm addicted to anyway), but wean off the hard stuff. I've been known to go a couple years without any and things are, outside of my head, pretty good at the moment. But it's more up to the doctor than it is me. I just want to ask him about it. Maybe there's a sane and happy me inside that's dampened and confused by all the drugs right now.

Or maybe I'd just feel better if the anemia was under control and I had my immune system back. Twenty minutes til I can call.
little_tristan: (Kitten Oxygen)
It's not exactly like the sun coming out. It's more like looking at the clock and realizing that it will come up in a few hours.

I'm still sad. But it's not anyone's fault. It's just me. The dreams are getting weird. That's when I know for sure something is wrong. I asked Steve when it started. When I started to go crazy this time. He refused to answer on the grounds that it could be used against him later, but the rest of the family agrees it was about three weeks ago. I didn't tell them right away about the fake memories. Even when I know I've lost touch with reality, it's scary to admit. Bad for my credibility. But there are too many memories in my head that logic tells me didn't happen.

It's good to still have logic.

Steve's going with me to the doctor as soon as I can get an appointment. He doesn't want too much responsibility for keeping me together, but he's promised to help me sort out what's real and what isn't until we get this thing under control. It's good to be able to trust the family. They won't mess with my mind when it's hanging by a thread.

Yesterday Heather and I emptied Mom's storage unit. It was too expensive and too far away to keep dealing with. We were going to put most of it in another unit here in town, but it got late and started raining so we left it in the van. Except for the cheap cat litter that Mom used when the roads were bad. Steve helped me put that into effect in my new front porch ashtray project. And we found a really old plastic milk crate that Heather washed off and helped me fill with all the new books I bought this summer. We got Willow a new dog crate at a yard sale last week. It's as tall as my desk, so I'm stacking milk crates on top to make more bookshelves. More dusting for Steve.

This morning the boys took the van load of stuff over to our rented shop and stacked it in a corner there under a tarp. That's better than renting another unit. We have a one year lease so it's safe through next March. It's also three blocks away and I have a key. That makes me feel better.

We found the quilts that Dad's mother gave my parents as a wedding present. Grandma made quilts for everyone, the way Mom's mother crocheted afghans. I think I got the last quilt ever given a grandchild, because she died when I was not quite 3. Heather got the pieces for hers and finished it herself a few years ago. Mom thought the quilts were gone, probably stolen when her last unit was broken into. There was a lot of stuff from Dad's store that I expected to find and didn't. I guess that actually was stolen. It's weird getting to the end of the stuff and knowing there should be more. I wish I could ask her about it. And more than that, that I could tell her we still have the quilts.
little_tristan: (Bunny)
The amazing [livejournal.com profile] catyah was over on Wednesday for tv watching and a tour of downtown. We went to the retro jewelry store and the bookstore that I only found out about by accident after she left last year. Steve went out by himself and played the best game of disc golf in his life, then came home and made breaded pork chops for everyone. Of course we were late and he enjoyed telling me two or three times that he was home on time to cook for Mark. Well, he deserves to be on top once in a while. They were really good pork chops.

Thursday morning, after my run in with stupidity, the Catyahs came over to say goodbye on their way to Portland. It was a nice sunny day so Steve and I went to the farmer's market downtown for strawberries and baby red potatoes that he knows how to do something with. I'm not sure what, but it sounded good.

The boys were off work Friday so they could work on their machine at the shop here (we rented a building a few blocks away to invent in), so I let Steve go early. We spent most of the morning over there setting up the new bandsaw. For some reason there are still bandsaw blades all over the living room, though. Willow keeps trying to chew on them.

The writing has abruptly resumed. I never mention when I stop, but I keep stopping. One of the characters is hard to keep a handle on. Whenever he slips out of my reach, the whole thing grinds to a halt. This weekend I had a solid grip on him and a lot got done. Which is good, since Mark forgot we were supposed to go to a movie, and that I needed to pop by the doctor's office for a blood draw. At least I had something else to do. Bad luck for Steve, though. He'll have to go with me to the doctor's as soon as the weather clears enough to catch a bus. He will, though. He came home last night and everything.
little_tristan: (Steve Dallas)
First, my eye is almost healed. Miracle antibiotics ftw! And Steve is doing caregiverly things, like putting the ointment in my eye twice a day. Maybe more now that Mark (who does the other two treatments) is working nights again. I'm hoping Steve will stay up and wait for him with me. When he first moved in Mark was on nights and it was fun, hanging out with him when he was just drunk enough to talk about himself. I miss that.

Yesterday was pool day and it was very, very tiring. But we got to sleep late today so I might not have to nap all afternoon. I am thinking, though, that I ought to skip it the week [livejournal.com profile] catyah is here (yay, [livejournal.com profile] catyah), because I won't be good for a thing the day after. It's undoubtedly good for me, but it's also very, very hard. Like math. Only with improved balance and steady weight loss.

In further good news, The Dancer is back on track after a brief hiatus while I waited to see what was going to happen with my eye. Publication keeps getting pushed back, it might be August now, but it's still going to happen this summer. And I think it's good. The sex is almost fanfic level graphic, but the writing is the best I can do and I'm satisfied with most of it. I expect not everyone will get into a love story where the main character is dying in an ugly and graphic way, just like not everyone got Annie and John with their weird history and extreme age difference, but it's my story and it is what it is. The good side of being an unknown author is that no one really expects anything from you. Every book is a new beginning.

Now I have to go see who's in the kitchen. Hopefully it's Cool Hand Steve. Mark's sleeping and my eye hurts.
little_tristan: (Default)
Russ and I just got back from the hospital, where we took my poor crying eye for a diagnosis. It has an infection. I'm surprised. All this time I thought sinus pressure was making my eye hurt but it's really more than eye swelling is making my face hurt. Weird, huh?

Worse, I think I know how it happened. I recently started wearing makeup (I do that sometimes in the spring), and of course I never follow the instructions for throwing it out periodically. So a couple weeks ago I pulled out an eyeliner pencil that's been lying around on a shelf in the bathroom for the last six years, without a cap, and sharpened it up and stuck it in my eye. Now that I think about it, I probably got off lucky.

Now it's a week of antibiotic ointment (4 times a day!) and it should clear right up. Fingers crossed. Then I'll celebrate with new makeup.
little_tristan: (Puppy Upside Down Willow)
But it could have been worse. Long version of the story: The other day I was out on the front porch smoking (because I don't allow it in the house, except in Mark's man-cave office). I was gone 5-10 minutes, and when I came back in, the arch-nemesis was in the kitchen/dining room doorway beating Willow with his cane. I started screaming at him, telling him for the millionth time that that kind of behavior is just making things worse (he tries to close the half door by waving his cane around in the dining room (her territory) and hooking the door to pull it shut, which she also hates) and he went off me. There was a lot of shrieking about how I'M the one making it worse (now?) by not having trained her better from the beginning, and it's all my fault that she's a vicious bitch who deserves to die.

Sadly, Steve was out on the side steps having his own cigarette and telephone break (he likes privacy when he talks to his friends, which is totally his right) so he missed the whole thing. I took Will into my room and put up the baby gate, which she's terrified of because she hates inanimate objects that move when she touches them, and stayed in there crying like a fool until Steve came and found us. I told him what happened and explained that it's so awful because "Willow is our puppy of life and hope. Everyone died last year and Willow is the only good thing that came out of that whole God-awful mess (well, and you, of course)." Which made him go all shy and adorable, and eventually got me a hug. He said he couldn't talk to the a-n about it because it's not his place, but he would be willing to talk to the boys about the effect it's having on me (near hysteria), because that's unacceptable. I asked him not to because they know what the problem is and told me to handle it. And venting to Steve did make me feel better.

The next day, I found Doc's old Gentle Leader out in the shop and put it on Willow. She now wears in all day, until the boys come home at least, so I can keep her on a leash and not keep wrecking my arm like I was doing with the collar leash. She does pretty well with it and is with either me or Steve at all times, so she's safe. I also wrote the a-n a lengthy and rather hostile letter telling him she won't be running loose so he can just back the fuck off and leave her the fuck alone.
You can read it here if you want. )

Which brings me to my elbow. This morning when the boys left, I decided to play with Will for a while before putting the halter on. I was throwing her rubber bone and she was bringing it back, having a really great time. Right up until the fourth throw, when she brought it to me and then started playing keep away. I'd reach for it and she'd lower her head or drop it altogether, then hold it up and lower it when I reached again. It was on the third reach that I suddenly lost my balance and remembered as I fell that I hadn't put my seatbelt on. It's such an automatic action, the minute I'm dressed and sitting down I buckle up, but I totally forgot today.

Luckily Willow didn't know what was happening (is she coming down here to play with me?!?), so I landed pretty squarely on her with the right side of my body. This is good because my right shoulder is already nine kinds of fucked, so I rolled off her and landed on my left side. It was loud and scary and I hit my head. I also left my phone in its pocket on my chair, and since I can't sit up at all, it may as well have been on the roof with a dead battery. This being ten (TEN!) minutes after the boys left, and Steve being in the habit of sleeping til seven or eight, I had to make a LOT of noise to wake him up. It took about half an hour of shouting and other things (the third thing he said, after "What happened?" and "Are you okay?" was "Where did the video tapes come from?" My answer? "It was all I could reach and I was pounding them on the floor.") but he very promptly rescued me. He's a small man, maybe 5'6" and definitely weighs less than me, and has a sore back, but he refused to call the fire department for help and did an astounding job of picking up my enormous ass and getting it back into my chair. I gave him a Vicodin after and he said it helped.

So it was kind of my lucky day, even though my left elbow and knee are beautifully bruised. But don't worry, Willow is fine.
little_tristan: (Chekov Mathletes)
I would describe the bizarre wheelchair accident that nearly broke my neck this morning, but I don't think I could do it justice. Let's just say this never happened in a Quickie. So I'm in a ridiculous amount of pain, but it's too early to tell if there are any actual injuries. Because while pain accompanies injury, they aren't they same thing. For now, just--fucking OW, dude.

Watching The Road did not cheer me up, but I didn't expect it to. If you've read the book, I'd advise skipping the movie. But if the idea of the book intrigues you and you just don't want to invest the time in reading it, the movie is pretty much the same. Only without the greatest line of the book, and, imho, one of the greatest lines in American literature: Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it. But what was really wrong with The Road was that it didn't have Anton Yelchin in it anywhere. If you can imagine.

So I followed it with Charlie Bartlett, and that did cheer me up. Charlie is a fun character, Anton is adorable, and I laughed a lot more than I expected to, based on the reviews. A lot of people compared it to Ferris Bueller, but I'm guessing those people never saw Igby Goes Down. The two movies are really two sides of the same coin. Put another way, if I'd written Igby, [livejournal.com profile] catyah would have written Charlie.

I wish Charlie Bartlett was my friend. But I have Catyah (who needs to watch this, btw), and that's enough. The only thing I can ask is that my frigging spine stop hurting sometime this week. That's not too much, right?
little_tristan: (Zombieland Anger Management)
I just had my first fillings in eighteen years (I was blessed with good teeth), and it sure has changed a lot since 1992. Two teeth weren't so much filled as sealed in a process which I didn't even try to begin to understand. All I know for sure is that it took two people and involved putting every single object in the dentist's office (including, I believe, other patient's personal belongings) into my mouth. Some of these things were hot, and some beeped. Every once in a while, when one of my iPod ear buds fell out, I'd catch a little of the conversation, and it was never about my teeth. ("I put a little of the puppy chow in with the wet food..." Gotta make the money, credit's no good, when the Jawas runnin' shop in your neighborhood... "He said he'd do it if I bought him a tux, and I said I am not buying you a tux just for..." You can cry but I probably won't hear you, 'cause it's loud with the shop vac on... "Justice wants to be a flower girl, but I don't know if I want that many..." When you walk my way hope it gives you hell, hope it gives you hell...) And so on, for an hour and a half.

Luckily, my arch-nemesis had the foresight to start one of his inedible roasts, so I won't feel like I'm missing anything good for dinner. He was also kind enough to shut Ranger outside the minute I was gone, and then complain about the unpleasantness that she barfed up in the kitchen. She couldn't have eaten it if she'd been in the house where she belongs, but try telling that to a complete fuckwit. Now he's making me run Toby in the kitchen, and I'm doing it because after an hour and a half of teeth drilling, I'm not in the mood to argue. Anymore, at least. We already had the "why was my dog outside" argument, and I think I lost that one, too. Of course it takes a lot more time and energy for me to clean Toby's brushes, empty the bin, set up the barricades (the kitchen has 4 doors), and then monitor him while he works, than it would take for fuckwit to just sweep the damn linoleum.

But on the bright side, I have 3 kinds of pudding in the fridge, and someone will be bringing me ice cream for supper. At least they will if they don't want to see me cry.
little_tristan: (Shaun)
Today I got Bruder to take me to Walgreens in search of cough syrup. Last night, as you might have guessed, was unpleasant. I had that tickle in my throat that just would not go away, and managed maybe 2 hours sleep in between sips of water and expired (yes, it can and does happen) cough drops. You know that feeling like if you cough hard enough, using every muscle, including the ones in your feet, you might finally kill the tickle and be allowed to sleep? But instead it just reminds you that, thanks to all the water which also didn't help your throat, you really really have to pee? Yeah, that's the one.

So this brings us to Walgreens and the question of why the hell every single liquid medication marketed for adults (aside from original NyQuil) is cherry flavored? If you're a little kid, you also have the option of grape. Which I would take over cherry (I'm allergic to cherries, and even the artificial flavoring gags me big time), but I wouldn't like it. Not after my mom spent the first 12 years of my life treating everything from chicken pox to scarlet fever with Dimetapp. Great grape taste kids love, my ass. It's the flavor of death, is what that is. 105 degree fever with the skin coming off my hands: here, honey, have some more damn Dimetapp. I don't know exactly what the active ingredients are, I haven't seen a bottle for about 20 years, but I'm pretty sure I could get the same healing power by mixing grape Kool-Aid and light Karo syrup.

Likewise, I don't know anything about the cough syrup I ended up buying, except that it was the only bottle in the entire store that was orange flavored. Yes, this is my standard. Forget the ingredients, just tell me it's not cherry or grape and I'm in. I do suspect, however, that there's some alcohol, and maybe some other fun stuff, like diphenhydramine, in there. Because I can't think, can't focus my eyes, can't write my story even though I have every sentence of it floating in my head, and can't possibly ever, for the rest of my life, even think about coughing again. But that doesn't mean I won't be hitting that bottle again at bedtime. Because? Dude, I just gotta get some sleep.
little_tristan: (Murray's Bad Day)
Why am I feeling better but coughing more? Why has Herr been sick for weeks and not improved at all? Why are men so incredibly stubborn that they'd rather cough up a bruised lung (with a cracked sternum and some messed up ribs from that accident at work, that also went untreated), than see a doctor? Five minutes with Dr. B and one little prescription, and we could both be sleeping through the night, but no. That's just asking too much.

I mean, I love him to death, but what a Gomer.

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little_tristan

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