In Today’s News

I smiled at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning. That might not seem like such a big deal, but it’s huge in my world. After being sick for a week now, I feel like maybe things are looking up. I also feel like I’ve made that claim more than once in the past seven days, so I’m not putting any money on it.

I tried to ignore all of the news about trump reneging on the deal with Iran yesterday. Remember when we wondered how to deal with the mad men of other countries? Now, we have our own homegrown mad man. Lucky us. Makes me nostalgic for Qaddafi.

Instead, I focused on the fun news.

The Rockefeller family’s auction set more than one record yesterday. Unfortunately my illness, and a few million dollars, kept me from buying anything.

Above, Picasso’s Young Girl with a Flower Basket sold for $115,000,000. Gertrude Stein’s brother originally purchased it for $30 in 1905.

Monet’s Water Lilies in Bloom sold for a record $87.4 million.

The Matisse, perhaps my favorite, sold for more than $80 million.

So I’ll likely never own an original Picasso, or Monet, or Matisse. At least I’ve got my health, right? Right? Damn.

Peace, people.

When You’re Still Sick, but You Know Everyone is Tired of Hearing About It.

There is a black cat reposing on my chest. Occasionally she head butts me, a sure sign of affection. Or maybe just an attempt at getting my attention. Either way, her ministrations are comforting.

I was supposed to get a haircut today. It’s desperately needed, but there’s no way I can drive to the town my salon is located in. There are miles between bathrooms.

Our bedsheets need washing. I’m fairly sure I have the energy to strip the sheets from the bed, but will I be able to put them back on after they’ve been washed and dried?

The television is driving me crazy, but my mind won’t let me read a book. Silence is fine for awhile, but I dwell on the wrong stuff: I hate Donald Trump, God help me, but it’s true.

I keep reminding myself that I love my husband. We haven’t gotten to sleep in the same room for awhile due to his sciatica, then his upper respiratory infection, and my “whatever fresh hell this is today.” Have I mentioned he’s supposed to have a surgical procedure later this week? Fudge.

I want my mommy. God, I want my mommy. I dreamt of her last night. She had a fancy new car and a coffee mug with an inspirational verse written in blue script. We sat in the car and talked. I cried.

Circles of Gloom

The beautiful blue pattern of interlacing circles pictured above is from a hospital gown. No, I wasn’t admitted to the hospital, but took an impromptu trip to the convenient care clinic on Sunday afternoon where I was poked and prodded, x-rayed and questioned interminably, not necessarily in that order. Being sick is exhausting.

I did learn that the best way to get to the head of the line at convenient care is to go in wearing one’s pajamas and stage whisper that you’re prone to bouts projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea. Sadly both are true, but I was immediately taken to a room.

They’ve perhaps sorted out my issues and I’m hoping we are on a course of recovery.

I Need a Hug

The awful illnesses that have infected Studly Doright and I seem to be slowly drawing to an end. I watched a hamburger chain’s advertisement for a double thick steak burger last night without feeling the need to run to the bathroom to puke up the chicken broth I’d just sipped on for an hour. It’s a harbinger of better days to come, just as the first robin signifies Spring’s beginning. Less poetic, but the same.

Studly seems to be coughing less and he doesn’t fade in and out when walking through a room with white painted walls. He’d make a great spy if all the walls in a given location were bone white. Walk right in, seize the classified documents, walk right out.

One of the worst things about being ill at the same time with one’s partner, only with two different types of viruses or infections is that we can’t hug lest we give each other what we’ve got.

“Here, Studly, my love, have a week of puking up everything you even think about wanting to eat.”

“Sure Nana, my goddess, why don’t you enjoy hacking your head off for a change of pace.”

I really need a hug. Studly might need one, too. We’ve patted each other on our respective heads and arms, and then quickly moved to sanitize our hands lest germs be transferred in this manner.

Maybe that’s why last night (in my dreams, of course) I had an intense make out session with Gerard Butler. I woke up feeling immensely more cheerful.

Peace, people.

The Flu or Something Even More Hideous

Readers, I’m sick. Studly Doright is also sick. We both have different symptoms. His are upper respiratory in nature, mine have kept me tethered to the toilet. Fun, fun, fun.

We’ve had to take turns caring for one another over the past four days. Neither of us are good nurses under the best conditions, and certainly these conditions aren’t good.

I hope we’re both headed towards our own warped versions of normal. In the meantime, this little girl has been my constant companion.

Patches would’ve made a fine nurse.


I’d been dreading a doctor’s appointment for the past couple of months. Apparently my blood work from a recent physical indicated that I might be hosting a debilitating illness in my aging body, and my physician referred me to a specialist.

Of course I’m a bit of a hypochondriac, so my mind went to all the dark places: Rabies, Parvo virus, Heartworm. And then I remembered that I’m neither a dog nor a cat. But still, the mind kept straying to thoughts better left unexamined.

I also worried that the specialist would be eager to prescribe all sorts of medications that would just make me feel like an old broad. An injection here, a pill there, and soon I’d be wrestling a list of side effects longer than Kareem Abdul Jabar’s right arm. It happens.

Today I met with the specialist. He was a lovely man who visited first with me about the book I was reading before leaping into the medical stuff. The man knew how to woo me. 

After a thorough exam he asked, “How old are you again?”

“Nearly 60,” I said.

“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. You’re just fine.”

“Well, I drink a lot of wine,” I said.

“Increase the dose,” he replied.

I might’ve made up that last line.

Peace, and good health people!

Feed Me Seymour!

Is it 

“Feed a cold;

Starve a fever?”

Or vice versa

I never can

Seem to


Hunger, though

Is my companion

Urging me to

Ignore the wisdom

Age old sayings

Passed down

from mom

To mom.

Just feed me 

Seymour and

No harm is done.

peace, people!

Hot Toddy Q & A

I’m not sure if the hot toddies I imbibed helped shorten my cold or just made it more bearable. 

Question: Does one need to be suffering from a cold in order to enjoy the wondrous concoction known as a hot toddy? 

 Answer: I certainly hope not! 

 Q: Is a hot toddy really a proven remedy to cure the common cold? 

 A: Who the heck cares?  

Q: What dosage of hot toddy is recommended for greatest efficacy? 

 A: The more the merrier. Here, have another.   

Q: Could you share your super easy recipe? 

 A: I thought you’d never ask:


In a microwave safe cup combine: 

 2 oz. Whisky 

1 tbsp. Honey 

1 tsp. Lemon juice 

4 oz. hot water 

 Place mixture in microwave for a minute or until it’s hot, but not boiling. 

Add a slice of lemon and a cinnamon stick. 

Sip slowly and feel your throat say, “thank you.” 

 As with any beverage containing alcohol, please drink responsibly. 

 Peace, People!

Cold Sufferers’ Bill of Rights

IMG_0829I’ve decided I’m probably not dying anytime soon, but I definitely have a cold. A serious cold, as opposed to a frivolous cold. In order to form a more perfect healing environment I drafted the Cold Sufferers’ Bill of Rights:

1. The cold sufferer shall have the right to construct a nest of pillows and blankets. All items necessary to healing and/or comfort shall be arrayed in appropriate positions either within or precisely adjacent to said nest. Items might include, but are not limited to, pillows, tissues, medications, books, and the t.v. remote.

2. The cold sufferer has the right to suspend by the thumbs anyone attempting to disturb the aforementioned nest.

3. The cold sufferer has the right to the entire bed for as long as his/her cold shall last.

4. The cold sufferer has the right to moan pitifully periodically with no repercussions, including, but not limited to sarcastic eye rolls or sighs of exasperation.

5. The cold sufferer has the right to be waited upon hand and foot for the duration of the cold.

6. The cold sufferer is excused from any domestic duties for the duration of the cold and perhaps beyond depending on mood and acting ability.

7. The cold sufferer has the right to request his/her minions er, attendants make as many trips to the drugstore as are necessary for the health and well-being of the cold sufferer.

8. The cold sufferer is deemed right in any debate. Arguing can curtail the body’s ability to heal.

9. The cold sufferer should be allowed full control of the remote. If she/he needs to watch Star Wars, Episodes IV, V, and VI repeatedly for a full week, so be it.

10. The cold sufferer shall be given immunity from repercussions relating to anything said or done during illness.

That’s all my poor stuffed up head can handle for now. Studly, bring me another hot toddy. (snapping fingers) Studly? Studly? He always was a bit of a rebel.

Peace, people!