Sick Confessions

I kind of enjoy being sick.

Not the throwing up, aching head, raw nose, room spins every time you sit up kind of sick. But more of the "I sound stopped up enough on the phone that I don't feel guilty knocking early for the day and laying around in a pile of tissue and hot tea while I watch Oprah and wait for my husband to arrive home and cook me dinner."

There's something hedonistic about lying on the sofa with a remote and absolutely no intent of moving for the next four hours. I can't do it when I'm well. I'm too busy thinking I should be writing or reading or cleaning or paying attention to the cats or repotting the plant or any one of a million chores. But give me a sniffle and I'm good to go. My brain wave patterns change and I rationalize that it's only right, nay, imperative, that I watch reruns of "Gilmore Girls" and "Friends" while I try to recoup my strength.

I suppose it says something about our lives and society when the only time we feel good about relaxing is if we're sick. That must be why we get sick when we're under stress--our minds are saying, "Enough! Just lay down for 12 hours and stop thinking about things for awhile!"

I can almost control my sickness. If I feel my body start to wear thin I start negotiating. "No, no, you can't be sick until Thursday. I'm too busy too take care of you. I promise, if you get me through this week, you can be as sick as you like on Thursday." And it's amazing how often I'm able to starve off the worst of a cold or flu until the designated sick day.

I say this because I'm not sick now, but it would be a lovely day to fall ill. There's a rain/sleet mixture moving in, the roads are icy, it's dark outside even though it's only 2:30 pm, and the house is warm and stocked with food. What a great day to veg on the couch with a book or stick a movie in and watch TV.

But I have an article due, I'm applying for an artists grant to self-publish my cat book, my desk is gasping to be straightened up, I'm supposed to be editing Millicent, and I haven't journaled in over a week.

Screw it. Bring on the book. I'm pretty sure I feel myself coming down with a sniffle.

The Creature Lives

Creature Under the Stairs - 500
Dena & Blair - 0

We are losing the battle, the war, and everything in between.

The Creature Under the Stairs continues to thwart us. This morning it was growling and squealing and doing high-impact cardio under the stairs. Noon seems to be the time it's most active.

I had the Critter Control guy out and while he was very nice, it was a less than satisfactory experience. We walked around the outside of my house and he pointed out places where animals may be getting in and quoted a hefty sum for them to plug the holes up.

"But that's not getting at what's under my stairs," I said.

"It's probably mice," he said. "They won't travel but 10-25 feet from where they nest."

"So how do we get them?" I asked.

"We'll bait under your house and in your attic," he said.

"I thought you said mice don't travel. How will they get to the bait?"

"Oh. Well, yeah."

I took over. "Listen, we have set out baits and traps and whatnot and none of it works. How do we get to those things in the wall?"

He shoved his hat back on his head. "Well like I said, we'll set out bait and stuff."

AARRRGGGHHH!!!

We circled around this conversation and finally he threw something out that we can't drill into plaster walls b/c we may hit a wrong section, and big chunks would have to be removed and I don't know what all. What it comes down to, in my opinion, is that we're stuck with these stupid things under the stairs. Which I refuse to accept. There has to be someone out there who has a solution. People don't just live with things growling under their stairs.

I know one thing. The money I paid this company is good for 30 days worth of work. I'll have them out here every day if I have to. They'll break into my walls if for no other reason than to get me off their backs.

If anyone out there has any suggestions, I'm wide open.

Repeat After Me: "Duuuuhhhh...."

Ever have those moments that just make you want to cringe and hide under the sofa with the loose change and the leftover Lil' Debbie snack cake crumbs?

Ever have those moments on a daily basis?

I'm feeling that way of late. I can't seem to get it together, which is very unlike me. Normally I'm queen of the checklist. Task, do it, check. Task, do it, check. I love an orderly life.

Now my head is I don't know where and it's a major accomplishment if I remember to rinse all the conditioner out of my hair. I can't seem to focus. I have a number of great ideas for books, for promotion, for classes, for new teaching exercises, but none of it is going to be realized if I don't get a grip and just get something done.

Not helping matters is I made an ass of myself yesterday. Not so out of the ordinary or a big deal, but this time I was an ass while on the phone with a pretty big-deal New York agent.

(Oooh...doesn't that sound sweet? Let's write that again, just for fun. I was on the phone yesterday with A NEW YORK AGENT. The only thing that could make that more fun is to be able to say MY New York Agent.)

We'd met at a speech she gave me writer's group back in November, had talked on the phone a few times, and I'd sent her a holiday card for which she was calling to thank me. All good until, for whatever reason, "fake woman" appeared.

Fake woman is apparently some as of yet unrealized part of my personality who feels the need to chortle (I swear to God, I heard myself chortling on the phone to this agent) and laugh wittily at every thing an agent says.

I could hear the little voice inside my head screaming, "Stop it! Shape up! Act human!" and then watched helplessly as I laughed and chortled like a jackass. What's up with that?

Maybe it's the Creature Under the Stairs that's affecting me. It's still there, alive and kicking. In fact, it was chirping happily earlier today as it gnawed on wood and probably some major electrical circuiting. I've got a critter control service coming out tomorrow and I'm going to urge nuking the furry little rodent.

I've had it. I've tried to be humane. I set out bait and release traps. I politely asked it through the walls to take its young and leave. No more Ms. Nice Guy now. It's time for Armageddon. I want the squeals and the chirping and the growling and the pitter-pattering and the gnawing stopped. I told the receptionist who made the appointment to tell the critter contractor to bring a drill and poison. Let's get it on.

I'll leave on a bright note. I've finally learned the rudiments of how to use my cell phone. I am no longer cursing while trying to figure out how if I have a message or not, and I actually received a call on it the other day.

Look out world. Here I come.

(Just as soon as I remember to rinse the conditioner out of my hair).

Dentists

I had a dental appointment this morning.

My dentist does a great job and his staff is terrific. Almost too terrific. Like, scary-terrific. There is definently some sort of "Stepford-wives" dental hygenist thing going on here.

First off, these dental hygenists are just waaay to happy to see me. Even my family who loves me dearly and hasn't seen me in months doesn't greet me with the pep-squad enthusiasm this team shows.

Then there's the memory game. These women must take notes when I'm not looking. I see them only every six months yet they recall with shark-like precision every word of our last conversation.

Hygenist: "So, you had that big presentation coming up the last time you were here. How'd that go?

Me (with tools in my mouth): "Aargh, aumgh da."

Them: "And didn't you just celebrate an anniversary? What is that now? 10 years, 4 months and 3 days?"

Spooky.

But they show a greater interest in my life than the majority of my extended family. How can one not be flattered? Plus, they are obviously buttering the clients up for when they come at us with the drills, scrapers, scalpels, and other deadly instruments found in the common dental office.

It amazes me the trust I put in these people. Today, for example, my hygenist informed me I had one small area of plague.

"I'm going to use the ultrasound ray-of-death to treat it," she said. (Okay, maybe she didn't really say "ray-of-death," but I can't remember the actual name and I'm pretty sure "ray-of-death" is close). "Let me know if you feel any discomfort."

She stuck something in my mouth and I heard a squealing and humming and felt vibrations and thought I saw an odd purple light being cast on my bottom lip and it never occurred to me this wasn't perfectly fine. That's just weird. Later she draped me in a lead apron and took x-rays. Pointing cancer-causing rays at my face? No problem, and hey, can I get some take-home floss?

Sometimes I ponder messing up their copious note-taking by making things up about my life. So when I pop in for my next 6-month visit they'll greet me with a cheery smile and a "So, how's house arrest been?" Or, "Did that retail sex-toy site you were going to start work out for you? Was the leather whip the big seller you thought it would be?"

At least I won't have to talk back to them with appliances in my mouth. I'll be too busy laughing.