In Which We Survive

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

In Which We Are Sick as a Sick Dog

 

So, mrpeenee, what adorable souvenir did you bring back from your trip to London and Paris?  Two of them actually: a bookmark from Air France and a bad head cold from London.  The very nice flight attendant in our cabin gave the little bookmark to Diane and she gave it to me; I don't know why I didn't get one directly, maybe I just don't look literate.  I can see how that could happen.  Coincidentally, R Man and I used to collect bookmarks on our travels.  They're easy to transport, and the gift shops in museums would often have very cool ones as a memento. We wound up with several leather ones or fancy graphics ones and I still have the world's largest collection of them in private hands.

The collection, in situ, marked and ready to rock

As for the cold, I suspect it got an early foothold from the vent in my hotel room in London blowing directly into my face.  Then, not one, but two days stuck in the massive petri dish that is Heathrow Airport just sealed the deal.  When I finally tottered back into my apartment on Thursday evening, I felt pretty knackered, but I thought that was just the traveling catching up with me.  By Saturday, I threw in the towel and admitted I was sick.  I have spent the week since then dealing with every symptom you can conceive of.  The volume and range of excrescence my body is generating has been genuinely impressive and my coughing has become less of a symptom and more a way of life now. 

Whenever I'm sick, my voice drops several octaves.  My timbre these days is very similar to that of the fine American actress Miss Kathleen Turner, if Kathleen Turner were in the last stages of the Black Death.  I'm not even convinced my voice is audible to humans anymore, it probably just shows up on some Richter scale reading somewhere.

The cats remain very attentive, I think they can sense there is something wrong with me, more so even than usual.  Although I suppose it's possible they're just trying to get first dibs on eating my corpse.  I'm feeling better today, but just remember if they find my cat mangled dead body, I request a non-denominational funeral at sea with a military band playing the classic "Funkytown." 

Guys who could make me feel better:

Asstastic

Snuglly.  I looked up that spelling twice and I am still not convinced of it.

Cheese it, the cops.

Gotta love them gingers.

Getting this post up used up all my energy allotment for the day, I'm going back to bed.

In Which Nursepeenee Considers Rectal Thermometers for Everyone

I am surrounded by the diseased and the sickly.  Everyone I speak to these days has some emergency room trip or doctor visit or just puny ass malady to recount. It is only my saintly disposition that keeps me from running in the opposite direction and sealing my front door against them.

Diane von Austinburg, as I mentioned last week, face planted outside of theater and busted her forehead open.  She then spent several hours in a "minor ER" (which I don't understand, in my mind it's either an emergency room or it's not.) Anyway, she got stitched up and sent me a very dramatic picture of her great big old black eye which I am not sharing because of my great love for her.

I did offer to send one of my groovy Day of the Dead bandaids, but she declined, which indicates head trauma to me, but whatever.  She also kept mentioning to the ER guys and to subsequent doctor visits that her arm hurt, but everyone's sort of brushed that off in favor of the busted open head wound.  Finally, they discovered she had a minor fracture of her elbow.  She now swears that she will be all better by the time it's time for us to wing off to Europe.

Next let us turn our attention to poor little Secret Agent Fred.  Fred has been through it with his bladder cancer.  His chemo has given him anemia which left him flattened with exhaustion, but recently he got a blood transfusion and that helped immensely.  Helped so much that last night we actually went out for drinks and dinner.  Woo hoo, like two big city fancy poofs.  We were talking about his life with the big c and he mentioned that except for 2 months in the fall of 2022 and then a couple of months this past winter, he has been on chemotherapy non-stop for the last 2 years.  Oy.

And our Chaturbate buddy Brainiac was knocked on his ass by COVID at the end of February which then morphed into a sinus infection leaving him snotty and sick. Poor thing.  He has enough on his plate running a feral cat colony in his backyard.  Thoughts and prayers, baby.

Lastly, speaking of Chaturbate, everybody's favorite model, Mikey, has been dealing with some weird pinched nerve neck ache for weeks.  His chiropractor is only able to deliver short-term relief and recently assured him "Oh well that's just what happens with your neck." The fuck you say.

It just makes me appreciate how little I deserve my robust good health.  Whenever I have to break in a new doctor, the chats we have as kind of a intake always turn towards all the sexually transmitted miscellaney I have collected over the years.  Their eyes tend to get an alarmed look in them as the list grows sort of significantly long.  And yet, here I am sound as a sound horse.  Go figure.

Healthy dudes:

I have a real weakness for pretty blue-eyed blondes.

Although I wouldn't say no to a chunk of dark beefcake.

The weather here abouts has turned absolutely balmy, if not warm enough for al fresco showers.

 

Buttchops of the world.

All the world loves a big ol' veiny dick.

I hate being out on boats, but if I had to be at sea, a well appointed cabin with a well appointed cabin boy would be appreciated.

This week is all about ass, ass, ass.

The end.

New Orleans News. Also, I'm Not Dead

I've spent the last few days hovering on the edge of being sick; sort of feverish and queasy, wondering when the ebola was going to strike.  Turns out it was just a reaction to a flu shot I got last week, but that didn't stop Saki from occasionally checking in to see if I was dead enough to eat.

This was all shortly after Secret Agent Fred and I returned from New Orleans where Fred entertained the hotel staff by raiding the self service bar in the lobby and then settling in to take a nap on the couch there despite the staff's efforts to shoo him off to his room   They seemed fairly amused by the whole thing in describing it to me the next day, which says a lot about both Fred's charm and their pleasure in watching me squirm as they dragged out each mortifying detail.  All of which I repeated to Fred, except for the parts I exaggerated.  And the ones I just made completely up.

I also was able to check in on the progress of the renovation of my house there which was terribly gratifying.  I was especially please with the big back room.  I took the back two rooms on each side of the double and combined all four into one ginormous room and then put in a wall of windows across the back to see the garden, which currently is a mud and mildew pit, but one day soon will be full of Camellias and elephant ears and crape myrtle and other old timey New Orleans garden stalwarts.

before

Currently, complete with riff raft.

Again, before.  Who knew what horrors lay beneath those innocent looking dirty walls and cheap tile?

Windows.  Lots of Windows.

Cough, Cough

In my post The Return of Diane, Muscato impertantly demands details about Diane's visit claiming "We're waiting. Certainly there's enough depravity to recount by this point, no? After the weather we've had here this week, I could use a diversion…"  Tragically, there is no depravity to report; not just because I have turned into a fusty old thing, but mainly because I've been sick the whole time poor Diane's been here.

I developed an interestingly wheezing cough the day she arrived.  I tried to blame her cat in Austin, implying she had imported dander to which I was allergic, but she pooh poohed that with a firm pooh pooh and before I could fabricate any kind of evidence supporting my theory, I was spiraling down an all-too familiar path into our old friend, bronchitis.

I've contracted bronchitis so many times that now when I call my doctor with my self diagnosis, he no longer questions me, but just sends a prescription for antibiotics and probably a short prayer of gratitude that I'm keeping my snotty infection out of his waiting room.

Believe me, this re-enactment couldn't be any farther from the truth if it featured Bea Arthur and Carol Burnett.

The last few years I worked, I wound up with bronchitis each fall and then again at the tail end of every winter.  This, though, is the first time I've fallen for it since I retired, so yay for avoiding the filthy public and mass transit.

The only entertainments we've attempted have all wound up with me pathetically slumped over and coughing vigorously.  Still, the antibiotics have done their wonders and I'm pretty much recuperated tonight: unfortunately, tomorrow is Diane's last day in town,  rats.

How Ya Doin' peenee?

Better than this guy.

Whinging

Today is sort of unnecessarily in beautiful in San Francisco, sunny, bright and cool without being chilly.  The yoozh.  I do not care.  I am sick.   A weird, deep ache that is everywhere in my body and no place in particular has taken over, bringing with it wracking shivers and a throat that feels like I have taken to gargling hot ground glass.

I have things to do, notably, changing Saki's cat box and the laundry.  They are not getting done.

Houseboy: decorative, but useless.

It is at these rare times that I most miss R Man.  Not that he was any great shakes at nursing, but at least I could be fairly confident if I died he would keep the cat from eating my decomposing corpse.

On that cheerful note, I take to my bed.  Again.

Stupid Back

My back, never terribly cooperative at the best of times, has been giving me grief all week.  I took to my bed with ice packs and muscle relaxants, hounded my chiropractor, prayed to the Psychic Friends - nothing helped.  Then this morning I dragged my sorry ass of to a "late brunch" (which is code for drinks and vicodin) with Secret Agent Fred and several friends and now, many hours later, I feel ever so much better.   Maybe it was the pizza.

A graphic representation of my backache this week:

Ick.

Much better.

Worthless.

Much better.

birthdayhospitallunch

Well that certainly was an odd, odd weekend. Maybe it was all that Jesus stuff.

The very first thing Saturday morning, mrpeene was huddled in bed when I heard an all too familiar crash from R Man's bathroom. R Man had gotten up too fast and passed out again, but this time he hit his head on the corner of the vanity on his way down. A truly, truly impressive amount of blood.

He got cleaned up and refused to listen to my increasingly shrill demands that we immediately go to the emergency room. I retaliated by turning on the House and Garden channel, which he hates. After two and half shows focusing on the dubious merits of various cracker box dumps, he caved in and off we went. The eventual verdict: too much blood pressure medicine and getting up too quickly. Then we went to have pizza.

I spent Saturday night cooking for a lunch party we had today. Braised beef short ribs, buttermilk mashed potatoes, pasta with pomodoro sauce. Tres yummy. Tomorrow is my birthday and this was a celebration. Oh, and SuperAgent Fred gave me a tee shirt that say "EEEEEEEEEEEE. Lady Bits." Plus a super delicious strawberry and whipped cream cake.

All in all, except for hanging around yet another round of hospital waiting rooms, a top notch weekend.

Calling It In

Yes, I'm still sick. No, the thought of what that Harridan, MJ, from Infomaniac would say has not kept me from posting anything. Well, maybe a little. Mostly it's due to Saki having gotten so accustomed to bossing me around while I'm home all day that he now stands guard over the keyboard so I can't type anything. It is so Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I suppose I'll be having rats for lunch next.

Manflu: It's Better than Pigflu

MJ the Infomaniac accuses me of having the Manflu and does so as if that were a bad thing. Get you, that’s what I say. The Manflu appears to consist of taking to one’s bed and whining (the name would imply People with Vaginas never indulge in such behavior, to which I reply “Midol.”)

I have no problem admitting to my genius in both categories. I inherited my talent for sleeping from my dear mother who would sleep for 16 hours at a stretch if the goddam kids would just let her. In turn, I am no slacker either; if remaining unconscious were a sport, I would qualify for the Olympics. Our friend Ehsen takes a nap in the evening and only gets up to go to bed for the night. I am awed by such commitment and have taken to imitating him.

As to whining, surely the most cursory glance at this blog would prove my devotion to the art.

Why MJ thinks I need an excuse for either is beyond me. Being sick, Manflu or not, only provides me with a focus for both, but at the same time distracts me from my top form. This just in: being sick sucks. The houseboys, led by Zieglus Manitobus here, have started a nonstop novena in their best underpants on behalf of my recovery, which both I and the priest at Our Lady of the Sacred Secret Place both appreciate, but it doesn’t seem to be helping yet.

Fluids. Lot of Fluids.

Yet another charming visit with Diane von Austiberg comes to an end, too soon, too soon. Did I mention we went to the fabled Chez Panisse? Did I mention it was deeeeeeelish? Indeedy.

Thrift stores all over town are now beaten to their knees by Diane, Destroyer of Other People's Crap. Over the years we've been shaking them down, we've noticed junk stores are becoming an endangered species here in San Francisco. I guess rents are just too expensive. Plus, now plenty of them have abandoned used furniture the better to focus on worn out sweaters and stinky wool sport coats. The suggestion that they have simply run out of furniture because I have bought it all is totally unwarranted and you should stop listening to R Man, anyway.

Diane left Tuesday, I started feeling off on Wednesday and woke up today, Friday, sick as a dog. A quick trip to the doctor reveals what I thought was a bad cold and sore throat is "a little fluid on your lungs," a diagnosis that I know from bitter experience can lead to bronchitis, so when doctorman started writing a prescription for antibiotics (and codeine cough syrup! Hoo hoo! Score!) I was not arguing.

I am such a bad patient, I can never remember the names of the medicine I consume, so I always refer to all the antibiotics I have ever choked down as Astromyacin, even though my doctor patiently assures me there is no such thing. I think there certainly should be since it is such a kickass name, I'm sure it would be terribly effective. The current batch of Astromyacin (or whatever the hell its real name is) had better be working since it's already making me feel like I've been punched in the gut and placed under the french fry lamp at Burger King.

But mrpeenee, you ask, what is the good news, the sunny side? Let's see.... 1) this didn't happen while Diane was in town, yay, and 2) I was supposed to leave Monday for a conference in Minneapolis and now I don't have to go. See "hacking cough" "punched in gut feeling" and "contagious." I'm sure Minneapolis is a charming city and I was not pouting about being sent there for a weak, but sticking around San Francisco instead is ok with me.

After all, somebody has to keep an eye on the houseboys, like dear little Petit Diego here, cause as soon as I turn my back, I'm sure MJ would be in there fomenting all over the place. Tramp.

Wheee.

I'm still feeble enough to justify working half days.  I came home after lunch, tried to take a nap, but the cat will not get off me and I can't sleep under him, got up and started reading the blogs, only got as far as Fabulon, realized I have my jammie pants on backwards.  All this without drugs!  I must be improving rapidly.
random, arbitrary naked guy, cause I feel like it.

Quiet, please.

I must be getting better because a) I appear to not be dead yet and b) I'm tired of lying around, but not yet well enough to try anything else. I went out to dinner last night and Friday with our guests and while it was most amusing, it also wore me out. I'm just so darn fragile. Everyone's going out to brunch at Zuni Cafe this afternoon, but I'm staying home like a sensible Miss.

Saki has taken to demonstrating cat yoga for me in hopes that I will take it up, but I refuse.

Not Dead Yet

So I'm going to pretend all the snarky potshots taken in the comments section of my last post were simply playful attempts at humor, expressions of loving concern in disguise. The latest mrpreenee sickroom news: I'm still sick. Being the overachiever I am, I shot through the flu and wound up in bronchitis, from which I write, wheezing and hacking. And just how very not well are we? I am too sick to watch porn, that's how sick. Just kill me now.

We finished re-doing the guest room in the middle of my puniness and just in time for our friends Ehsan and Dennis to arrive. They were very flattering about the room, and have been most solicitous. I sent them off touring around with R Man this morning and we'll be going out for Thai food at the charming Grand Poo Bah shortly. Imagine, actually leaving the house. Except for a brief, ill advised attempt to return to work yesterday, where I wound up lying on the floor of my cubicle thinking maybe this wasn't such a great idea, I haven't been outside for more than a week. Still. I've started a round of very expensive antibiotics, so I expect to better pronto.

Maybe the Thai food will help. If not, I'm sure houseboy Aloysius Tregiautomy will.

In the Grip of the Grippe

Maybe you’ve noticed every other blog includes pathetic whimpering posts about the cold or flu the writer is overwhelmed by. In my ceaseless effort to stay au courant, to remain ahead of the curve, to leave the Joneses in the dirt, I am now sick myself. Snotty and achy with a dry hacking cough that sounds like a student production where they decided to create a mashup of Camille and La Boheme. I am staying home from work today and, oh boy, this is also the day the new carpet is being installed. I’m sure it’s not really any louder than a small war being fought in our guest room and I’m dealing with all the dust stirred up by inhaling it so it doesn’t mess up the house. That’s just how I am, giving, giving, always giving. Do you think it’s possible to drown in your own snot?

I wish I had a houseboy who was talented in nursing, but when you pick them based on their pole dancing ability, like Wolfgang Cupertino here, I guess you can't have everything.