Sunday, March 3, 2013


I spoke far, far too soon, Readers in Des Moines. Why Des Moines? Why not.

You see, I had forgotten that the month of February and I have some sort of long-standing fucking blood feud. I forgot that for the last few years, it has tried to kill me, both literally and figuratively.

February has seen job loss, dog death, illness, illness, and more illness. Now, illness I can handle. Illness is sort of my semi-pro job.

Then...there is ILL NESSSSSSS.

Like, when, say, you think you can go out for a nice lunch and order the soup-n-salad combo for a nice price and enjoy your damnable ranch dressing!

And then, hours later, you develop toxic death food poisoning that lasts...ohhhh...a week. Until February has to stop trying to kill you because it's now March.

This year, which, hand to God was a year to the DAY of last year's last stomach coup, was FAR worse. This year, I quit messing around, called The Man, and said, take me in. Mommy needs doctors and IVs and a gurney and some excellent ice chips.

I'm pretty sure I stopped making a lot of sense right around the time I was crying on the couch for my mother. Crying to the cats (about my mother) and then crying to The Man (that he wasn't my mother). The ER was a lovely place, full of stupid questions (what's your name?)(De-fucking-hydrated) and warming blankets. I asked them to keep me, but turns out, even with the best health insurance around, they won't keep you once they make sure you're not going to die in the little exam room.

Once my dessicated husk had slurped up all the magical IV juices, I got released. Damn. I really liked the warming blankets. And the button that summoned people to help me. That was a nice feature. And I'd pay cash money to have some of those IV bags around for a rainy day.

Then, I came home, and slept the sleep of the medicated for about two days.

I'm just *NOW* up and about and not looking like something that you could've scraped off the driveway after garbage day. It was a very unpleasant week, Readers.

I have no idea how it's even possible in Life's Magical Powerball to win the lottery that hands out horrific stomach illness each year at the same time...unless of course, it's because February wants me to die. (Literally, in this case.)

Next year, I think I'll go all incognito for the month - rent a disguise, change my name, maybe leave the country. I don't think I can handle another month of running from the metaphorical Indiana Jones boulder trying to crush me.

But I'm still standing! Sure, I'm literally 11 pounds lighter now, but you can never be too rich or too thin right? Even when the thin is really just all your missing fluids? Isn't the mummy look in for this spring? No?

Comments, questions, anyone else have a month out to get you?