Sick of Being Sick

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I know that Teachin’ wrote a post about being sick a week or so ago. But unfortunately it’s on my mind too because I am sick, I’ve been sick for a while now and I am just sick of being sick.

I was sick all through my school’s Christmas break. And now we’re back to school and I’m still sick. The sick interfered with my merry making during the holidays (not that I generally make all that merry – but hey I could have this year if I hadn’t been sick). And now the sick interfering with my New Year’s resolutions. I have brand new bought-at-the-after-Christmas-sale walking shoes, still in the box because working out hasn’t really been an option.

I don’t think I was the friend that Teachin’ talking to when he declared his profound truth “I like to get sick – because it makes me appreciate when I feel well.” I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me because I probably would have smacked him around a little bit. On his blog day Z was grateful for the “privilege of being sick.” I’m not saying that he isn’t right. We all need the bitter to appreciate the sweet; We need the storm to appreciate the calm; we need 3 1/2 weeks of sleep deprived coughing to appreciate that 6 hours of sleep a night really isn’t so bad. But I am coming up on a month now of being sick and if I don’t find a way to get some sleep soon it’s very possible that I could have a psychotic break. So let’s just say I’m feeling too immature to agree with Z today.

This particular sick has turned into a kind of nasty and persistent lung incursion. I’m having trouble catching my breath (which is why walking is problematic) and as I said, I’m doing a lot of coughing. I’ll spare you all the disgusting phlegmy details – sufficith to say that I have strong opinions about pretty much every kind of over-the-counter concoction, herbal or otherwise, they try to pass off as cold medication; and I’m sure I’ve killed off a fair portion of rainforest with the boxes and boxes of Kleenex I’ve used (well, Walgreen’s generic facial tissue actually).

The other day though, it got serious enough with the breathing issue (and I became psychotic enough with the not-sleeping issue) to take myself to the doctor to have them poke and prod and hold a stethoscope to my wheezing lungs. Well actually Ebay drove me since I really don’t have any business operating a moving vehicle right now.

It didn’t take the doctor long to agree that yes indeed, my lungs didn’t sound good. He put me on a nebulizer – a first for me. Ebay was out in the waiting room and since I wanted to let him know that he’d be waiting for a bit, I texted him from the exam room telling him that I was about to be breathing through a nebulizer.

“Cool.” Ebay answered. “A doctor approved Bong.”

“What do you know about bongs?” I texted back.

“Hey, I’ve seen Alice in Wonderland.” Ebay answered.

Well, hard to argue with Lewis Carol - plus he was pretty much right. My mind jumped to the caterpillar with the pipe too when the machine started up. But bong-inspired or not, this was a fabulous machine! Seriously, where has this been all my life? It was the first deep breaths I’d been able to take for weeks – it was glorious!

So now I have some good drugs – an antibiotic, an inhaler and some of that great cough medicine where I actually could get in trouble if I took it and operated a moving vehicle. And while I will be so relieved when phlegm dam (or is that damn phlegm?) finally breaks and I get better, I’m sorry to say that I just don’t think I’ll look back on this last month as a privilege.

But getting better will be something to be grateful for so I guess I can see Z’s point - at least a little bit. But I think that’s as mature as I can get until I get more sleep.

You've Got Mail

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photo from flickr.com

I have always loved getting mail. One of my earliest memories is of a card I got in the mail for my 2nd birthday. It was from my Grandma and Grandpa Royce and it included a dollar bill with a note telling me that I should have daddy take me to buy any kind of ice cream that I wanted. I'm not sure if this was the beginning of my love affair with mail but there are many times since that I have waited longingly for the mail to arrive.

When I was a teenager it always made my day to receive letters from my cousin in Sacramento or my friends in Washington or Montana. To increase my chances of receiving mail I wrote numerous letters to others in hopes that they would be reciprocated. Each letter I have ever sent has felt like a gift - a part of myself. Each envelope contained news of my life, my thoughts, feelings and ideas - on paper which I meticulously decorated with a treasured set of markers stored in a bright yellow box. As I would add the stamp to each letter and send it off from the blue mailbox on the corner there was a sense of excitement in knowing that a small part of myself would be traveling to these places so many miles away... and receiving a letter was always equally as thrilling.

The only thing that can even compare to the happiness of receiving a letter is the thrill of receiving a package. Can any words adequately describe the happy tummy-tickling feeling you get when a package arrives with your name on it?

I didn't think so.

When I receive a box or padded envelope in my mailbox or on my doorstep I can hardly contain myself - I am enveloped in that feeling of a child on Christmas morning and have to resist the urge to immediately tear into it and discover what treasure it contains. The best sort of package is the kind that arrives, unexpected, from a friend. It is like receiving a little piece of heaven at your door to discover that someone has not only been thinking of you but that they acted on it by putting together a package for you - just because.

Heaven, I say.

Not only do I get mail from the mailbox in my front yard these days, I have another mailbox I can check more often - the one on my computer. Because times have changed it is much more likely now that I will receive a treasured letter in my email inbox than one packaged in an envelope with a stamp in the corner. I often become excited when any length of time has passed since I have checked my email - simply the anticipation that there could be a message waiting there for me is exciting. I log in, watch as the computer uploads my information and quickly scan through my inbox for the treasures among the junk. When I see a friend's name on the left side of my screen, I play something of a game with myself. I make myself weed through all of the other mail first and then reward myself with the words of a dear friend when my task is complete.

Regardless of how it gets here or what form it takes, mail is something that always has - and always will - make me smile.

I. Love. Mail.

You Look Funny

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I went to school yesterday—deciding that I’d not wear my glasses.

Why?

Oh, I don’t know; vanity I suppose. After all, have you ever seen somebody who wears glasses all the time, then, when they get contacts or corrective surgery, they always tend to look like they’re blind? You know, with that I-just-don’t-look-quite-right-look?

Yeah, so have I; there was no way that I was going to become one of those people…I’d already had a student walking down the hall a month or so ago who made the comment, “You look funny, Mr. Z.”

Now, how just does one respond to something like that? Perhaps with a heartfelt ‘thank you?’

Luckily, the child went on to explain: “You don’t look right without your glasses.”

Ugh, the lack-of-glasses-blindness-curse was beginning to descend upon me! So now perhaps you can see my dilemma, and also my incessant desire to not join the masses that ‘look funny’ without their glasses on. To combat this I decided to wear my glasses a few times a week, and then come to school a few times in contacts. That way, I’d look great both ways.

I know…pure, unadulterated genius.

So yesterday I debated on whether or not to wear the glasses, finally deciding to forgo the four-eye look, and sport contacts. Since I was pressed for time, I dropped two of lenses from the package into my computer bag and gathered up my various and sundry items to head out for the school day, confident that I’d just put them in when I had a few spare moments.

Problem #1: most teachers don’t have ‘spare moments.’

Spare moments tend to be a luxury which doesn’t happen very often, and yesterday was one of those chock-full days. There was no way that I had any time in which to put a set of contacts in. From the moment I walked in the school, until I left at some undisclosed time in the darkening hours in the early evening, I was swamped; so with this, poor vision then became the norm.

That’s when I started to make the discovery: when I can’t see properly, I get used to it. I come to believe that that is just what the world looks like, and come to accept it as reality. This is a horrible mistake when, in reality, the world is a much more stunning place with clear and beautiful colors, and everything is sharp and well-defined. But, with the lack of my eye enhancements, everything was a blur for me—the whole day. If I looked down the hallway I’d have to struggle to recognize a student; whereas, with my glasses I could have nailed them with my 20/10 vision.

You heard me…20/10, baby.

So today, I decided that I would put my contacts in before I left for school—taking one extra minute that I knew I’d not have later in the day. Will it all work out in the end? I don’t know. But heaven knows that I need to avoid the ‘blind man’ look with a well-planned preemptive strike.

Being Busy and Chick-fil-A

Pin It I decided today's post was going to be the Chick-fil-A post, because it's 9:30 p.m. Virginia time and I'm still in my heels, for sweet Pete's sake, and I've only just now finished my supper of leftover tomato soup. I really, really had a craving for Chick-fil-A, but the closest one is about a twenty-two minute drive and I just couldn't do it. I was starving! Not after vacuuming three floors, mopping two floors, cleaning a kitchen, dusting three rooms, fixing a computer, going to the bank, cleaning a potty, making supper, making a taco dip (very yummy, will post recipe), going to the grocery store, going to Lowes and buying a staple gun (but forgetting the staples, naturally), doing three loads of laundry, just some general straightening up, and hosting my Bible study...all in my freaking heels.

Man, my feet hurt. I'm starting to get my momma's corns, and they hurt.

I figured the only wisdom I'd be able to impart at this point would be the Chick-fil-A song, which oddly enough was fairly appropriate considering my state of starvation and my fairly constant craving for their food. Since I was running around like that proverbial chicken today, I didn't get to take the kids by after school for their fix, either--so they're sort of going through withdrawals. It's pretty ugly. They shake their heads in agony when I present them with a bagged meal from the freezer section of the grocery store. "What is this? Eat Mor Chicken!"

I'm really sorry this post is a little late, but it was just one of those days. It was a busy day. Around mid-afternoon, when the weariness started to hit, I almost started to feel sorry for myself for being so busy, and a little aggravated with myself. Why are you so stupid? All you really needed to do was vacuum in front of the door and wipe the toilet seat in case anyone needed to pee. And maybe give the counters a little swipe. You really didn't need to break out the heavy artillery. Moron. You could be sitting on the couch right now, reading a book. Or maybe eating something.

Then it hit me--my conscience, I mean. You are so stinkin' blessed, girlfriend. Your sheer busy-ness is a blessing! Just think of what it means to be busy--you have people in your life. You have friends. You have family. They need you and depend on you. They know they can rely on you. You have been entrusted with all of these responsibilities to care for--yep, they can be burdensome every now and then, but how empty your life would be without them. And the same goes for your Things. The Things that your have to clean--like those hardwood floors that you just live to vacuum and mop over and over again. They're beautiful. Don't complain over the labor that accompanies the beauty.

I love it when my head actually speaks wisdom to me.

Just for giggles: The Chick-fil-A Song Video
http://funny.elijahlofgren.com/2009/03/chick-fil-tim-hawkins-funny-song.html

The Mailbox

Pin It GUEST BLOGGER: RACHEL

I'm The Mum married to The Sexy Scout Master. We've been married many moons and in that time have had seven offspring (The Natives). One of The Natives, Levi, has AHC, is mentally handicapped and on the autism spectrum. I've been battling West Nile Virus for three years now and counting. Sometimes I win, sometimes it wins; when it does I nurse my wounds in chocolate and go shopping on the internet for more shoes!

When I was a snot-nosed punk growing up in Montana we did not have a T.V. I know, it's shocking, isn't it? And to think I actually survived...but survive we did. We had hours and acres of land to entertain ourselves with.

Our mailbox is very much a part of my growing-up memories. It was painted bright red—but more importantly—it was big. Not one of these little silver numbers you'd find at the end of people's driveways on your way into town, but instead a real mailbox.

My younger sister and I would climb up on top of the mailbox and rock it back and forth, pretending we were riding a horse. Sometimes we'd drag out the saddle and haul it up onto the mailbox; however, most often we'd just ride it bareback.

One day riding the mailbox wasn't good enough, and since it was so big we decided to see if my younger sister could fit into it. After trying to shove her into it several times without much luck we decided to get our older sister involved—after all, she was taller and stronger.

Our older sister obliged. Since she wasn't laying mesmerized in front of a T.V. she was up for our suggestion of entertainment. We figured out that if we took my little sister and put her in feet first, we could cram her into the mailbox. We shut the door on her and laughed with delight when she'd push her head against it and "pop out." Both my older sister and I looked at each other as the demons inside of us started rearing their ugly heads, and an idea began to form.

I realized that the mean, old, crotchety mail lady hadn't come by that day as of yet, and we began to utter chuckles of evil delight.

We had an awesome wraparound porch on our beautiful old farm house which was also equipped with a porch swing. My older sister opted to hang out on the porch swing, this way she'd be miles away from the action if something went wrong; you know, that whole guilty-by-association thing.

What a wimp!

I hid behind a big tree which we called the umbrella tree. We would spend hours climbing and hanging out in its branches imagining all sorts of things, but that is another story for another day. The tree was not close enough for the mean, old mail lady to see me but close enough that when I yelled out, "now!" my little sister could execute her part in the prank.

Imagine two little children shivering with delight, waiting for the exact moment. Me dancing in place not being able to stand the suspense, and who knows what my little sister was doing crammed up in that mailbox, but she was a good sport and she waited.

We didn't have to wait long. Down the dirt road came the mail lady. She was driving her brand-new car. Where we grew up, they didn't have mail trucks. The mailmen/women drove their own cars, leaning across the passenger seat to drop the mail in our boxes because the steering wheel wasn't on the right side of the vehicle.

Giggling, I crouched behind the tree watching for the precise moment. The mean, old, crotchety mail lady pulled up to our mailbox, leaned across the passenger seat, and raised her hand to open the mailbox. At that moment I yelled "NOW!" and my little sister's head popped out of that mailbox as she yelled, "BOO"!

Well, that mean, old, crotchety mail lady jumped back across her car, banging herself against her door with a shriek that you could have heard in the next county over. I fell in a heap of laughter and giggles on the ground as my little sister - still stuck in the mailbox and blocked by the mean, old, crotchety mail lady's car—dissolved in a fit of laughter. Oh, it was delightful until that venomous old creature got a hold of herself and gave my little sister a serious tongue-lashing.

I told you she was mean and old and crotchety, didn't I? Well, she lectured my sister and told her that she could have scratched her new car when the mailbox door banged open against it. But you know what? I can't really say that we cared. Tears were running down our faces and my poor sister was making the mailbox rattle and convulse with her shrieks of laughter and hiccups.

The mail lady drove off in a huff, and I went and rescued my little sister so that we could both again dissolve in peals of laughter on the ground.

Later, after reflecting on the event and filling our parents in on it during dinner that night, Mom made us shove my sister back in the mailbox again so she could get pictures. It was then that my little sister and I decided that we really didn't like the way our mean, old, crotchety mail lady had reacted. It was a harmless, fun prank; therefore, being the older sister who would defend her little sister with fists if need be, I soon decided that this mean, old, crotchety mail lady needed to be taught a lesson for yelling at my little sister over something so harmless.

I had been out walking down the dirt road that went in front of our house and had found a dead snake which had been smooshed with the passing of many vehicles. Yet again, another evil little grin covered my face as I picked it up with a stick and carefully laid it to rest in our big, old, red mailbox and put up the flag.

Special delivery for the mean, old, crotchety mail lady.