Disclaimer:  I use too many commas and parentheses, make up words when I deem necessary, and have a penchant for dots, dashes, and run-on sentences (among other moving violations).   I also tend to be a bit long-winded, but it seems to run in the family so it’s probably genetic and I can’t help it. If any of these are known to cause hives,  light-headedness, loud outbursts, or any other unpleasant reactions—just click out of here!!    Still here, huh?  The other thing about most of this schtuff is that what isn’t totally true is based on actual events……as I know ‘em……or at least think of ‘em……whatever.

When one of my brilliant, if not misguided nephews suggested that I start writing a blog he hinted that it might be of some therapeutic value.  I shrugged it off as his way to get me to back off on the number of emails I was sending him.  See, back in May of 2009 I was attacked by a couple of particularly nasty strains of viruses that teamed up hell bent on putting me six feet under, and after a little more’n a week in the hospital and several weeks of home healthcare I am still alive and kickin’ several months later.  The down side is that I am living with a relentless headache that frequently forces me to retreat to the quiet darkness of my bedroom.  In the meantime I have been reduced to finding ways to entertain myself that cause no further brain damage and the least amount of aggravation to my husband. The doctors still refuse to return me to work, and quite frankly at this point I would be hard pressed to do so since I am also still painfully sensitive to lights and noises, especially noises……I’m talkin’ about “if.I.hear.your.fork. clink.on.your.plate.one.more.time.I.am.going.to.take. it.away.and.jam.it.in.your.ear” painful.  Get the picture?  [I don’t think there’s a  greeting card that applies to that particular sentiment but this isn’t exactly something you even want to think, much less say to the one you truly love who may also quite possibly be the only person on the face of this earth who would put up with you and your shit in spite of yourself.] For some reason my imagination and sense of humor (such as it is) both seem to have remained unscathed despite the fact that there may be those who’d wish otherwise.

You know who you are.  Tough shit.

I am a voracious reader. Books have always been a part of my life.  I enjoy many types of novels and have my favorite authors, and prior to my being abducted by aliens—which is how I prefer to think of the unpleasantness that got me into this fix—it was not unusual for me to polish off at least one book a week in addition to loving my husband, working full-time, and occasionally mopping the floors.  In the aftermath of my illness I was devastated to discover that I could no longer tolerate reading for more than a few minutes at a time.  So here I am left with DVD’s, your basic cable, OR the internet, all of which offer only so much to stimulate (what’s left of) my brain—go ahead and call me a whiner.  I took a few laps around the blogosphere, and after lurking for months and leaving the occasional comment, I am ready to try out for the team.

I’ve probably already dumped TMI on y’all about this, but I feel that it’s necessary to let y’all have an idea of whence I come and although I may refer to my health on occasion, this is not intended to be a pity party by any means.  The goal here is to be mildly entertaining to someone other than myself and my darlin’ of a husband…..oh yeah, and my charming nephew. (At least I know I will have one reader for a while. Right,Lil’?)   After all, it is his fault that I decided to dip my toes into the blogging pool and let loose on whoever may pull into my parking space—aren’t mixed metaphors just a hoot?  The following is what transpired when I got home after the aliens were done with me.  It is an excerpt from a letter I wrote on my first night home from the hospital.  I think I must’ve felt the need to have some sort of written record, just in case.

“Enter at your own risk.  There’s been a man, two cats, a litter box, and a refrigerator full of food living alone together here for the last ten days.  I just got back from a week and a half in Europe only to find out that the maid up’n got sick and checked into the hospital right after I left.”  That said, I walked into the living room and flopped onto the couch wearing a pair of sweats, a Pump-Iron t-shirt and my fuchsia colored fake Croc slippers.  I had actually just gotten home from a scary stay in the hospital and was ready to get going on the next leg of my recuperation ……Home Health Care.

And here she was.  Five feet of too blonde, too tan, brassy broad enhanced by six inch stilettos covered with somebody’s idea of what snake skin should look like, and clad in white linen-looking-knock-off shorts, topped off with an amply filled sparkled-ey black spaghetti strap top.  (I’ll let your imagination take care of the cosmetics and various accessories unless it’s already in overload.)  I was waiting to be taught how to treat myself  intravenously with some anti-viral cocktail that was supposed to finish killing off the monsters that had recently waged a sneak attack upon my system, and she was to be my over-seer (!?!). There’s really no good reason to stay in the hospital just to get hooked up to a bag for a couple of hours, a few times a day—right?

Just be Confident.

Her PDA has been buzzing ever since I saw her coming up the sidewalk. (groan) Already over an hour late, she begins the inventory of my supplies, assures her buddies that she will be meeting them for that beer, and advises her teen-age daughter that she “might have to work a little late again tonight, honey.  Better go ahead and figure out your dinner”.  (Brittany….how did I know that this woman would have a daughter named “Brittany”*.)  Talk about your multitasking!  My treatment is supposed to be on a schedule, and even though I know that the powers that be figure in a fair amount of “wiggle-room”—tempus fugit (as my mother used to say)— my window is about to close, and I’d like to get things started.

I am Confident.

She bustles into the kitchen to wash her hands and my beloved, long-suffering husband gallantly hands her a clean cup-towel as I hear her comment on how nice it must be to “just take off for a week and a half like that and go to Europe”.  One quick look at the pained expression on my darling’s face assures me that I had heard her correctly, that I have a relatively good perspective of the situation, and am not simply suffering from some kind of freaky, post-hospital-traumatic-stress-syndrome paranoia.

Confidence can be way over-rated.

Wishing I hadn’t resisted the urge to take that valium earlier, I made an executive decision and deftly popped one into my mouth as we began the introduction to my new routine.  Wiggle-room is running out while winking impishly at Confidence from across the hall, and away we go!  By the time Home Health Care had whirled out of here, I was starting to feel a bit more calm about things and decided that I was up to this job.  I can do this.

Confidence has come back to the party…..unless, of course, it was the valium—in which case, who cares?

*there is absolutely nothing wrong with the name “Brittany”, so please don’t jump my case about this…but c’mon.  Y’all gotta know what I’m talking about.

I am open to suggestions, so let me know how I’m doin’.  There will be changes—-I am looking at the beginner’s side of the learning curve here in this territory that all of y’all seem so at home with, so please bear with me.  At any rate my address will stay the same……at least I’m pretty sure I got that part right……So, here goes!