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Pneumonia Blues, Pt. 2

Damn this is one ugly virus that my annual flu shot did squat for this year. I was getting better! I was able to eat soup! An egg! And then Sunday night it started unraveling again. The stomach pains came back, the endless streaks to the bathroom. The sight of that sweet poet, Angeline, crying and dry heaving, huddled next to the loo yet again, and the noble, long-suffering but n'er complaining eagleyez holding back her hair through yet another urp episode (which, really, is only fair because I grew it waist-length for him).

Monday morning I told him I was going back to the hospital. He said "No, I'm taking you back to the hospital." And the emergency room staff took me out of the waiting room right away, either because I really did look that pathetic or because they didn't want to have to mop the floor yet again. (And how can you puke nine times in a row when all you've ingested in the past twelve hours is approximately four ounces of Gatorade? You tell me!)

This time they gave me bad drugs. Drugs that really burned going through the IV and then made my stomach feel empty and cold and an Allbuterol breathing treatment (because of wheezing brought on from the sinusitis, oy) that made me feel like someone had just lit a rocket under me. You do not want to feel like you've been rocket-launched when you're exhausted and nauseous, I now know.

And through it all, it kept snowing. Sometimes Maine really is a Stephen King novel come to life.

But this morning my sinuses are in retreat, I'm no longer in pain or wheezing and I actually a) wanted coffee and b) was able to drink some without immediately racing to the bathroom. I don't feel sweet this morning: I feel like a survivor.

In the midst of it all my daughter had a milestone, her sixteenth birthday, and now I feel horribly guilty (even though I gave her many gifts before I got really sick--she's a master at making me start celebrating two months early) because I couldn't spend the day catering to her every whim. I'll get over the guilt, probably at the cost of a few new outfits from Delia's.

And it's still snowing.
 
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You know, Angeline, the only compensation for being ill on her sixteenth is a car? You do know that don't you?

Yes, and a perpetually full gas tank.

Oh! Someone's going to have to pay insurance, too.

It's the least you can do ...

After all, if Jewish mothers are fantastic at ladling out the guilt, what can a not quite spoiled enough J.A.P. accomplish? (I apologize if I used bigotry to create humour. I figure if Joan Rivers can do it [although she is Jewish ... It's like a black man making slave jokes, kinda acceptable.] so could I.)
 
Ange, you're still mess. So how much weight have you lost? Oh, come on! You might as well get something out of this. :devil:
 
My God! I suppose I would suck the KKK's collective cock just to stay indoors in the warmth!

Kelly Kaye: "So I marched Rat Girl up to door and told her to get her white pants and sweatbands back from that fat, black girl. Well, her mama had an attitude about it. You know how black people are. They all have that attitude."

Okay, so she doesn't call her daughter Rat Girl. That's my pet name for her -- kind of like Ben. So anyway, I'm forcing myself to grit my teeth and not call her a nascar-lovin', redneck racist. Besides, those would be words of endearment to her. Kelly Kaye does favors for me and in return I listen to hours of mindless talk. Seriously, her brain is on the bathroom counter, like a set of false teeth. Kelly Kaye, put that brain back into your toothless cranial cavity! Oh, the favors... Well, she said she'd pick up my kid when she picks hers up from tutoring.

I'm home and I'm cold and I don't want to go out. What lame reasons to let racism slide. But I don't bother much anymore. I'm up against family, friends, neighbors, voices like charred crosses.

Damn, it's cold here in the South.
 
champagne1982 said:
You know, Angeline, the only compensation for being ill on her sixteenth is a car? You do know that don't you?

Yes, and a perpetually full gas tank.

Oh! Someone's going to have to pay insurance, too.

It's the least you can do ...

After all, if Jewish mothers are fantastic at ladling out the guilt, what can a not quite spoiled enough J.A.P. accomplish? (I apologize if I used bigotry to create humour. I figure if Joan Rivers can do it [although she is Jewish ... It's like a black man making slave jokes, kinda acceptable.] so could I.)
Click to expand...

I will have you know that I offered both my babies the old minivan, and they laughed at me. :D

Hey they could trade it in. My son was actually considering taking it so he could haul his band (his perpetually member-changing garage band) around, but then he realized how much it would cost to fill that thing's gas tank.

It's okay about the Jewish thing. I am nowhere near as good at tossing the guilt around as my mommy, but then my goal is to raise a subversive, not a J.A.P. (something I have come to realize about myself). And if you knew my kids, you'd say their father and I have succeeded rather well with this goal. :D

And Evie, I don't have a scale but I have a doc's appointment in a few weeks. I'm hoping for at least eight pounds!
 
WickedEve said:
My God! I suppose I would suck the KKK's collective cock just to stay indoors in the warmth!

Kelly Kaye: "So I marched Rat Girl up to door and told her to get her white pants and sweatbands back from that fat, black girl. Well, her mama had an attitude about it. You know how black people are. They all have that attitude."

Okay, so she doesn't call her daughter Rat Girl. That's my pet name for her -- kind of like Ben. So anyway, I'm forcing myself to grit my teeth and not call her a nascar-lovin', redneck racist. Besides, those would be words of endearment to her. Kelly Kaye does favors for me and in return I listen to hours of mindless talk. Seriously, her brain is on the bathroom counter, like a set of false teeth. Kelly Kaye, put that brain back into your toothless cranial cavity! Oh, the favors... Well, she said she'd pick up my kid when she picks hers up from tutoring.

I'm home and I'm cold and I don't want to go out. What lame reasons to let racism slide. But I don't bother much anymore. I'm up against family, friends, neighbors, voices like charred crosses.

Damn, it's cold here in the South.
Click to expand...

Hee. Heehee.

And you better use "voices like charred crosses" in a poem. It's too good to lose. :)
 
I drove, with my 8-year-old, to the school to pick up her sister from tutoring. I was sitting there, in the bus zone, checking out a Tupperware book that a friend's mother-in-law gave me. God, no, not another Tupperware party. I suppose the distraction of that and the distraction of getting my child out of the car is how I dropped my keys on the seat. That moment of realization, staring into the locked car, was like a reverse orgasm. I was frozen, my breath caught in my vagina or somewhere higher up. My eyes were fixed on the ridiculous doodads dangling from my keychain. Oh, the ridiculous car key with no duplicate! Oh, yeah, man! It was like staring at some guy and wondering what in the fuck you were doing in bed with him, having a reverse orgasm, or maybe I should call it the defective orgasm!

My first impulse was to call boyfriend Hugo and it was a good impulse, even though it wasn't until later that I remembered he was once a locksmith. I didn't call Hugo. It would take an hour or more for him to reach me.

"Hi, Daddy. Do you have a spare key to my car?"

"No."

"I'm locked out. What do I do?"

"I don't know."

What's with my dad? He's always been my hero. Lately, I think he's pouting. Hugo has been repairing the house... repairing work that my dad didn't do right the first time -- according to Hugo. I never knew that bean cans and old appliance cords shouldn't be used for repair jobs.

"Arghhhh..." was my response to Kelly Kaye when she approached me. "Watch the kids!" I was off to the office to find Ms. Whirly, Swirly, Tornado Twirly, whatever her name is.

She called and she called until, "It's like getting the number to the Bat Cave, but I have the secret code!" Ms. Office Lady said smugly.

Moments later, Barney Fife showed up. No, I don't call him that, but everyone in town does. He's a wiry, little sweetheart. He struggled and grunted and I praised, "Oh, you're so good. My gracious. Thank God you're not a car thief or none of us would be safe from you in town. I think you've almost got it. What would I do without you? Let me suck your cock in gratitude." Well, I said most of that. Barney was grinning one of those possum grins. I'm sure possums grin, don't they? Not sure what was going on behind the shades, though, but I bet his eyes were glazed over from the praise.

Fortunately, he didn't play dead and he got my car open.

*alarming alarm noises*

I don't have that thingy that one needs to cut off their car alarm. So I flapped my wings and squawked. That didn't work. I tried to start the engine and it was dead. Finally, Mr. Fife put the key in the door and it stopped. I hugged him, bless his handy, little heart. Then the children and I finally arrived home. "Do you have your keys mommy?" Bless their little hearts, too.
 
WickedEve said:
I drove, with my 8-year-old, to the school to pick up her sister from tutoring. I was sitting there, in the bus zone, checking out a Tupperware book that a friend's mother-in-law gave me. God, no, not another Tupperware party. I suppose the distraction of that and the distraction of getting my child out of the car is how I dropped my keys on the seat. That moment of realization, staring into the locked car, was like a reverse orgasm. I was frozen, my breath caught in my vagina or somewhere higher up. My eyes were fixed on the ridiculous doodads dangling from my keychain. Oh, the ridiculous car key with no duplicate! Oh, yeah, man! It was like staring at some guy and wondering what in the fuck you were doing in bed with him, having a reverse orgasm, or maybe I should call it the defective orgasm!

My first impulse was to call boyfriend Hugo and it was a good impulse, even though it wasn't until later that I remembered he was once a locksmith. I didn't call Hugo. It would take an hour or more for him to reach me.

"Hi, Daddy. Do you have a spare key to my car?"

"No."

"I'm locked out. What do I do?"

"I don't know."

What's with my dad? He's always been my hero. Lately, I think he's pouting. Hugo has been repairing the house... repairing work that my dad didn't do right the first time -- according to Hugo. I never knew that bean cans and old appliance cords shouldn't be used for repair jobs.

"Arghhhh..." was my response to Kelly Kaye when she approached me. "Watch the kids!" I was off to the office to find Ms. Whirly, Swirly, Tornado Twirly, whatever her name is.

She called and she called until, "It's like getting the number to the Bat Cave, but I have the secret code!" Ms. Office Lady said smugly.

Moments later, Barney Fife showed up. No, I don't call him that, but everyone in town does. He's a wiry, little sweetheart. He struggled and grunted and I praised, "Oh, you're so good. My gracious. Thank God you're not a car thief or none of us would be safe from you in town. I think you've almost got it. What would I do without you? Let me suck your cock in gratitude." Well, I said most of that. Barney was grinning one of those possum grins. I'm sure possums grin, don't they? Not sure what was going on behind the shades, though, but I bet his eyes were glazed over from the praise.

Fortunately, he didn't play dead and he got my car open.

*alarming alarm noises*

I don't have that thingy that one needs to cut off their car alarm. So I flapped my wings and squawked. That didn't work. I tried to start the engine and it was dead. Finally, Mr. Fife put the key in the door and it stopped. I hugged him, bless his handy, little heart. Then the children and I finally arrived home. "Do you have your keys mommy?" Bless their little hearts, too.
Click to expand...

I have to practice saying "Oh my gracious," too? This and Tupperware parties? Well, maybe not Tupperware parties. The only friend we'll have in town when we move in tungtied, and I'm guessing he doesn't have them.

I say it's arguable who's a worse mess: me or you. :D

:heart:
 
WickedEve said:
I drove, with my 8-year-old, to the school to pick up her sister from tutoring. I was sitting there, in the bus zone, checking out a Tupperware book that a friend's mother-in-law gave me. God, no, not another Tupperware party. I suppose the distraction of that and the distraction of getting my child out of the car is how I dropped my keys on the seat. That moment of realization, staring into the locked car, was like a reverse orgasm. I was frozen, my breath caught in my vagina or somewhere higher up. My eyes were fixed on the ridiculous doodads dangling from my keychain. Oh, the ridiculous car key with no duplicate! Oh, yeah, man! It was like staring at some guy and wondering what in the fuck you were doing in bed with him, having a reverse orgasm, or maybe I should call it the defective orgasm!

My first impulse was to call boyfriend Hugo and it was a good impulse, even though it wasn't until later that I remembered he was once a locksmith. I didn't call Hugo. It would take an hour or more for him to reach me.

"Hi, Daddy. Do you have a spare key to my car?"

"No."

"I'm locked out. What do I do?"

"I don't know."

What's with my dad? He's always been my hero. Lately, I think he's pouting. Hugo has been repairing the house... repairing work that my dad didn't do right the first time -- according to Hugo. I never knew that bean cans and old appliance cords shouldn't be used for repair jobs.

"Arghhhh..." was my response to Kelly Kaye when she approached me. "Watch the kids!" I was off to the office to find Ms. Whirly, Swirly, Tornado Twirly, whatever her name is.

She called and she called until, "It's like getting the number to the Bat Cave, but I have the secret code!" Ms. Office Lady said smugly.

Moments later, Barney Fife showed up. No, I don't call him that, but everyone in town does. He's a wiry, little sweetheart. He struggled and grunted and I praised, "Oh, you're so good. My gracious. Thank God you're not a car thief or none of us would be safe from you in town. I think you've almost got it. What would I do without you? Let me suck your cock in gratitude." Well, I said most of that. Barney was grinning one of those possum grins. I'm sure possums grin, don't they? Not sure what was going on behind the shades, though, but I bet his eyes were glazed over from the praise.

Fortunately, he didn't play dead and he got my car open.

*alarming alarm noises*

I don't have that thingy that one needs to cut off their car alarm. So I flapped my wings and squawked. That didn't work. I tried to start the engine and it was dead. Finally, Mr. Fife put the key in the door and it stopped. I hugged him, bless his handy, little heart. Then the children and I finally arrived home. "Do you have your keys mommy?" Bless their little hearts, too.
Click to expand...

It has taken me a long time to figure it out. I know I'm not alone in being a huge fan of your blogs. They seem so familiar, and funny, and perceptive.
To day I finally twigged it.
Virginia's answer to Erma Bombeck...that's it. Clever, quick-witted, funny and perceptive. Oh, yeah, and with a southern twist...and one more thing...hmm, what is it ? Oh, I know...a dildo...that's it.
God bless your cotton-pickin heart honey chile.

:D
 
tungtied2u said:
It has taken me a long time to figure it out. I know I'm not alone in being a huge fan of your blogs. They seem so familiar, and funny, and perceptive.
To day I finally twigged it.
Virginia's answer to Erma Bombeck...that's it. Clever, quick-witted, funny and perceptive. Oh, yeah, and with a southern twist...and one more thing...hmm, what is it ? Oh, I know...a dildo...that's it.
God bless your cotton-pickin heart honey chile.

:D
Click to expand...
Would you like to buy some tupperware? I think I get something called tupperware points, if I sell some of it or bring a breathing body to the party. You're breathing, right?
 
WickedEve said:
Would you like to buy some tupperware? I think I get something called tupperware points, if I sell some of it or bring a breathing body to the party. You're breathing, right?
Click to expand...

Barely. I need some thing to keep my memories fresh. ca you sotre memories in tupperware ? And do you know if they need to be refrigerated ? Probably depends on the memory... I have some especially hot and sexy memories I want to keep forever, maybe reheat on occasion when I'm feeling out in the cold.
Tupperware's microwaveable isn't it ? If it is sign me up for a gross.

Oh, and by the way eve, if you want to spend some time with me you don't have to use the old tupperware points excuse. ;)
 
WickedEve said:
Would you like to buy some tupperware? I think I get something called tupperware points, if I sell some of it or bring a breathing body to the party. You're breathing, right?
Click to expand...

Don't try to sell him Tupperware! He'll turn around and sell it to me!

Not that I haven't succumbed, ever. I have been to Tupperware parties, Princess House parties, Pampered Chef parties, Longaberger basket parties, even some lingerie party (with supposedly sexy but really ugly, imo, lingerie). And I do understand that if you go, you must buy something. Those stupid Longaberger baskets are ridiculously expensive. :eek: I don't care how many Amish men broke their backs making it, thirty bucks is just too much for a pint sized strawberry basket. Even with the leather strap.
 
You're going to be needing something to put the lasagna, spaghetti and brownies in that you said you were going to make me when you get here. You're not trying to back out on that are you?
I demand satisfaction !( Pretty please) :D

Angeline said:
Don't try to sell him Tupperware! He'll turn around and sell it to me!

Not that I haven't succumbed, ever. I have been to Tupperware parties, Princess House parties, Pampered Chef parties, Longaberger basket parties, even some lingerie party (with supposedly sexy but really ugly, imo, lingerie). And I do understand that if you go, you must buy something. Those stupid Longaberger baskets are ridiculously expensive. :eek: I don't care how many Amish men broke their backs making it, thirty bucks is just too much for a pint sized strawberry basket. Even with the leather strap.
Click to expand...
 
Angeline said:
Don't try to sell him Tupperware! He'll turn around and sell it to me!

Not that I haven't succumbed, ever. I have been to Tupperware parties, Princess House parties, Pampered Chef parties, Longaberger basket parties, even some lingerie party (with supposedly sexy but really ugly, imo, lingerie). And I do understand that if you go, you must buy something. Those stupid Longaberger baskets are ridiculously expensive. :eek: I don't care how many Amish men broke their backs making it, thirty bucks is just too much for a pint sized strawberry basket. Even with the leather strap.
Click to expand...
Damn the Amish! Never liked them since the 70s when they told my dad I was a spoiled girl! Well, excuse me. I wanted a TV in my motel room. I was not going to miss the Dukes of Hazard.
 
tungtied2u said:
Barely. I need some thing to keep my memories fresh. ca you sotre memories in tupperware ? And do you know if they need to be refrigerated ? Probably depends on the memory... I have some especially hot and sexy memories I want to keep forever, maybe reheat on occasion when I'm feeling out in the cold.
Tupperware's microwaveable isn't it ? If it is sign me up for a gross.

Oh, and by the way eve, if you want to spend some time with me you don't have to use the old tupperware points excuse. ;)
Click to expand...
I once wrote a poem about my friend keeping her soul in tupperware.
I think we need a tupperware poetry challenge.
 
WickedEve said:
Damn the Amish! Never liked them since the 70s when they told my dad I was a spoiled girl! Well, excuse me. I wanted a TV in my motel room. I was not going to miss the Dukes of Hazard.
Click to expand...

They were lying to cover up the fact that they have no tvs. Lol.

And tungtied, I promise, but maybe not at the same meal or we'll never be able to leave the table. ee says I am the whiz kid of Jersey cooking. :D
 
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