In Which I Whine Like a Sad Little Girl
So. Life. That thing I live.
Last week somebody insulted me, and like a good little girl I stewed and pouted and sulked about it for four days. Then somebody else insulted me in almost exactly the same way and I ran away to my special place and tried to cry, but apparently my tear ducts weren't working properly because I couldn't produce the requisite liquid. Then I tried calling my own personal help line, but it was busy watching Downton Abbey, so instead I pondered over the matter, because if two people are saying nearly the same thing, there must be some truth to their words. At the end of said ponderings I had no solution and didn't feel any better, so I ran away to my room (can you run away to where you live?) and decided to sleep it off, as that is usually the answer to everything.
The next day I didn't feel any better, so I ran away to Salt Lake (aka I rendezvoused with Lary to watch Legend of Korra because we'd had it planned for weeks(ish) and self-medicated with cartoons and reminiscing), only to pick up a bug and get sick (possibly from Lary, possibly from Ruby and Eliza. As I let Ruby drool all over me and I tend to kiss her excessively, I'm going with that option). I spent the next four days in bed (with the brief exceptions of going to work and Beauty and the Beast rehearsal...and game night and Wal-Mart), curled up with my laptop, watching Psych and proving to be my mother's biggest disappointment because I ate Chef Boyardee (exactly as gross as it looks, by the way, but very convenient to eat as it takes literally two minutes of prep time, possibly two minutes and thirty seconds if the pop-lid is hard to get off).
All of this backstory leads up to today, whereupon I realized I was out of echinacea and convenient-but-gross food and orange juice. The best place to resupply is, naturally, Wal-Mart. Having been sequestered away by myself all week, I decided human company would be a decent option, so I called up my sister and said hey, I need foodstuffs. Pack up your baby and join me on my quest for non-nutritive sick supplies. She obliged and together we headed for The Land of Everything!
All was well until about halfway through the shopping excursion when my energy levels dropped almost instantaneously. With no obvious respite, I sat the baby in the cart, gripped the handle, and though to myself, Surely, surely we're almost done.
Silly me. I forgot to factor in my beloved sister's snail-like pace. Now normally this is not an issue for me--in fact, it works out to my benefit as I get more baby- and sister-time. Today, however, I thought I was going to die. My vision was a bit blurry and I was warm and I was pretty sure if I stopped moving I wouldn't be able to start again. Eliza was off grabbing something and taking her sweet time about it, when it occurred to me I really was going to die, and the only witness would be a sweet babe who didn't have the capacity to understand, appreciate, or retell my tragic goodbye speech.
Ruby must be a magical being, because I didn't die and the only thing I can attribute it to is her adorableness (clearly a magical quality). I managed to drive home, arrive in one piece, and I've been in bed ever since.
It never ceases to amaze me how comfortable I can be in bed, and how well I can feel, and then how unwell I can become in the matter of minutes. It happened on Tuesday when I felt fine and went to rehearsal, then set up two chairs and felt my fever resurge, and then again today at Wal-Mart.
About four, five years ago my roommates mockingly pointed out that I have a really sweet prayer voice, at great odds with my regular I-will-eat-you-if-you-disagree-with-me voice. I'd never noticed before, but they're absolutely right. When I start a verbal prayer, my voice raises about an octave and becomes quiet, respectful, and (dare I say it?) sweet. When I was at Lary's on Monday I said the lunch prayer, and two words in (and I kid you not--two words!) she started laughing. After I said amen, I asked if she was laughing at my prayer voice. She said yes. Then she also said I use the same voice to answer the phone.
...
Whaaat?
She's right. I'd just never noticed before. How interesting.
The point of this tangent (and yes! For once one of my tangents has a point!) is my sick voice sounds terribly similar to my prayer voice and my answering-the-phone voice. That was the thought I had today as I spoke to Eliza during our outing.
... And now it is late, and I should go to bed to help this healing body recuperate.
(And lest you think I need a pick-me-up from the supposed slights to my character experienced last week, let me assure you I've gotten over my sulky stage, come to terms with the truth, and moved on. I'm not the mopey teenager I once was.)
Lassiter: Listen, girl, I don't care.
Shawn: Tommy Lee Jones!
Lassiter: What?
Shawn: Fugitive. You're missing some of the country--You know what? Shake it off. Let's try again. I'll be Harrison.
Last week somebody insulted me, and like a good little girl I stewed and pouted and sulked about it for four days. Then somebody else insulted me in almost exactly the same way and I ran away to my special place and tried to cry, but apparently my tear ducts weren't working properly because I couldn't produce the requisite liquid. Then I tried calling my own personal help line, but it was busy watching Downton Abbey, so instead I pondered over the matter, because if two people are saying nearly the same thing, there must be some truth to their words. At the end of said ponderings I had no solution and didn't feel any better, so I ran away to my room (can you run away to where you live?) and decided to sleep it off, as that is usually the answer to everything.
The next day I didn't feel any better, so I ran away to Salt Lake (aka I rendezvoused with Lary to watch Legend of Korra because we'd had it planned for weeks(ish) and self-medicated with cartoons and reminiscing), only to pick up a bug and get sick (possibly from Lary, possibly from Ruby and Eliza. As I let Ruby drool all over me and I tend to kiss her excessively, I'm going with that option). I spent the next four days in bed (with the brief exceptions of going to work and Beauty and the Beast rehearsal...and game night and Wal-Mart), curled up with my laptop, watching Psych and proving to be my mother's biggest disappointment because I ate Chef Boyardee (exactly as gross as it looks, by the way, but very convenient to eat as it takes literally two minutes of prep time, possibly two minutes and thirty seconds if the pop-lid is hard to get off).
All of this backstory leads up to today, whereupon I realized I was out of echinacea and convenient-but-gross food and orange juice. The best place to resupply is, naturally, Wal-Mart. Having been sequestered away by myself all week, I decided human company would be a decent option, so I called up my sister and said hey, I need foodstuffs. Pack up your baby and join me on my quest for non-nutritive sick supplies. She obliged and together we headed for The Land of Everything!
All was well until about halfway through the shopping excursion when my energy levels dropped almost instantaneously. With no obvious respite, I sat the baby in the cart, gripped the handle, and though to myself, Surely, surely we're almost done.
Silly me. I forgot to factor in my beloved sister's snail-like pace. Now normally this is not an issue for me--in fact, it works out to my benefit as I get more baby- and sister-time. Today, however, I thought I was going to die. My vision was a bit blurry and I was warm and I was pretty sure if I stopped moving I wouldn't be able to start again. Eliza was off grabbing something and taking her sweet time about it, when it occurred to me I really was going to die, and the only witness would be a sweet babe who didn't have the capacity to understand, appreciate, or retell my tragic goodbye speech.
Ruby must be a magical being, because I didn't die and the only thing I can attribute it to is her adorableness (clearly a magical quality). I managed to drive home, arrive in one piece, and I've been in bed ever since.
It never ceases to amaze me how comfortable I can be in bed, and how well I can feel, and then how unwell I can become in the matter of minutes. It happened on Tuesday when I felt fine and went to rehearsal, then set up two chairs and felt my fever resurge, and then again today at Wal-Mart.
About four, five years ago my roommates mockingly pointed out that I have a really sweet prayer voice, at great odds with my regular I-will-eat-you-if-you-disagree-with-me voice. I'd never noticed before, but they're absolutely right. When I start a verbal prayer, my voice raises about an octave and becomes quiet, respectful, and (dare I say it?) sweet. When I was at Lary's on Monday I said the lunch prayer, and two words in (and I kid you not--two words!) she started laughing. After I said amen, I asked if she was laughing at my prayer voice. She said yes. Then she also said I use the same voice to answer the phone.
...
Whaaat?
She's right. I'd just never noticed before. How interesting.
The point of this tangent (and yes! For once one of my tangents has a point!) is my sick voice sounds terribly similar to my prayer voice and my answering-the-phone voice. That was the thought I had today as I spoke to Eliza during our outing.
... And now it is late, and I should go to bed to help this healing body recuperate.
(And lest you think I need a pick-me-up from the supposed slights to my character experienced last week, let me assure you I've gotten over my sulky stage, come to terms with the truth, and moved on. I'm not the mopey teenager I once was.)
Lassiter: Listen, girl, I don't care.
Shawn: Tommy Lee Jones!
Lassiter: What?
Shawn: Fugitive. You're missing some of the country--You know what? Shake it off. Let's try again. I'll be Harrison.