So this is Christmas
Perhaps my favorite blog post name, since it’s the fourth time I’ve used it.
It’s been a week of highs and lows and little in-between.
Yesterday we had a holiday party at the Alligator Ranch. I pitched a fit that it was a two-hour catered sit-down affair with RAFFLES, good God. On a Friday, my busiest day. Also that work was dismissed afterward and YEAH RIGHT.
Once again I had happy hour plans that I missed by 3 hours, same as Thanksgiving. But my boss gave me an awesome Christmas gift and I came home to put up my ghetto lighted palm tree (since, time to do the real tree was non-existent this year).
Plus those raffles paid off — I have never won a damn thing in my life and I got a nice Amex gift card in the exact amount I paid for that ghetto lighted palm tree. So, win-win.
Today I opted not to weigh in but I did go to my meeting. It would have gone one of two ways:
1. I hit my 10% goal and would be nervous about eating ANYTHING this coming week because I’d have to maintain at least that weight.
2. I wouldn’t hit said goal and, well, I would feel compelled to eat ALL THE THINGS as a result.
So, let’s say we’ll find out in two weeks when I’m back in town, eh?
I went to the local Urgent Care clinic to address a Problem I noticed about a month ago.
But I did what I always do: ignored it. Then tried home remedies. Then tried to get doctor’s appointments with specialists on weekends.
(The home-remedy route has a better chance of working than finding a specialist with Saturday hours.)
So I am a medical oddity. (Shocker, I know.) We don’t know what’s wrong with me. Basically I have a week’s worth of antibiotics and steroids and if those don’t make a dent, then we panic.
And by panic, I mean bloodwork and specialists. I heard the word “biopsy” and almost fell over dead on the spot till I realized, nothing can kill me. Without me, who else would God have to laugh at?
Things are tough at home. I admit to contributing to all that is wrong. I also admit that if she’s right and she’s slipping away and this could be the end, I don’t know that I wouldn’t breathe a sign of relief.
In a way of course. I would miss her cooking. God I’d miss her cooking. The cleaning too. And the sage advice and psychic insights. 🙂 But I see what it’s costing to treat a stupid silly condition WITH GOOD INSURANCE — it’s no wonder she’s feeling too far gone to even start now.
That’s our America, though. In 1984 I wrote to President Reagan and told him he was single-handedly destroying my world. And now that I REALLY understand what he was doing, holy shit. I hope that letter is framed somewhere in the Oval. I really do. That whole sinister cabal of those stealing from the poor and redistributing to their Cayman Islands accounts. Fuck them all.
Anyway, here’s to making it to Friday, when my plane takes the fuck off and I can come back a few days later with food from Trader Joe’s and a T-shirt from Manhattan and a lovely post-Christmas Christmas dinner in Philly in mah belleh. And to all the wine I’ll consume the moment I get home, to recover.
Here’s to the meds working. Because … yeah. Just because.