Since getting home, I’ve finished another Christopher Moore book (Fluke), had a long bath and a short shower, put a whole lot more eye makeup on than I usually do, plucked the living hell out of my eyebrows, slathered the yummy plum-peppermint foot lotion on, and checked my Netflix queue.

My Number One Internet Fanboy is on his way for dinner and dessert, and I expect the rest of my weekend will be chock-full of housecleaning and naps. Right now my blood sugar is so low that I almost gave into the temptation to taste the yummy plum-peppermint foot lotion, but that will be remedied soon. Yay for Friday night!

Go check out Dr Horrible’s Sing-A-Long Blog. Get updates at the official fan site. (Free viewing only until the 21st.)

Nathan Fillion is hot. So is Neil Patrick Harris. Turns out Neil can sing, too. (Anything Joss Whedon does is an exception to my rule that musicals suck.)

If Joss puts James Marsters in this, I am so doomed.

Damn. It makes me want to get a t-shirt.

When I found out that neither Anxiety nor Lyse had seen Rosemary’s Baby, of course we had to watch it. Not only because it’s an entertaining movie, but because it’s fun to watch a 15-year-old become confused when shown such things as people dialing rotary phones, using a phonograph player, smoking indoors, and using a television clicker (what they called TV remote controls back when they actually made a clicking noise when you pushed a button). The movie is only a year older than I am, but it sure is interesting to see the changes in daily life that have happened in only 40 years.

(I remember when I was 6 years old, and postage stamps went from 10 to 13 cents — and you had to lick them, as they weren’t self-sticking. I wrote a lot of letters to my grandparents, as they often stuck a dollar bill in each reply. Candy bars were 15 cents or two for a quarter. The TV Guide and the National Enquirer — which, in addition to Sesame Street, were how I learned to read — both cost 25 cents. The Tooth Fairy usually brought me either 25 or 50 cents. I can’t remember what anything else cost in 1975, so you can see exactly where my 6-year-old priorities were.)

Anyway, for a gal who doesn’t like classic films, I heartily recommend Rosemary’s Baby. There’s no gore, the single scene with “blood” looks exactly like red paint, and it has only a few minor curse words and a couple of very brief nude scenes (Mia Farrow had very cute boobs, btw). All in all, nothing that would garner more than a PG rating these days. It’s certainly not a horror flick by any stretch, although I suppose it could be considered a psychological thriller. Anxiety was terribly disappointed that you didn’t get to actually see the devil-spawned baby. Poor child had to use her imagination (which is another thing that apparently has gone the way of the 13-cent postage stamp).

Hopefully tomorrow Geoffrey will watch his newly-arrived Netflix movie with me. Yes, it’s a totally awful horror flick, but hey, it’s got a devil-spawned baby in it…and I just can’t resist those movies. (I have got to get ahold of It’s Alive and It Lives Again on DVD!)

Now I have to buy every damned book that Christopher Moore has ever written.

On the bright side, I spent a day & a half reading — nay, devouring — A Dirty Job, giggling uncontrollably the whole while, and now I have several more books to look forward to. On the not-bright side, that means there are several books that I have to buy, and books aren’t cheap.

But mixed emotions about books are my favorite kind of mixed emotions.

(I am still sick. Still coughing. It still sucks. Yadda yadda.)

Geoffrey bought himself a new toy (the black model, of course). He’s considerably more bouncy & cheerful than he’s been in ages. On the one hand, I’m thrilled for him — it makes me all melty when he’s giddy. On the other hand, my bike is not running right now (the kick-start fell off somewhere on my way home from work one day, and then the battery charger stopped working, so I can’t turn the blasted thing on until I get those items replaced), so I’m irked that I can’t ride mine.

I’m not jealous, though. I have a theory that polyamory — at least, when done in a happy, healthy, solid, and long-term relationship! — helps cure you of jealousy simply by teaching you that if your loved one is happy regarding something that doesn’t include you, better to discover your own joys than to begrudge him his.

I suspect my relationship with Jonathan has helped move that lesson along, too. I absolutely adore seeing him happy — and most of the time that he’s happy, it has nothing to do with me. He’s just a very happy kid! But it doesn’t matter whether I had something to do with it or not; seeing him happy just makes me happy. (Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he gleefully lunges into my arms nearly every time he sees me, sometimes several times a day.)

Taking care of the menagerie at my house is also deeply satisfying and fulfilling, and very, very good for my soul. And it’s not despite the fact that the animals have no gratitude for all that I do for them; rather, it’s mainly because of that fact that I find satisfaction in cleaning up after them and making sure they have fresh water and topped-off food dishes. I don’t want, or need, gratitude from them for what I do. It’s enough to just do it, and to know that they are well cared-for because I’m unconditionally there for them. Even when the little bastards bite me. *wry grin*

I don’t know if it’s even possible to be there unconditionally for a person …at least not if it’s possible for me. (But hey, it’s not something I worry about. My role models never included Mother Teresa.)

The Summer Olympics start next month. I’m trying not to get too excited, since it’s likely that my work schedule will prevent me from seeing most of the coverage that I’d like to see. But since they’ll start on a Friday and end on a Sunday, I’ll be spending most of those 3 weekends watching. Even sports that I normally don’t give a damn about, like platform diving and rhythmic gymnastics, are fun to watch when it’s the Olympics.

This weekend, Geoffrey & I were invited to a potluck. He had a coffee date (or for him, a chai date) with a poly Pagan gal a week or so ago, and she invited us to the potluck that she & her husband are throwing on Saturday evening. We’re supposed to bring something that shows off “your best recipe.” Since I’m pretty sure that waving a Mastercard in a steakhouse restaurant doesn’t quite constitute a recipe, I’m stuck with bringing Irish soda bread. We’ll have to bring something else, too, because bread is really just an appetizer. Maybe Geoffrey can think of something to make. Otherwise I might have to bring El Cheapo Easy Nacho Dip (1 can of meat-only chili layered on top of 1 can of refried beans, covered with shredded cheddar and nuked until it’s warm, served with tortilla chips).

Just the idea of going to the home of total strangers to socialize makes me a wee bit nervous. As Mari & Doug, or Molly & Fred, can attest to, I’m not exactly a social butterfly. Leaving my house for things other than work or running household errands tends to make me obsess a little bit on how much I won’t get done at home. (Not that my house is neat as a pin, au contraire! But most people seem to think that crocheting means you aren’t paying attention to them, even when you assure them you certainly are.)

And I’m a touchy-huggy kind of person with folks who strike me as nifty, but I’ve reigned back on that immensely in my stodgy old age. That whole “mixed signals” thing stopped being amusing years ago, and now I just don’t want to deal with it. So, instead, it seems that I come across as stand-offish. *sigh* Where’s that happy medium?! (I wonder if she’ll precog that I want to slap her…)

I don’t know that I’ll be compatible with anyone at the potluck. Being poly and Pagan is all well and good, but I’m more conservative than liberal in most of the rest of my views. I doubt there’ll be a bunch of people there who think guns are neat, spanking children isn’t abuse, and accountability is what’s lacking most in citizens today. I hate feeling awkward in being around people I don’t have much in common with…it’s kind of like spending time with Kylanath. I do like her, but do we have anything in common besides being tall, mouthy, coffee-swilling, Gemini chicks who happen to be in love with the same guy? I’d like to be closer friends, but I tend to suspect that I’m not much of what she’s looking for in a friendship. As it stands, it’s kind of like “she’s my bunny expert, and I’m that annoying chick who goes out with her boyfriend on Friday nights.” (I’m not knocking either of us, mind you. But for gals with consecutive birthdays, we’re not exactly the Bobbsey Twins.)

And while I may express myself fairly well in text, I’m really horrible at small talk. Atrocious. Thoroughly awful at it. And although I try to be a good listener, it’s difficult to restrain myself from getting wholeheartedly immersed in conversation — the way that you do with good sex, in that you do your best to give at least as much as you’re getting. (Hell, in the SCA, sex could actually substitute for conversation in some situations. Ah, my ill-spent youth…) Perhaps part of my worry is that I don’t have much to talk about with total strangers. I mean, there are plenty of things I can talk about…but most of those topics would either bore people senseless (my kids, my pets, my crocheting, etc) or possibly provoke arguments (religion, politics, global warming, etc). These are not the ways I want to be memorable to people.

Eh, I’ll suck it up and deal. Worst case scenario, I’m still on the tail end of a monstrously bad cough/cold/plague — so I can always plead exhaustion or something and head home early, if things get to me too much. Preferably before I start making fun of the vegan bicyclist New Agers who think that parenting is just explaining things to your child and not stifling their spirit with boundaries. Some spoiled brat shrieks at top volume six inches from my ear, and I’ll show them a little something about boundaries…

I am, however, still taking Robitussin around the clock, and sucking on Ricola cough drops nearly every waking moment. Good thing they come 24 to a bag and are only about $1.25 a bag, since I’ve spent about $10 on them this past week. I don’t even want to think about how much I’ve spent on the rest of my non-prescription medications.

I do think there’s been a pattern to my slow-but-sure recovery. Besides the joys of medication, here are the key ingredients that I believe have helped significantly:

• Taco Bell — when I’m sick and nothing tastes good, I will lose my appetite entirely and basically forget to eat. And not eating is bad when you’re sick and your poor overworked immune system has no fuel to kick the crap out of what’s making you sick. Only 2 things have tasted good to me at ALL recently, which is why I’ve had Taco Bell for dinner the last 4 nights running. (Hey, tacos have veggies! That’s healthy, right?)
• Ice cream — that would be the only other thing that’s tasted good to me lately. Specifically, the original Moose Tracks kind. I’ve had most of a half-gallon in the last 4 days (lots of calcium!). And still managed to lose weight, because the only other thing I’ve been eating is those Lean Cuisine microwave meals (for my lunches). They aren’t exactly tasty, but I choke them down because it would have been stupid to drive to Taco Bell more than once a day.
• Emergen-C — it tastes like crap, but it still tastes WAY better than that Airborne garbage. And I do think it works better (which is to say that I’ve never noticed Airborne working at all). In any case, I’ve felt better when I had 2 or 3 glasses a day of Emergen-C.
• Neti pot — I have no idea if it’s helped the actual sickness, but it sure is nice to be able to breathe more easily for at least for the hour or so after I use it (twice a day).
• Steamy showers — I have to be careful with these, since for some weird reason, if I breathe too much hot & humid air, I tend to get dizzy to the point of passing out (whether I’m sick or not). But I can manage about 15-20 minutes, which does tend to help the congestion.
• Sympathy — while not actually a physical help to my sickness, having Geoffrey make sympathetic noises about how sick I am (such as admonishing me not to die during my horrific coughing fits), means that my misery is noticed, and THAT accomplishes two important things: a) I feel better emotionally in that I may be alone in my physical discomfort but he’s doing everything he can to help me feel better, and b) I whine a lot less about how sick I am, which reduces the aggravation of those around me.
• Reading — again, not a physical help to sickness, but if you get involved enough in what you’re reading, you can at least forget about your physical miseries for a while. I’ve gone through the entire 7-book Incarnations of Immortality by Piers Anthony in the last 5 days. I highly recommend reading the Author’s Notes, which are sometimes a smidgen more interesting than the actual stories.

This week may suck extra-much, despite being halfway to recovered (I’m still coughing & sniffling, mind you!), because I have to go up to Pill Hill for work this week. Grrrr.

There’s good news and bad news this weekend…

Good news: I have a 3-day weekend!
Bad news: I’m too sick to enjoy it.

Good news: The demonspawn will be away at the beach all weekend.
Bad news: The demonspawn (and Dustin) will be sleeping here tonight so they can leave at dawn.

Good news: Tomorrow is our country’s 232nd birthday!
Bad news: For some reason, oodles of idiots will celebrate this by blowing shit up.

I really hate fireworks. Always have. I’d love it if all fireworks were illegal, other than the professional displays. And even those are obnoxious, but at least they only take place briefly, and end at a reasonable hour of the evening…unlike the idiots who buy fireworks to set off for days/nights on end. I have ZERO sympathy for anyone who is injured by fireworks, especially the ones that are illegal in Oregon but are brought across the state border from Washington and blown up here.

Go celebrate our Independence Day by lighting fire to a barbeque or the candles of a birthday cake for America, not explosives.

I did get the doctor to prescribe me some codeine cough syrup last night, and I actually slept 8 hours straight! I had some truly odd and vivid dreams, but otherwise it was good, restful sleep. However, I’ve discovered if I don’t take the cough syrup every 4 hours on the dot while I’m awake, the horrendous coughing fits return. Luckily codeine doesn’t affect my functioning the way it seems to in most people, so I can take it round-the-clock without worry.

The pharmacist recognized me when I went in to pick up the cough syrup last night. I hadn’t even gotten all the way to the counter when they waved the bottle at me, saying, “Phone order, right?” That can’t be a good sign…

(And yes, I got a neti pot on Monday. Lyse told me about them quite a while ago, and by Monday I was feeling so horrid that I was willing to try damned near anything, even putting salt water up my nose…which is a very objectionable thought for me, as I’ve come too close to drowning more than once. But it does seem to help, at least temporarily.)

I didn’t get to see my regular clinician, the amazing Madeleine. Instead, I was stuck seeing an old guy who diagnosed me with a sinus & respiratory infection and refused to give me a prescription for my cough; he just prescribed antibiotics and an antihistamine, and said I should be able to get relief for my cough from over-the-counter medication.

Thirty hours later, I am having coughing fits several times a day that last about an hour each — with each cough triggering an intensely painful stabbing sensation through my skull — leaving me exhausted, sweat-drenched, and with a voice so ragged & hoarse that I have no idea how I’m going to manage at work when I go back Thursday. Last night, I woke up Claire during a 4am coughing fit — you know it’s bad when you wake up your next-door neighbor!!!

Sure, I called the clinic back and let them know how badly off I was. The receptionist said she’d pass along my information to the advice nurse, who would be calling me. That was over 3 hours ago; I haven’t heard from the nurse yet. When I called about an hour ago, I was told by a different receptionist that the message had been given to the nurse, and I just had to be patient. I wonder how patient she’d be if she was entirely miserable from coughing for an hour straight, with a head in more pain than most migraines.

I don’t know how I’m going to muddle through work on Thursday. It’s not as if I can rest my voice! I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t get a good prescription cough syrup before then. The only (pitifully small) bit of good news is that I have Friday and the weekend off, to try to recover.

I should have turned and looked anyway. And if he was cute, flirted. Damn, I am out of practice.

In other news, the upcoming Sunday is my department’s mandatory quarterly meeting. The one they schedule 12 months in advance so you can’t avoid it by requesting a vacation day, and for which missing will ding you to the equivalent of 2 separate absences. Oh yeah, not to mention it’s the one they have at SEVEN FUCKING A.M. on my day off. Claire asked me what sort of things are discussed at the meeting, to merit it being a mandatory weekend work meeting at SEVEN FUCKING A.M. The sad truth, as I told her vehemently is, “Not a fucking THING.” But them’s the breaks.

(Claire is kick-ass wonderful, btw. She’s the best next-door neighbor I could ask for, a really terrific friend, and one of the best moms I’ve ever met. Not to mention her entirely underrated talent for making people feel welcomed and included, which is something I largely suck at. She wrote a totally sweet blog post about me on the 12th, and I have been so absent from the Infobahn that I didn’t even see it until today.)

Last weekend, Anxiety went to the coast with the Red-Headed Stepchild’s family, and so Geoffrey & I had a childfree house for 3 whole days! (Yes, of course we had sex in the living room. *GRIN*) We topped off the weekend with a bit of a splurge at Powell’s, which is almost always the best thing you can do with your clothes on. I got a new Spider Robinson book AND a new Laurell K Hamilton book! YAY!!!

Now I’m going to go hang out with my 6-days-shy-of-1-year-old godson.