The tickle in the back of my esophagus has finally grown into a full blown, painful sore throat. I feel like I swallowed a tennis ball and was force-fed foam peanuts to pack around it.
Which I’m forced to sneeze back up every few minutes.
I really should have seen it coming. For a couple of days now, I’ve been talking like Peter Brady in that episode of The Brady Bunch where his voice changes.
The “Bunch” is worried about pubescent Peter’s unpredictable voice, since they have a big singing gig coming up. Thankfully, they write a new song – I remember lyrics about something changing, rearranging… something – that reflects how all things in “nature” change. Young Peter chimes in on the chorus, and all is saved.
Life is not like The Brady Bunch.
In MY life – real life – my sore throat prevents me from doing one of my favorite things – talking. I’ve had to develop a crude sort of sign language to communicate with my husband.
By crude, I don’t mean making swearing motions or anything. Just pointing, nodding, or gesturing. And occasionally...grunting.
It drives me crazy to be denied access to my vocal chords.
(And overhead, angels sing in relief. I’ll bet the Holy Spirit’s job is so much easier when I can’t talk. I’ll just bet.)
One of the most wonderful perks of working for a non-profit is the generous allotment of sick days. My cold started in full force on Wednesday, but my office was closed due to the 12+ inches of snow that was currently in the process of falling.
So, thanks to the snow, I’ve only had to take two days off.
It has not been vacation-like in any way. Mostly just downing tea and lemon, and then spraying tea and lemon during the occasional sneezing seizure.
And, of course, I can eat a wide variety of food. Jello. Soup. Tea.
I’m just going to hate nursing home life, aren’t I?
(Who am I kidding? With my health history, I’ll never make it to a nursing home!)
Anyhoo, back to the present, Brett was an angel last night.
He brought me mashed potatoes and gravy from Culver’s, along with a 3-scoop hot fudge sundae. All of which I COULD safely eat. (All of which is also on the absolutely-worst-things-you-can-eat-health-wise list of my South Beach Diet book.)
I’d tried to make tuna earlier for lunch, but it was like trying to mash up and eat a cactus, so I was really hungry by dinner time.
I battled boredom in a number of ways.
First, I exhausted my Netflix options.
I watched four episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation (Season 1). Every time I watch Star Trek, I get the warm fuzzies. My dad and I were avid fans back in the day, and we spent a large part of our time together on the couch watching Sci-Fi.
One thing that gives me great pleasure in Dad’s passing is that he is now personally navigating the final frontier. (Which is not space, in my opinion, but the vastness of the Heavenly City.)
Secondly, I watched four episodes of Sliders (Season 3). It’s fun to look back on how primitive the computer generated graphics were in the 90’s. I remember being awestruck by that show when I was a kid. I loved it!
Plus, 90’s-era Jerry O’Connell is a pretty boy and uber-adorable. Actually, 00’s Jerry O’Connell’s not bad to look at, either. It’s as if he knew he would eventually end up married to a supermodel.
I’ve always had a thing for pretty boys – look at my fondness for Tom Welling and Colin Farrell.
I also watched Fight Club, which I’m guessing would be WAY too violent for most of my blog readership.
I, of course, loved it!
“The first rule of Fight Club is that you don’t talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is that YOU DON’T TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB!”
This line delivered by Brad Pitt was so powerful that I’m thinking of making it my personal slogan. Or would if I was planning on running around getting into fights.
The movie had a great twist (which I couldn’t fully enjoy since I had looked up the ending long ago on www.moviepooper.com.)
Still, the movie itself was great. Edward Norton is excellent, and Brad Pitt fully loses himself in the complex, Fight Club starter Tyler Durden.
I spent the majority of the second day watching TV. Since we don’t have cable, this is not nearly as much fun as it sounds. Over the course of my three days, I have been drawing some conclusions about network television.
First, there are too many commercial repeats. I saw the same commercials so many times, I began repeating the lines.
Which is probably EXACTLY what they want me to do.
Jerks. I hate being a statistic.
Several commercials have also managed to get under my skin.
The first is the Dairy Queen Talking Lips commercials. The Dairy Queen symbol is a red sort of oval shape which the geniuses in marketing have made into giant animated red lips with bright shiny teeth.
Now, this sort of mouth looks like it’s wearing lipstick and therefore feminine – very feminine. So, somebody tell me why the Diary Queen Lips speak in a man’s voice.
A man’s voice!
It’s so obviously out of place I end up feeling like the lips have some sort of gender crisis, and spend all my time worrying about that, I don’t have time to listen to the rest of the commercial.
The other commercial wasn’t necessarily poorly done; it’s just that the product looks gross. It’s Arby’s New Italian Sausage Sub. The visual shows the sausage being cut in half, length-wise, and placed on a bun. Ewww…
Of course this could be because I have an aversion to sausage, hot dogs, brats…any kind of cased meat, really.
I mean, you just don’t know what’s inside that casing! It could be horse or dog or part of an animal that was never meant for human consumption. I just…eww…can’t think about it right now.
And I certainly don’t want to be assaulted with the visual version on TV.
Moving on, I also drew some general conclusions:
Dr. Phil is a self-righteous toad. Who died and made him in charge of the human psyche?
Oprah thinks clutter is making me fat. I think she may have a point. (After all, if it’s clutter, no one can blame me right?)
The Ellen Show totally made me want to dance, and the way I’ve been feeling, that’s pretty miraculous.
Jack is a jerk. (Sorry, Cindy! Team Sawyer here) I mean, Kate is MORE than capable of taking care of herself. In fact, I dare say she’s street smarter than Mr. “Hey, I’m a surgeon with a God-complex.”
She’s saved Jack numerous times and more than entitled to know what’s going on. So, the chauvinistic surgeon gives her an “It’s okay, babe” WINK (What kind of a guy winks? Condescending jerks, that’s who!) to let her know he knows something she doesn’t!!!
No wonder, she gives him the, “What’s wrong with you, idiot?” look.
I’ll just bet just about now she’s wishing she went with Sawyer.
C’mon LOST! Make Jack a tiny bit more likeable will ya? I’m starting to root for BEN over here, for crying out loud!!!
Oops, I’m running out of steam here. And tissues.
I leave you with a Swedish blessing:
May my cold
Not be your cold
May you never
Have to swallow a tennis ball;
Gulp foam packing peanuts,
Listen to Dr. Phil
Or be trapped on an island with JACK!