It’s a bit like the Marie Celeste at my place … a half-finished game of Monopoly lies on the dining room table; dirty dishes languish in the sink; a gingerbread maker sits open on the kitchen bench – yes, such things exist in the shops and I ALWAYS FIND THEM – with tubes of writing icing scattered around it; days-ago clothes still hang on the washing line; dust tumbleweeds drift across the lounge room floor …
Six days ago I started vomitting, five days ago I stopped. But the nausea and the swoony exhaustion won’t go away.
NO, I’M NOT BLOODY PREGNANT!
What is it with women and vomitting and pregnancy presumptions?
Let’s clear this up once and for all: I’m almost 48, my womb has been razed and … actually, isn’t that enough?
But, I’ve been thinking it’s a bit odd that I’m still poorly, six days after being felled by a gastro bug.
A brain lightbulb blinked on faintly yesterday when the eldest had ANOTHER day home sick.
(Just to update the tally that makes it five out of the past seven weeks being consumed by child illness.)
The eldest has the following symptoms: fatigue, nausea, blocked nose.
I have the following symptoms: fatigue, nausea, blocked nose.
I suspect I have piggybacked illnesses: gastro seguing into some weird virus thing I’ve caught off one of my eternally poorly kids.
Lucky, lucky me.
It totally sucks having concurrent illnesses… but it’s also a bit of a relief, because I was about to go to the doctor and get him to test me for things that might mean I’m shuffling off the mortal coil … aka NOT PREGNANCY. Although getting pregnant after having your womb razed can be fatal, but also Ripley’s Believe It Or Not worthy when you’re almost 48. Just ask my gyno.
I’ve decided I’m just garden variety sick. And sick of it.
Instead of crying my Sputnik head to sleep on my huge pillow last night, I decided to cheer myself up with a chook thigh and roast veg from the local takeaway shop and a belated viewing of 50 Shades of Grey.
The roast made my stomach churn and so did the movie … and not in a butterflies kinda way.
That movie is bizarro stupid. No idea about the book, thank heavens. But WHAT is that rubbish all about?
A shy, pretty virgin decides the man of her dreams is a hot, rich dude who wants to whip her? Puhlease.
The … er … climax … er … comes … when she begs her troubled (due to some sort of childhood trauma) boyfriend to “show me! Show me how much you want to punish me. Show me the worst it can be” or something along those dreadfully written lines. So he does and she has a MAJOR hissy fit and leaves him.
And then they both look all mournful and the movie ends.
I’m not surprised they both looked mournful – she got flogged and he got mixed messages. I looked mournful too because it was a terrible waste of my $3.50 from the Oovie machine.
Not to mention the fact I’ll look like some sort of nervous sex shop visitor when I take it back to the supermarket today.
I need cheering up. Send me funny stories, memes, videos … SOMETHING.
Except if you’re one of those Skype creeps pretending to be army generals and surgeons, searching for some poor unsuspecting soul to seduce with their “Hello, what a smile! I have finally seen the spark I have been looking for in a woman’s eye. Well I must confess that you have a very nice and decent profile. Your smile is so warm and heart warming it has put a smile on my face …” They can eff right off.
OK, that last remark probably seems a little left-field, but their fricking messages pop up all the bloody time when I’m on the computer writing my blog and I want them to GO AWAY. Apparently I have to change my profile picture to a penguin or something to make them stop, but really, WHY DO I HAVE TO DO THAT?
I seem to have shouted a lot this blog.
Song of the day: Huey Lewis & The News “I want a new drug”