The post from beyond

Today's definition of "lazy":

Sitting on the couch in your underwear and bra shaving your legs into a basin while watching Maury because you didn't feel like standing up in the shower that long.

Not that I would ever do that.

*cough*

I'm supposed to be packing.  

Instead, I'm procrastinating, because I'm much, MUCH better at that.

I have boxes, newspapers, and Rubbermaid containers in my car.  I have an apartment full of stuff that simply can't live here without me, and someone needs to get bizzy and Git R Done.  (I had a minor rant on Facebook this morning regarding Larry the Cable Guy, which occurred after I saw his Prilosec commercial.  He irritates the shit out of me.  Meanwhile, the phrase "Git R Done" is now officially stuck in my head.  Fuck you, Larry The Cable Guy.  Fuck you to hell.)

In my defense, however, I'm pretty sure I have West Nile Virus.  Or maybe malaria.  Or Yellow Fever. Whichever it is, it's something hideous passed on by mosquitoes because those bastards have been eating me for breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, and two snacks every single day for the past week.  I started counting my bites (because I'm OCD about shit like that) and quit at 79, just on my arms and hands.  

Basically, I itch so badly that I can barely stand myself.

*Fun fact:  It would take roughly 1,200,000 mosquitoes to completely drain the human body of blood.  

*Not so fun fact:  There are roughly 1,199,999 mosquito bites on my body.

This sign needs to be added to the New York state flag.  I'm going to start lobbying for it during the next election, when I run for governor and force the grocery stores, drug stores, and Target to start selling liquor, like they do in normal states.

Anyway, I totally blame New York.  And Dan.

There is so much stagnant water in this state that mosquitoes flock here from miles around to party like it's 1999, breed, and retire.  

Northern New York is the mosquito version of Fort Lauderdale.  Truest fucking story ever.

So Friday, I started getting a sore throat.  As I itched and scratched and bitched and moaned about how itchy I was and how bad my throat hurt, it suddenly occurred to me:

Dude, you're totally dying of mosquito born illness.

Remember the time in the book Little House on the Prairie (not the tv series, Little Dynasty on the Prairie, but the actual book) where Laura, Mary, Baby Carrie, Ma and Pa all have Fever 'n Ague from all the mosquito bites?  And if Laura hadn't crawled to the pump and brought them all water, they totally would have died?  

Exactly.

Saturday morning I woke up with a raging fever, burning sore throat, headache, body ache, and approximately 564843957 more mosquito bites.

I was a goner, for sure.

I dragged my sad and sorry ass into the living room and prayed for death.

And a bean burrito from Taco Bell, as a Last Meal before I headed towards the Pearly Gates.

One of my prayers came true:  Dan and his dad drove a 40 mile round trip to bring me two bean burritos from the Bell.

I could die in peace.

Only I didn't.  Instead, I woke up Sunday.  

I still felt shitty, I was still itchy, but dammitalltohell, I was still alive.

I blame my hearty European genes.  And the fact that everyone in my family lives to be 90.

Which leads me to today, my apartment, and my lack of activity.  I feel icky.  I'm itchy.  And truth be told, when it comes to packing?  I don't wanna.

Meanwhile, thanks for the love you all shared after my last post, when I had a massive pity party.  I did manage to somewhat pull my head out of my ass and search for the elusive silver lining, and I'm pretty sure I will keep on trudging, as I normally do.  (I'm a trudger.  Life sucks, for sure, but somewhere in the distance you'll find me trudging along.  My feet will hurt, I'll be hot and thirsty, and I'll no doubt whine a good deal, but at the end of the day there I'll be.  Curse you, hearty European ancestors!!)

This is a blog posting that apparently has no graceful or natural ending so...

(If there are a boatload of typos it's because I didn't proof read or pay attention to spell check.  FYI.)

There is no joy in Mudville...

Whenever I move out of a place, the first thing I do is take all my pictures down.  It's like my little way of breaking it to myself gently that this is no longer my home.

Yesterday I found out that we are moving sooner than I'd originally thought, which means that the first thing I did today was take all the pictures down and then stare at the walls.  It instantly feels like someone else's house.  

I wonder why that is.  The rest of my shit is still in place, but the walls are bare...

Dani doesn't live here anymore.

Even the dogs feel it.

Maisy is clinging to me like a baby monkey (which means I've stepped on her/tripped over her at least 15 times) and Javi is hiding under the couch.

And I'm crying like a little bitch because I really, really hate moving.  Hate.  Hate so damn much.  And for a while, my life is going to totally suck.  This I know with absolute certainty.

There's no funny today and may not be for a while... currently my life is seemingly spiraling out of control and there doesn't seem to be much I can do to stop it.  My personal crisis is painful and there just doesn't seem to be any way that I can put a positive spin on it right this second, so until I am done throwing myself a pity party, there will be no bloggety-blogging, as I hate writing down depressing stuff just as much as most people dislike reading it.

Plus I hate it when I'm a whine-ass.

Dammit... I KNEW I shouldn't have wished for Death By Meteor!!

Peace out, home skillets... I'll be back.

Maybe with happy pills... yes?

Every fucking cloud, yo.

Fun for the whole family

First conscious thought today:

"Did I forget to wear pants this morning?"

The fact that I got up and drove the hour home but didn't have this thought until noon, after I'd showered and changed my clothes, may give you an idea of my state of mind today.  Quite plainly, I'm exhausted.

E.X.H.A.U.S.T.E.D.

It's been a long frickin' four days.  Or five.  I don't quite remember.

Dan, the dogs, and I drove down to his parent's house for the weekend to hang with Dan's brother and his (relatively) new wife, whom neither one of us had gotten to meet before.  They were in England for several years (his wife was there starting at birth but I'm not counting that) and just got back to the U.S. of A at the beginning of the year and decided to settle in Texas.  So having them come to NY was kind of a big deal.

SO.  We all stayed at Falcon Crest (Carrington Mansion?  Southfork?) together, ate drank and were merry together, and as it turns out, my old ass is no longer cut out for 4 (5?) days of booze.

Sad, right?

I know.

How I've spent the past four days...

By day 2, I was ready to spend the day in my jammies, eating soup and watching Murder, She Wrote.

Instead, I was doing this:

Then Sunday happened:

Then for some freaking reason that NO one could understand, it was MONDAY... and THIS happened:

And that's when I realized that maybe I should stop drinking for a day or so.

*cough*

So I spent yesterday like this:

And then?

Something bad happened.

My little Pomeranian, my Javi Bear,  has seizures.  Usually they're fairly quick... it's caused by hypoglycemia, which is really common in pommies, and if I give him some peanut butter or corn syrup, he comes out of it more quickly.

But nothing worked yesterday.

He seized repeatedly until about 6:00 this morning, which is when we got up and came home.

In other words, I didn't sleep a wink last night because I was so worried about my little dog.

He had his last episode at around 7 this morning in the car on the way home, and has been sleeping ever since.

But that's how it came to be that I honestly have no idea if I came home with pants on or not.

I got home, threw my clothes off, fell face down in the bed and slept for 2 hours.

I got up, took a shower, made some lunch, and that is the moment that I had my first honest to goodness complete thought of the day:

"Did I forget to wear pants this morning?"

See?  It does happen...