I wrote a post earlier today, but I deleted it because, well, I suspect there’s probably only so much whining people can take from someone whose current main problems in life are the facts that:
1. It snowed a lot this week
2. She had the cold (AGAIN), and it made her feel, like, really tired and OMG, doesn’t that suck?
3. She still has Two Heads
4. And a really, red, flaky, nose
5. And eye bags.
6. And RED WEALS. Because OF COURSE the red weals would return, on a week when my hair looked like straw, my face looked like that of someone recently exhumed, and I had two heads. OF COURSE they would.
7. Her husband is currently talking like Jack Bauer and complaining about the presence of “daggers” in his throat.
8. Gah.
Still. I wrote a big long whiny entry about all of that, and then I read it back and my abiding impression was that, yeah, it could be worse, couldn’t it? Boo hoo, I got a second head! So what, some people don’t even have ONE HEAD, how about that? Oh God, I’m talking to myself again, aren’t I?
Anyway, my point still stands: it’s not been the best week I’ve ever had in my life, but hey, it could be a helluva lot worse so, you know, rather than do a whole lot of whining about it, here are some photos of my dog, instead. You are welcome.
OMG! Fierce! Scary! Run! Save yourselves if you can!
Could. Not. Be. More. Cute. (Note the back leg resting on the desk : he lay like that for ages…)
Umm. Yeah…
Tagged rubin, second head, the cold
One morning, back when I was a teenager, I woke up with more than the usual amount of heads.
There was my original head, of course – the one on my shoulders, that had been there when I went to sleep. But now there was another, second head, rising triumphantly out of the exact middle of my forehead, a little like an illustration of Zeus giving birth to the Goddess Athena.
Of course, I rushed immediately to the mirror, where I was only slightly reassured to discover that this was not, in fact, a second head, but merely a spot. Oh, but what a spot it was! Although resembling a head in terms of its size and general shape, it had no head of its own, which meant that it couldn’t be deflated by means of squeezing. (Not that I would do such a thing, I hasten to add, for the beauty magazines are forever telling us never to squeeze spots, and of course I do EVERYTHING the beauty magazines tell me. Ahem.)
Instead, it just rose up out of my forehead, loud and proud: it was as hard as a rock, and there was nothing – and I do mean NOTHING – I could do to disguise it. Concealer only seemed to make the spot more prominent, and although I did seriously consider just slapping on a sticking plaster and pretending I’d hurt myself (after all, people are used to me being a clumsy fool, but a second head is just plain alarming), my mum talked me out of this course of action, and so it was that I was forced to go out into the world that day, and for the two or three days that followed, looking like a genetic experiment that had gone badly wrong.
(After two or three days, the Second Head deflated slightly, leaving me merely looking like Buddha, with a red dot in the exact centre of my forehead.)
As traumatic as my time with two heads was, I comforted myself with the knowledge that it was unlikely to happen again. Obviously, though, I was wrong about that, and from that day forth, every time I had a special event of some kind to attend, I could absolutely guarantee that the Second Head would return to attend the event with me, always appearing in the same position in the middle of my forehead, and each time looking even larger and more alarming than the last. The most notable occurrence of the Second Head: my first day in my new job as a journalist, when I was introduced to my future colleges looking like there were two of me.
(Strangely, my method of dealing with these situations has always been the same: I point out the Second Head to people before they have an opportunity to notice it for themselves. And, I mean, I would HOPE no one would actually be insensitive enough to mention it, but on the occasion of me starting my new job, the Second Head was SO prominent and bizarre looking that I felt I had to go around introducing myself to everyone with the words, “Hello, I’m Amber, and no, I’m not deformed, that’s just a massive spot on my forehead. Horrible, isn’t it?”)
Anyway, so birthdays, parties, dates, holidays – all have been marked by me having more than the usual number of heads. In fact, there are some people I only ever see socially who probably think I was born like that, such is the reliability of the Head. Lately, though, a powerful new player has entered into the game I like to think of as “Let’s Spoil Amber’s Fun In Any Way We Can”, and if you’ve been reading this site for the last couple of months, you’ll probably know of what I speak. No, it’s not the Haircut O’ Doom, (although that’s fairly reliable too), it’s the fact that I am guaranteed to get the cold or flu the day before any event I’m expecting to enjoy. See “Our Honeymoon“, “Christmas” and “That Time We Went to Tenerife and I Thought I Had Pneumonia” for evidence of this.
Lucky, I am not. At least, not when it comes to getting through supposedly happy occasions without either feeling like hell or looking like hell.
This Saturday, then, Terry and I had decided to throw a little party for some of our friends. We were both looking forward to seeing everyone, so naturally, as the day approached the main question occupying my mind was this: what would it be this time? Would I be either:
a) horribly disfigured by the coming of a Second Head?
or
b) almost totally incapacitated by the cold/flu/other illness?
Can you guess which one it was, folks? That’s right: IT WAS BOTH OF THEM! A double-whammy! Not only did I wake up on Friday morning with a raspy throat and runny nose, I woke up on Saturday morning with my old friend The Second Head in its customary place in the middle of my forehead! AAAAAARRRRGGHHHH!
I was fairly lucky in that the cold didn’t really get into its stride until yesterday, the day after the party (and I think the wine probably helped to numb my senses a little), but as for the Second Head… well, I can only hope our guests were distracted by the fact that all the heating downstairs decided to break a few minutes before the first of them arrived. Hopefully the Arctic temperatures helped distract everyone from the state of my forehead and if not that, well, surely the fact that we were giving them triple shots of vodka for every inch of mixer would’ve done it. I hope so, anyway.
Luckily Terry did manage to fix the heating halfway through the night, and my Second Head packed its bags the next day, meaning that I’ve now entered the “Looking a Bit Like Buddha” phase of my affliction.
I’ve still got that cold, though…
Tagged the cold, the second head, The Ugly
Well, December really kicked my ass hard, didn’t it? That “mild-ish” head cold I was whining about back on the 23rd? Turned into a “really quite freaking heavy” cold sometime in the early hours of Christmas morning, and while I managed to get through Christmas day itself feeling relatively normal, things continued to get worse, and by Boxing Day my immune system was curled up in a corner of my body somewhere, like the poor, beaten thing it is, and the cold ran rampant, forcing me to spend the entire day flaked out on the couch feeling very, very sorry for myself.
December’s tally:
December 1 – 4: The flu
December 6 – 7 : The cold
December 8 – 10 The flu, reprise. This was actually a worse flu than the one before it AND I was in Tenerife at the time, so yay!
This was followed by…. A COLD SORE! Which arrived on my top lip the day the flu finally released me from its evil clutches, and is the reason I’m wearing bright red lipstick in all of the holiday photos, even the ones where I’ve just got out of bed or am relaxing at the beach. Yes, I was That Girl With Makeup On At the Beach. Sorry.
Brief period of rest/recovery, only not really “recovery” so much because:
December 25 – 29: The cold. Only really bad this time.
So, yeah, screw you, December! You had a lot going for you in terms of holidays, presents and food, but clearly you really HATED me, and that’s why I got to go through all of these events feeling like I’d just been run over by a bus. Thanks, December! My guess is that I’ll be feeling well again by the time I go back to work, so that’s great because even although I’ll have just had almost a month’s holiday, I’ll have managed to gain no benefit from it AT ALL, and will return to my desk a sorry shadow of my former self, run-down and weakened by the illnesses that have just about SLAIN me throughout this month.
Such is the way of it, though. I’m pretty sure my body KNOWS when I’m on holiday and it saves up all the illnesses it’s been meaning to have for then. You know, so I don’t get to take any time off work. I’m also pretty sure I more or less drove myself into the flu this month with my programme of “work myself into the ground in the weeks immediately preceding my holiday”, though, so yeah, won’t be doing that again. I got the memo, body: you can lay off the back-to-back illness now, thanks.
Seriously, though, my body hates me. In every job I’ve ever had, I’ve had an almost perfect attendance record, on account of the fact that my body would somehow get me through even the worst plagues upon the office, only to lay me low with some fun illness the very SECOND I clocked out on holiday. Trust me when I tell you that THIS SUCKS, especially given that I’ve had jobs in which I’ve prayed for a good bout of the flu, if only because it would have relieved the monotony, and because lying in my sick bed would seriously have been more fun than sitting at my desk. Ditto school/university: I never had to worry about getting ill before or during exams, because I’d always – and I do mean always – get ill immediately afterwards instead.
When I was a kid, my parents would dread the school holidays because they knew beyond doubt that I’d have the mumps/the chicken-pox/< insert childhood illness of choice here > for the entire duration of them. One Easter, I got the mumps on the right hand side of my face, and as soon as I reached the end of the quarantine period, I got it AGAIN, on the left hand side of my face, and so the whole thing started again. Every summer my dad would be all, “Where do you want to go on holiday this year?” and my mum would say, “Well, Amber hasn’t had the measles yet, so it’s probably best not to plan anything….” Gah.
Note to self: see about getting the flu jab. Terry gets it every year on account of his transplant (this is presumably why he has remained fighting fit throughout the month now known to me as That Freaking December) and I’m going to see if I can get it too, on account of being a complete and utter drama queen, who really doesn’t deal well with illness. If the NHS won’t give me it (and let’s be honest here: they won’t), I’m prepared to go private and pay for it. Or, actually, Terry will probably be prepared to pay for it, if only to stop the whining…
Anyway, tonight there will be a brief respite for my family, as my parents are taking Terry and I to see Sunshine on Leith at the Festival Theatre in Edinburgh. Not only are we looking forward to the show itself, I won’t be able to talk about my illnesses while it’s on – bonus!
Tagged illness, the cold, the flu
Yeah, it was the cold. Only at night? At night it turns into the flu, and I lie awake wearing all the clothes I can possibly wrap around my body, accessorized with two hot water bottles, one heating pad and a blanket. And I am STILL COLD. Monday night was rough. On Tuesday, I felt a little better. “Am almost cured!” I thought, smugly. “Will get a good night’s sleep tonight, and will wake up in the morning as good as new!”
I am not as good as new. And I did not get “a good night’s sleep”. Neither did Terry, on account of my shaking like a leaf because I was so cold, and repeatedly asking him if he could take me to the hospital so they could wrap me in one of those foil blanket things you see on people with hypothermia in the movies. (Note to self: check eBay to see if you can maybe buy them things.) Seriously, I have never been so cold in all my life, and I’m actually not sure whether I feel cold because I’m ill, or whether I just feel ill because it’s SO FREAKING COLD. There’s more snow forecast for tonight, too, and seriously, if I wasn’t due to leave the country at the weekend for warmer climes, I’d be willing to sell my soul right now for a plane ticket to somewhere warm. It’s THAT cold.
So, today, none of us are really on top form. Not even Rubin, who used Terry’s repeated trips to the kitchen to refill my hot water bottles as an excuse to bark the house down, and we had to bring him into bed with us to get him to shut up. This might have worked out OK (hell, any extra body heat AT ALL is welcome right now as far as I’m concerned), except he only wanted to sleep ON MY CHEST and that… was not so good.
So. This week has really sucked, to be honest, and it has sucked so much that I suspect my entire holiday will be spent recovering from it. So that’s just great! Now I’m just waiting for Terry to catch whatever it is I’ve had. Or for the house to fall down.
On the plus side, the Week O’Fail has totally distracted me from the fear of flying…
Tagged the cold, the weather
I know I’ve hardly mentioned this AT ALL, but I’m going on holiday this Sunday. THIS SUNDAY. Before I go, I have 26 blog posts still to write, and I’m not even making that figure up: I actually have 26 blog posts still to write. And I have to pack. And clean! I have to clean like a madwoman! (Side note: am I the only person who feels moved to clean their home into oblivion before leaving it on a trip? Yes, I thought so…) And I have to do… other things. That totally escape me right now, but that’s OK because I have a three page To Do list to refer back to, I just need to remember where I put it.
It stands to reason, then, that I think I’m getting the cold. OF COURSE I am. Because that will screw up my week nicely, making it even harder than it already is to find something to write about the kazillionth pair of shoes I’ve written about this week, and probably causing me to rock up to the airport (AARGH! Airport! OMGIAMFRIGHTENEDOFFLYING!) with a suitcase filled with socks and nothing else. Or something.
GOD.
I am drinking Lemsip and hoping for the best. And telling myself that at least if I get ill NOW it’ll be marginally better than having a repeat of the whole “getting the flu during my honeymoon and then passing it onto my new husband” fiasco I managed to pull off LAST year.
Good health vibes would be greatly appreciated. Also: shoes.
Tagged the cold
|
|
|
