The Day I Could Have Done Without

Not that I'm not grateful for waking up for the 23,250th day in a row (give or take a week) but seriously... this was one of those mornings I could have happily slept through.  Or died through, whichever.  

(Okay, maybe not died, per se.  But a deep, restful coma would have been nice.)

First of all, I've been sick forever.  

Throughout September and October, while driving repeatedly past a drug store that offered free flu shots every day, I scoffed and snorted and made disparaging remarks about how "There's no point in getting the flu shot because I get it every year and still get the damn flu."  I also may or may not have said things like, "I think the damn shot GIVES me the flu!  Watch... I won't get the shot this year and now I probably won't get the flu!"

(Oh, hardy har har, Self.  You are just sooooo funny.)  

All of which means I've had the flu three times this year.  Three. Times.

The first bout occurred after my initial scoffing, circa October.  And I was sick through Thanksgiving.

Then I came down with the second bout in January and was sick for yet another three weeks.

Finally, and most recently, I began throwing up a week and a half ago and woke up the following morning with a fever, sinus infection, bronchitis, aching, pounding head and a priest standing at my bedside issuing Last Rights.

Because I was that fucking sick.

And a week and a half later, I'm STILL that fucking sick.  This sinus infection is sticking to me like that fat friend your mother made you be nice to and invite to your birthday party and never left.

Because I was (am) desperate to breathe again, I finally resorted to purchasing that Neti Pot thing.  

Basically, you put warm water and salt into a little tea pot and squirt it up your nose.  All the water shoots the snot that is hanging out in your sinus cavity right out the opposite nostril that you shot the water into.

Then you repeat the process on the other side.

All the people in the advertisements look so damn happy while they hose out their sinus cavities.  How could this not be something I would want to do?

See?  Clean cut handsome guy is giving me a thumbs up!  Yay!  Sinus flushing is FUN!!

All the cool people are doing it!

You know you want to...

Yes!  YES!!  I MUST DO THIS!!

So I raced to the drug store, purchased my Neti Pot, and came home.

I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, read the instructions, filled my little pot with water and then...

THIS happened.

Me:  *hanging my head over the sink and doing Lamaze breathing to prepare myself for my first attempt at giving myself a nasal enema*

Me:  *inhale*  *exhale*  *puffpuffpuff*  *pantpantpant*

Me:  *deep breath*

Me:  *tilting adorable little blue pot and effectively sending a tsunami up my nose*

Me:  *gag*  *retch*  *choke* *gasp*

Repeat.

Fuck you, Talking Neti Pot.

I have to admit that even though it is hands down the most disgusting thing I've ever done (up to and including eating a worm while doing a tequila shot) it IS more effective than blowing my nose 800 times a day, even though I've yet to manage it without gagging.

(Then again, so is sticking my head in a swimming pool and inhaling a snoot full of pool water, but I'll save that little adventure for the Spring Thaw.)

But I digress.

Anyway, like I said, I've been sick.  And getting up in the morning and making myself look presentable is nothing short of an epic failure.

Consequently, I've been somewhat off my game.

Last night I dosed myself with NyQuil and dragged my sad and sorry ass to bed.  

Waking up this morning took slightly longer than usual.

I climbed into the shower, did my thang, got out, got dressed, did the hair and make-up, did the Neti Pot (which, as it turns out, I should have done prior to getting into the shower) and left for work.

My commute to work takes me around 45 minutes, so this morning, because I could not wake up, I got myself a coffee to keep me busy on the road (and to also guarantee that I would need to pee at least three times before the morning was over).  I drove, I sipped, I listened to music.

And then?

I needed to blow my nose.

Which is when I discovered that over the past two weeks I have used every tissue and spare paper napkin that I keep in my car to blow my nose.  And all I had at my disposal were a handful of wadded up used napkins that I (disgustingly) had shoved into my center consul.

(I am so ashamed at how gross I am.  Mea culpa.)

After rummaging frantically (while driving) for 5 minutes I finally picked up one of the hardened and dried previously used napkins and blew into it.

To put it bluntly, the entire contents of one nostril shot onto my cheek and into my eye.

NOOOOOoooOOOOOooooOOOOoooooOOOOoooooOOOooooo!!!!!!

NOOOooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOoooOOOOooooooOOOOOOooo!!!!!

GAHHHHHHH!!!

I won't go into detail, but I may or may not at this point have pulled over, removed my scarf, and used it to wipe off my face and eye.  

(And finish blowing my nose.  Yes, I know.  Don't even say it.  But desperate times call for desperate measures, and it was either my blouse or my scarf.  Scarf won.  Or lost.  Whichever.  I can do my job sans scarf.  If I were to appear sans shirt, I'd become one of my own clients.)

I arrived at work with seconds to spare, got the keys to my work vehicle, climbed in it, turned the key...

And it wouldn't start.

"Motherfucker!!" I muttered, as I ran back inside, talked to no less than 5 people, grabbed the keys to a different car, ran back out, and went on my merry way.

(Late, of course, because that's how I roll.)

And of course I got stuck five cars deep behind a line of Speed Limit Nazis.

I hate these people.  If the speed limit is 45, they go 40 to 44.  If it is 30, they drive 25 to 29 miles per hour.  If the speed limit is 55, they go between 47 and 52.  (I don't get it, either.  But it's what they do.  I'm beginning to think there's a club and a rule book.)

These people are going to be the death of me.  Count on it.

I finally came to a place where I could do a mass passing and did so with unholy glee.  "Weeeeeeeeeeee!" I squealed, as I careened down the wrong side of the road going 75 in a 55, passing all five cars in just the nick of time.

As I blew into my lane in front of the final Speed Limit Nazi, the GPS that I had stuck onto the windshield dislodged itself and flew into my face, smacking me in the eye.

Yeah.  That hurt.

My eye promptly began to water and long story short, I wound up with mascara down to my chin and eyeliner up to my eyebrow.

I looked hot.  And was on my way to deal face to face with clients.  And running so late I simply couldn't stop.

Since my jacket was black and matched my mascara and eyeliner, I used it to wipe up my face as best I could.

So. Fucking. Awesome.

Beyond that point my day continued fairly smoothly.  When I made it back to the home office I couldn't wait to get to the bathroom and pee, which is the one thing I hadn't been able to do all day.  (I really appreciated that coffee.  You have no idea how much I love having to pee for four hours and not being able to do so.)

Which I did, post haste.

And after completing my business I approached the sink to wash my hands... which is when I finally caught sight of myself for the first time since leaving the house.

Oh. My. GOD.

There I stood, in all my glory.  I, a bastion of professionalism, had performed my missions of good will and spread sunshine amongst the weak and the weary with mascara and eyeliner smeared all over one eye, dried snot crusted to one nostril and cheek, a white blob of toothpaste on my royal blue blouse and my crowning glory:

A booger (thank you, Neti Pot) stuck in my hair.

The One Where I Call St Peter A Bad Name

As I was a somewhat morbid little girl, I would lie in bed at night and imagine my last moments on this earth.  Tears would roll down my cheeks as I would visualize my Death Bed scene:  Loved ones would gather around looking upon my pale and angelic visage (played in my mind by a young and exquisite Audrey Hepburn) sobbing inconsolably as I took my final and labored breaths.  At intervals I would take a brief moment out of dying to say my Last Words to each loved one in turn; words that were so filled with wisdom and meaning that they would change lives... move mountains... cause the heavens to open and the angels to sing.

My Last Words would be so epic that they would add them to the Bible.  (Most likely to Jesus's Sermon On The Mount.)

(Screw you, "Rosebud...")

My dying would be the stuff that movies are made of.

(Along with being slightly morbid, I may or may not have also been just a teensy bit theatrical.  Don't even get me started on my funeral.)

(My dying also had a sound track, but I'll save those details for another time.)

Anyway.

So yeah, my lifelong death plans were shattered all to hell yesterday.  

It started with an unexpected monkey wrench thrown into my already crappy day.  I've been sick for a few days.  It started Sunday night, with puking and, um, shall we say, "tummy troubles."   From there it morphed into a hideous head and chest cold that has in turn become a gnarly sinus infection and bronchitis.

Word on the street is that I feel like shit.

(The word is on the street because I put it there, in case you were wondering.)

Meanwhile, my job involves a LOT of driving, mostly on the badly kept back county roads of Northern New York.  (Of which there are many.)  

I'm beginning to think my supervisor takes a somewhat perverse pleasure in sending the California girl into the wilds of the North Country.  It may or may not have something to do with me scoffing at the local "mountains" and making disparaging remarks about New York drivers not knowing how to drive on hilly, somewhat windy roads.

"You think these are mountains?"  I may or may not have sneered on one or more occasions.   "Try driving on a real mountain!"

New York mountain range.

California mountains.  In other words, I DO have a valid point.

So now I spend a ridiculous amount of time driving through tiny little mountain towns where there is no cellphone reception, no road upkeep, lots of pot holes, lots of brave yet stupid deer, and lots of big rigs with sadistic drivers.  

(And the occasional twang of banjo music.)

(I also am pretty sure I saw Ned Beatty tied to a tree in his underwear once.)

Wait... what?  Did you see that?

In my travels along the back roads of St. Lawrence County I have hit a deer (but didn't kill it... oh God it was horrible), did over $2000 worth of damage to my car (thank you, Geico, for your prompt check delivery plan), developed a new found hatred of long haul truck drivers, and yesterday, almost died.

(Lord, talk about losing your train of thought.  I just had to reread what I've written so far because I totally forgot what I was blogging about.  Hello, Early Onset Senility?  This is Dani.  Hold my calls, please.)

My plan yesterday was to go one place, then another, then turn around and go home and go back to bed.

Instead, I went one place, then another, then another, then another, then another, and wound up taking a road previously only traveled by foolhardy and stupid early settlers.  

And the aforementioned truckers.

And I wasn't happy about it.

It was pouring down rain and what little pavement that may at one time have existed on that road had long since dissolved into mud.  I was driving along at an alarming speed (because I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible and let's face it, there wasn't exactly any traffic) when I came up behind a tractor trailer being driven at approximately 15 mph less than the posted speed limit.

Less.

I'm not gonna lie, nothing irritates me more.  If you can't drive the posted speed limit, pull your ass over so that those of us who CAN, can get where we need to go in a timely manner.  Am I right?

Of course I am.

Meanwhile, the truck in front of me was kicking back so much mud that even with my windshield wipers going at top speed, I couldn't see shit.

My view from the driver's seat.

Every time I tried to pass, he'd speed up and drive down the middle of the road.

When I'd slow down to get far enough behind him that his mud wasn't covering my windshield, he'd slow down.

On the sections of road not covered with mud, he'd cruise over to the shoulder to create some.

In my mind, I could picture him laughing maniacally as he plotted his next move.

Better drive faster, baby... I hear banjos...

Fuuuuckkkkk...

And then?

I ran out of wiper fluid.

Which pissed me off.

And set off a deep and disturbing bout of Road Rage.

With limited visibility, I stepped on the gas and began to haul ASS around Mr. Douchebag McTrucker.  And as I was rounding the curve and getting ready to move into the lane in front of him, I saw it:

Oh no.  NO.  Not again.

I braked so hard I gave myself whip-lash.

"MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRRRRR!!!"  I screamed.

Mom and baby bounded off into the safety of the trees, the truck kept going, and I died a thousand times.

And then it hit me:

At the moment of my death, my last words on this earth were "Motherfucker."

Had things ended just slightly differently, I would have careened into Heaven bellowing, "Motherfucker!"

My first words to St. Peter would be, "Motherfucker."

Shit.

The One With Big Gay Dan

This is my un-gay husband, Dan:

Take note of his un-gayness:  The two-fisted drinking, the Mets shirt, the heterosexual manner in which he's behaving like a jackass...

Un-Gay Dan loves movies.  LOVES them.  Almost as much as he loves two-fisted beering and sports.  He will watch pretty much anything that contains blood, guts, violence, war, aliens, sports, female nudity, Adam Sandler, Will Ferrell, fast cars, big trucks, foul mouthed talking Teddy Bears, and Star Wars.  

What he DOESN'T watch?

Is pretty much anything that contains the words "gay" or "musical."

So imagine his surprise the other night when he logged on to Netflix and found the following message:

Because you watched The Big Gay Musical, you might enjoy the following titles:

Dan:  *immediately feeling his sexuality being threatened*  "WHAT THE FUCK?"

Me:  "What?"

Dan:  "WHAT THE FUCK!!"

Me:  "What what?"

Dan:  *glaring at me in a wild-eyed, panic-stricken way*  "WHO WATCHED A MOVIE CALLED THE BIG GAY MUSICAL???"

Me:  "Huh?"


(Please note:  The all-caps is due to the fact that Dan's normal speaking voice is just slightly below a bellow.  When he's agitated, panicky, or fearing his rampant heterosexuality being threatened, he achieves what can easily be referred to as a Full-Blown Bellow.  Yes, the neighbors adore us.)

Dan:  *nothing short of enraged*  "LOOK!!  RIGHT HERE IN MY NETFLIX!  IN MYYYY NETFLIX!  SOMEBODY WATCHED THE BIG GAY MUSICAL!"

Me:  "Seriously?  That's what it's called?  Hilarious!  Why are you looking at me?  I don't watch movies."

Dan:  "WHO THE FUCK?  OH MY GOD!!  OHHHH MYYYYY GODDDDD!  LOOK AT THESE MOVIE TITLES THAT NETFLIX IS SUGGESTING FOR ME!  NETFLIX THINKS I'M GAY!"

Me:  *possibly enjoying this a little too much*  "Maybe Netflix knows something you don't know..."

Dan:  *to the empty room*  "WHO THE FUCK WATCHED THE BIG GAY MUSICAL???!!!"


Me:  "I think it's part of a conspiracy where all the gays staged a coup on Netflix and are utilizing their mad mind control skills to turn everybody gay.  I'm pretty sure I heard about it on Fox News."


Dan:  *ignoring me*  "WHO WOULD HAVE WATCHED THE BIG GAY MUSICAL???!!!"

This went on, ad infintum.

I finally pointed out to Dan that he has given at least 900 people his Netflix password so honestly, it could be anyone.

I may or may not have suggested it could be his brother, or his dad, in a creative attempt at coming out.

(Dan usually does not find me amusing.  This time was no exception.)

Needless to say, his mood was dark.  

He then went on a macho movie watching binge to hopefully prove to Netflix that he is 100% not gay.  (Because gay men would never want to watch hunky Hollywood tough guys kick ass and take names, yes?)

Me:  "Seriously, what would a gay man do?  Watch other gay men prancing around singing Somewhere Over The Rainbow or watch a muscle bound hunk of meat with his shirt off saving the world?  Are you SURE you didn't watch The Big Gay Musical?  ARE YOU SUUUURE?"

(Again, not funny.)


The Mystery Of The Big Gay Musical haunted Dan.  Who would have watched it?  And why?  Everything he thought he knew was no longer real.  His world was turned upside down as the Big Gayness of it all weighed heavily on his mind.

Frequently he would ask me, in agonizing tones, "Whooo?  Whoooo watched The Big Gay Musical??"

And I, loving, supportive wife that I am, would respond, "Who fucking cares?"

See?

So flash forward to yesterday, when I took my nieces, ages 9 and 14, shopping with me.  Both girls are severely learning disabled.  The 14 year old is mentally about 5, the 9 year old just slightly less severe.

The 14 year old, T, is going through an awkward age where she loves boys but is absolutely clueless as to what to do with them.  She's obsessed with Twlight, Vampire Diaries, One Direction, and any tv show or movie that features pretty young boys behaving in a way that she determines is funny.

(In other words, everything is funny if a cute boy is doing it.)


(She is so obsessed with Twilight and so incredibly naive that she has downloaded every single free book onto her e-reader that contains the word "Twilight" because she thinks it's about the movie.)


Anyway, the girls were in the back seat of my car chattering about some movies they had watched recently.  I was only half-paying attention because their understanding of what they've watched is incredibly limited, and if said movie has a cat, a dog, or a cute boy in it, that's pretty much their entire  focus.  Wars could be going on, people could be decapitated, but if so help me a cat happens to wander by, they instantly begin squealing about the "cute kitty" and enjoy the movie immensely because "the cat was so funny!!  and so cute!"


(Oh, to live in their heads for a day... Disneyland has nothing on them.  I'm here to tell you that the inside of their minds is the real Happiest Place On Earth.  No lie.)


It was right about three minutes in to our drive that a lightbulb suddenly turned on above my head.


The girls may not remember what they had for breakfast, but they DO remember how to get onto Uncle Dan's Netflix.  They are actually quite skilled at picking out a movie to watch and have never forgotten his log in OR his password.  (He forgets it all the time, but they don't.)


Me:  "Did you guys watch a movie called Big Gay Musical?"


Them:  *blank stares*


Me:  "Did you watch a movie called Big Gay Musical?"


(My theory is that if they don't understand me the first time, if I repeat it often enough, I'll eventually get an answer.  My theory is usually proven incorrect, but I keep plugging along.)


Me:  *trying a different tactic*  "What movie did you watch last night on Uncle Dan's Netflix?"


T:  "High School Musical."


Me:  "Are you sure?"


T:  "Yes.  I think it was like the fourth one or something.  We didn't see it before."


Me:  "Was it called High School Musical?"


T:  "It was called something Musical.  I don't remember what."


Mystery.  Solved.