On 23 December 1888, Vincent van Gogh cut off his left ear while he was visiting a local brothel. He wrapped the severed ear in newspaper and handed it to a prostitute named Rachel, asking her to "keep this object carefully." Had Rachel been a modern-day hooker, she could have made a killing on ebay and the horisontal tango could have become just a hobby.
But anyways...
When I first heard that story, as a kid, I couldn't figure out why anyone would do such a thing. Now I think I have a pretty good idea. Itchy ears. A couple of weeks ago, I went to see the doctor because my right ear was itching so much, it was as if a small worm was trying to dig its way into my brain. The doctor gave me medicine to be dripped into my ear three times a day for one week and every once in a while, I was also supposed to rinse my ear with a small, red rubber balloon.
Don't even get me started on the bloody balloon.
Mister Chooch graciously agreed to help me with the dripping, since I kept getting medicine everywhere BUT in my ear. It's harder than it looks, you know. It's not as if you can actually see that little hole. It would have been easier if I'd been a seal or something. After a few days of that, the itch decided to creep through my brain while I was sleeping (that's my theory) and settle in my OTHER ear. Isn't that just wonderful? Now both my ears are full of meds and cotton, and I'm as deaf as a post.
Another week of this, and I'll just go ahead and van Gogh myself.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Is it moving? Poke it with a stick!
I woke up on Tuesday morning, throat feeling really scratchy. ”Wow,” I thought. ”I must have been snoring my head off for most of the night.” I felt sorry for Mr Chooch who has to sleep next to my impersonation of a sawmill and who still has to act as if I’m adorable in the morning. Not that I’m NOT adorable in the morning, but still… However, as the day passed, the scratchiness didn’t go away. Instead it crawled up my throat and into my nose, from where it proceeded to fill my head with cotton.
I was sickly.
Coming down with a bug is like going through the five stages of grief. Have you ever noticed that?
First there’s denial. I spent day 1 telling myself that I was NOT sick. I felt wonderful. I was the picture of health. A shining example of wellbeing. The very definition of vigor. I just had some dust in my throat or something. Probably a little speck had gotten stuck in there when I dusted the window sill the day before. I always knew dusting wasn’t good for you and I swore to never do it again.
Later that night there was anger. That's the second stage, you know. Anger. I started feeling worse. There was no denying that the little speck of dust wasn’t dust at all, but some sort of angry, evil devil-germ that had attacked me for no good reason. It wasn’t bloody fair. I didn’t deserve to be sick. I don’t go around kicking puppies or saying (horribly) bad things about people (who don’t deserve it). If I could just get my hands on whoever had stuck me with their bug… And so on and so forth.
Then there was stage three; bargaining. If only this stupid germ would go away quickly, I would exercise loads and eat healthy foods. Like oranges propped full of vitamin C. I’d even take vitamins! And I would procrastinate less. I’d use my normal, healthy energy to get stuff done rather than playing computer games or reading magazines or staring into space. I would never again throw my clothes in a pile on the floor, I’d stop spending money on things that are silly, I’d wear sensible shoes. I’d take Pooch for longer walks every single day, even when it’s raining and said Pooch doesn’t want to go outside because she hates getting wet…
The next stage is depression. Let’s just say that Mr Chooch is lucky that he spent that particular day at work, even if the copy machine did break just as he was short on lecture material. Poor Pooch wasn’t so lucky. Being stuck in a house with a whiny, blubbering snot-machine is…yes. It really is. Let’s just leave it at that.
Now I’ve accepted the fact that I’m sickly. I’ve built myself a disease-cave. As soon as Mr Chooch gets out of bed, I empty out my handbag on his side of the bed. Ipod, kindle, cellphone, tissues, nasal spray, cough medicine etc spilling everywhere. Then he fixes me breakfast (soft squishy food) and a big thermocup of tea before he goes to work. Then I just spend my day under the covers with Pooch, all my crap and my laptop computer.
Maybe I’ll try this health tip, though:
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Hello!
Remember me? The owner of this here blog? Need a moment to dig around in your memory cells? Is there such a thing as memory cells? Maybe not unless you’re a computer… Need a moment to dig around in your computers memory cells?
So I have moved. It’s not the first time. But it is the first time that I got to hawl my crap across an ocean. I decided to do the whole moving-thing in stages, so not to totally traumatize poor Mr Chooch with my girlyness. Men can be fragile, you know.
Stage 1, Potted plants:
Nearly completed, actually. Cause us girls, we know that windows are supposed to be pretty. And not be used as storage units. It’s the same reason why we put on mascara. Slowly but surely, over the past few weeks, I have been sticking potted plants into the windows and onto any flat (or just flatish) surface, until the clutter simply had to move because there was no room for it anymore. Clever, eh? I have also been awarded the nickname ”plant-monster”. I may make myself a badge.
Stage 2, Picture-frenzy:
Why don’t men hang pictures on the walls? Of all my male friends who have never been hitched (or had an overly domineering mother), there’s only two who have pictures on the walls. And they’re all of cars… Nudie calendars don’t count. Mr Chooch owned paintings. They were lined up along the walls. Loads of wallspace left, though.
And that’s as far as I’ve gotten. I’ve been slowed down by a bug. I am a sicky. My nose is all clogged up and my throat is trying to kill me off. Did you know that vomit can come out of your nose? I had no idea until just the other day. The things you learn… Overshare? Well, maybe.
I’ve had a cold. Did I mention that? I know I did, actually, I just wanted to see if you had been paying attention. Shame on you if you haven’t. What kind of fan are you, anyway? I expect much better from you in the future.
Anyway, my cold never quite got over its commitment phobia. After a while, it decided to settle in my right ear. Which I suppose is much better than having it throughout your whole head, so I’m not complaining. Then it went away. This caused for some sort of celebration, I figured. Movie, snacks, candles. And a bubble bath. Not necessarily all at the same time.
As soon as I’d decided to purty my flat up with candles, I reliced that all my make-the-room-look-real-purty-stuff was still crammed into cardboard boxes from the move. Images of myself throwing things into whichever box happened to be closest whilst cursing The Powers That Be for not having invented self-packing belongings, flashed into my head. I didn’t have the faintest idea which box held my tea-light candleholders and even less inclination to go searching for them. Clearly, I needed new stuff. Not only did I have cause for celebration, I also had an excuse to go shopping. This was turning into a pretty good day.
Now, a few hours later, I’ve watched a couple of movies, my flat is full of luvely light and I’m all pink and wrinkly from my bath. Course, the bubbles turned out to be of the cheap variety and I smell a little bit like a wunderbaum, but you can’t have everything. I suppose.
I have a commitment-phobic cold. Unlike a regular cold, which will creep up on you at the most inconvenient of times, and then reduce you to a flem-soaked, sniffling wreck, a commitment-phobic cold only turns up for a few hours at the time. You feel a slight tingle in your throat as you wake up in the morning. Your head gets woolly while you’re watching your favourite tv show in the evening. What really separates the CP cold from the onset of a regular cold, is the fact that the CP never stays the night.
That’s probably just as well.
Sometimes a commitment-phobic cold might be confused with a shy cold, but there are some very distinguishing marks. A shy cold will rear its little head just as your falling asleep. Or you might wake up at night, not feeling 100 %, with just enough presence of mind to think “I hope I’m not getting sick.” The reason for that is that a shy cold is… well, shy. It would rather not draw too much attention to itself.
Sometimes a CP cold – and sometimes a shy cold, although this is rarer - grows into a full-fledged man-cold. That’s what happens when a CP cold overcomes its fear of commitment and decides that it would rather never leave, and focuses all its attention on you until you’re completely convinced that you’re going to drown in your own mucus.
