daft actions

Either you should always lounge around your abode wear something slinky with the hotza or you should make sure that when you say "Thursday at 8" you know that the next Thursday is in two days and that any reasonable person might assume you meant that one.

Otherwise, you will answer your door to a very cute girl who has seen you naked, and who you were very much hoping still thought you were hot, and you will be wearing old yoga pants that are not only stretched out in the knees but also covered in cat hair, topped with a smashing boy-cut blue thermal shirt with picky bits all over it from your cat's claws, and the only small comfort you will be able to take from the situation, after you have shut the door and also surveyed your very greasy and messy hair, is that your slippers are two shades lighter than the shirt and actually tie the whole ensemble together quite nicely.

Since this morning's entry was so bleak, I thought it deserved a follow up. I'm feeling better. Still a little not myself, but moving towards normal. I didn't have a treat, since I think that a big part of this stupid crazy craziness has to do with the fact that I was eating wheat, dairy and sugar this month. A lot of it. The last time I went off those things hardcore, I stopped with the PMS altogether.

I also went to yoga, which would have been more relaxing if I hadn't sprained my toe. Yes, that's right, I hobbled myself doing yoga. After I caught my breath, I laughed pretty hard.

This has happened before. Once, when I was probably 17 or so, my friend Teresa and I got all stressed out and crabby with each other because we were running way late to pick up Erin to go camping and one of us had forgotten something. And she'd packed the trunk like some kind of numbskull, so my stuff wouldn't even fit, never mind Erin's stuff, and guess who had the tent? We were both digging around in the trunk, trying to fix the mess.

She, I guess, gave up and stood up. And, somehow not noticing I was still futzing away, slammed the trunk down. On my head. And then, when it didn't shut, right away, with no break, she slammed it down harder. Still, again, on my head.

I reeled back, staggered, and fell onto my front lawn. She ran over, stood over me, apologizing like mad, her words pricks of light on the backs of my eyelids.

It was so ridiculous, the whole damn thing, that I started laughing, belly guffaws, and then she started laughing, belly laughs too, and tipped over onto the lawn beside me, and I was holding my head, and she was holding my head, and we were laughing and crying and laughing. And still late, but it didn't really matter because what we lacked in promptness, we made up for with hilarity.

Thanks, you all, for being so nice.

Remember a couple days ago when I was bitching about not feeling well and cranking about my cold sores and then sounded particularly whiny because I thought maybe I was getting an ear infection but probably not and it sounded like maybe I was being over-dramatic and me me me?

My ear hurt most of that day, but sort of simmered down towards the end of it. When I woke up yesterday morning, it didn't hurt any more and I thought, "See, buck up. You're fine."

At 9 am, I noticed that the top of my head felt bruised. At 10 am I thought, hey my ear hurts again. At 10.30 am, I could feel the pain literally radiating out from my eardrum. It felt like squiggly waves casting out over my head in a net.

I went to the clinic.

The doctor, who is much nicer than my doctor, looked in my left ear and said, "Yes, that's infected."

Looked in my right ear and said "This one's not hurting you too?"

It started hurting too.

Off I went to get my antibiotics and finish up a few things at work. Then home and to bed for a couple of hours. Woke up to the left side of my head feeling numb. Stars of pain here and there, but really, it didn't hurt too badly. Took some miraculous advil and felt much better very soon.

And then I tried to make dinner.

I get migraines every once in a while and they're weird. They don't really hurt. I can't really feel them. But they break my brain. The story I tell most often to illustrate this is the time at Venus Envy Halifax, after I'd been working there for 5 months, when Shelley asked why the back lights weren't on. I said, "Oh, I tried a bunch of different things, but they're broken." She went over and turned the switch on.

Last night I really really wanted garlicky chick pea soup and kale for dinner. So I poured some oil in a pot, and turned the burner on and chopped the garlic while I waited for the oil to heat. When I was done with the garlic, I looked over and the oil was smoking. Checked the setting and it was on high.

So instead of say, par example, taking the pot off the stove and letting the oil cool down, I thought, "Huh, HI. Whaddaya know." and dumped the garlic in. Where it promptly burned and smoked up my kitchen more.

"Huh," I thought "I should do something with that oil and garlic. It's ruined. Huh. I should dump it down the sink. Wait a minute. Maybe it's bad to pour oil down the sink? I don't know. What do you do with hot fat? Right, you put it in a container. Huh. Oh good, there's a plastic tub in the sink. Wait. This oil is boiling. That tub is plastic. Is there something wrong here? I think there might be something wrong here. [tick tick tick] No, no, it should be fine. Sheesh, Butcher, stop overthinking this. Just pour the oil...

Oh. Melting. Right."

The oil went down the sink.