Doctor Who-Do-You-Think-You-Are

So my first interaction with the medical system here didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I went in this morning to get my prescriptions here, because they don't transfer when you move countries. And in all fairness, I did get them written for me, at least enough to cover this month. But not without a long lecture about how no one should be on depression medication long term, from a man who 1. had only met me about three minutes earlier; 2. isn't a specialist in mental health; 3. hasn't reviewed any of the records from my previous doctor; 4. has no idea what it's been like to live with me these past few months while I've been freaking out because I have literally changed every single thing about my life; 5. has no idea what I'm like without medication. He said, with no basis whatsoever, that I needed to look into some alternatives - alternatives he didn't bother to specify or ask me whether I was already doing, but which I assume would include the exercise I already take four or five times a week, the meditation I do,  and the friends I turn to when I need to talk. Apart from not eating a healthy diet, which is never going to happen because, let's face it, Doritos are DELICIOUS while green vegetables taste like pee, I'm doing all the things you're supposed to do. Oh except seeing a psychiatrist here, but when I asked him for a referral, he told me that psychiatrists in this country don't treat "minor problems" and it's really not for me unless I'm on an anti-psychotic (he did eventually give me a phone number).

Is that what doctors are like here, or is this guy just a judgemental ass who thinks he knows everything because it says "Dr." in front of his name? Should I just make sure I always see another doctor from that practice? It's much easier to get the healthcare you need when you don't have a completely adversarial relationship with your doctor.

The Luckiest

Today marks two years since the day I met StereoNinja. He's spent the entirety of it in bed moaning or running to the toilet to be sick. I spent most of the day wandering around a friend's house checking out all the Doctor Who toys they have (it's A LOT) waiting for him to be well enough to go home, and then I got to drive home on some of England's darkest, twistiest, scariest roads trying to get him home as quickly as possible without going so fast he gets sick in the car (or I hit a badger or a deer or something). I'm going to go make him a piece of dry toast now and see if he can keep it down. It's all been incredibly romantic, I assure you.

(I am also missing Bizzybizzers Steve and Maya's game party and therefore Cards Against Humanity because god hates me. I plan to buy the new UK version of it in protest.)

Blogging Is Not A Matter Of Life And Death...Unlike Pneumonia

Relax, I'll tell you where I've been, just calm down. I've just returned from spending 11 days on a 10 day trip to England the U.K., which followed directly on the heels of spending the bulk of two weeks visiting Hell Illinois Masonic Hospital, where they were holding my beloved roommate the bartender in a thankfully successful attempt at making him not die, which nearly killed him in and of itself.

I'll explain that shortly, but let's back up a minute.

What now seems like many Thursdays ago, I was in my usual watering hole doing my usual have dinner with my roommate and then drink a beer while antisocially playing games on my iPad thing, when a pretty looking boy began admiring my very pink hair and asking my advice on how he could do something similar to his very brown hair. I have had this conversation many times, and now that I have an iPad, I can augment it with Facebook photos of my coiffure's previous incarnations. He was impressed, deemed me artistic and started showing me some of his design portfolio, including some work he'd done for a motorcycle club. In turn I showed him the results of the Super Secret Project. It was the most stunning transformation I've ever seen: he was having a normal, relaxed, easy conversation with me and then as if I'd flipped a switch he suddenly became so nervous that he literally could not complete a sentence. He eventually took several deep breaths and managed to choke out enough words for me to understand he was asking me out. It's not like I could say no - he was adorable and there was a strong chance his head might implode from a rejection, so I gave him my e-mail and made vague plans to "eat something and watch the hockey game" on Saturday. In retrospect, it seems hilarious to me that I thought there was any chance I might wind up in some sort of normal situation.

The bartender had not been feeling well, so when he came home from working Friday night at 4:30 a.m. sweating and out of breath I was concerned. He asked me if we had an accurate thermometer (we didn't) and then said the bone chilling words that would kick off a terrifying saga: "I think you need to get dressed. I need you to take me to the hospital." The bartender doesn't really "do" hospitals. Despite that fact, he'd just been to the ER two weeks prior to that due to excruciating back and chest pain that was diagnosed as walking pneumonia. He was given antibiotics and sent on his way. He felt better after a few days, went back for a follow up a week later, was pronounced healthy and sent on his way. Two days later he had a fever of 102.2, couldn't breathe and wanted me to take him back to the hospital. Not good.

We got there and did the whole ER routine: triage, get in a room, vitals, talk to a nurse, talk to another nurse, wait for a doctor, explain everything again, wait some more, repeat everything again for a medical student, then a third nurse, get some blood drawn and then finally they took him away for a chest x-ray, which is when I checked my voicemail and realized I'd missed a call from the comic the night before explaining that he'd been randomly punched in the face. None of my boys were doing well, it seemed. I texted the only one who was (the boy from Thursday night) to inform him that I would not be making our date that afternoon and rescheduling it for Sunday. A doctor came in with the bad news: the bartender's pneumonia had not gone away at all, but rather seemed to have gotten worse. They decided to admit him for a couple days. I texted the newbie and rescheduled our date for early the following week, then went home and fed the cat.

When I got back to the hospital the situation had gone from bad to worse. A CT scan revealed that in addition to the pneumonia worsening, his lung was also being collapsed from the outside due to empyema. He would need surgery, but they didn't want to perform it until they got the infection that caused the pneumonia in the first place under control. They started throwing every antibiotic they had in their arsenal at him hoping something would work. None of them seemed to help, and after two days of this with his condition continuing to worsen it was becoming clear he had some sort of antibiotic resistant super bug and that they couldn't wait any longer to do the surgery. He went under the knife that Tuesday, while I paced the family lounge, tweeting what little information I had and postponing my date until the bartender made it home.

I was wholly unprepared for the scene that greeted me when they allowed me to see him in the ICU after surgery. IVs in both arms, a breathing tube down his throat, oxygen, catheter, epidural, three chest tubes snaking out of his back and his arms strapped down as a precaution because people coming out of anesthesia have a penchant for trying to rip their breathing tube out when they come to. He looked terrible. "You look good," I told him, which he obviously didn't reply to because you can't talk with a breathing tube stuffed down your throat. The anethesiologist came in to check up on things. His name was Dr. Dieter, but he looked less like Dieter from Sprockets and more like The Dude from Big Lebowski. He was also hilarious. "I was only in there for the important part," he said. "Basically, we cut you open, drianed the pus out and then took a garden hose to your chest for about 20 minutes."

Having cultured the fluid to get a better idea of just what the hell had made him so sick in the first place, they put him on an appropriate antibiotic that we hoped would clear up the infection once and for all. In the meantime, breathing tube removed, the bartender was free to insult his oh-so-witty surgeon when he came in each day to pull out the chest tubes one at a time. "I promise you, I won't feel a thing," the surgeon said as he de-Borged my roommate, which earned him "Dick" in response. On the day the final chest tube came out, the plan was that he would get out of ICU, go upstairs for observation for a day and then finally go home. Obviously this scenario was not in the stars because when everything else has gone horribly wrong, why not just pile it on?

As it turned out, after a day and a half on the "right" antibiotic to treat the infection, it was discovered it was the wrong antibiotic for the bartenders kidneys, as they had begun to shut down. So began several stress filled days of constant monitoring in an effort to keep the treatment that was saving his life from killing him.

Finally, FINALLY, he was well enough to leave the hospital and I took him home on Tuesday afternoon, 11 days after I'd driven him there in the middle of the night. I spent the next three days hovering over him and carrying things around because he wasn't allowed to lift anything at all (and couldn't have even if he'd tried). Then on Saturday, at the bartender's insistance, I finally left for my long planned trip to England which I had resigned myself already that I was going to miss, sending a text message to newbie postponing our date until June in the cab on the way to O'Hare.

So yeah. Sorry about the long break from blogging. I WAS BUSY.

And Get The Hell Out Of My Bed Too.

H-town: lol karen carpenter
*goes to hell*

me: credit to [the bartender] for that one

H-town: i hate feeling that sick
when i got strep this winter it was the worst i've been sick in a decade, too
i thought i was dying, too

me: yeah, strep is a pretty bad one

H-town: i feel ya - moving 2 feet felt like i was climbing mt. everest
thankfully i wasn't hurling
i had a nasty 24 bug last fall though
i can't imagine hurling for more than 24 hrs

me: i was only hurling for about one day, but i had no appetite at all for four
I don't think I ate as much as 500 calories a day for four days straight

H-town: isn't weird when even eating takes too much energy?
bodyFAIL

me: i know right?

H-town: your brain's all, yeah - eating would give me energy and help me, but fuck that noise
then it goes into hibernate mode

me: then some mooching bitch comes in and eats all your porridge

H-town: hahaha

me: LEARN HOW TO COOK WHORE

H-town: HAHAHAHA

Learn From My Fail

Every year, my boss asks me if I'm getting the flu shot, and every year I scoff at him. I have an immune system made of steel and I haven't had the flu in well over a decade. I don't need a flu shot because I'm not going to get the flu, I reason, and as such I'll just skip it and keep the $30 for myself thank you very much. Historically this method has always worked. Unfortunately, what this method doesn't take into account is that extreme stress, such as the unbelievable work and relationship related stress I've been dealing with since the beginning of the year, can and will weaken your immune system. My steel defenses have become more similar to swiss cheese defenses so far this year - through mid March I had already gone through three colds and/or sinus infections. A week and a half after the last one I finally succumbed to the flu.

I didn't even see it coming. I'd been in very good form on Saturday. I got up early, took the cat to the vet, picked up a prescription, put some boxes in storage, dropped off my laundry, bought an Easter dress and did a 45 minute workout all before 2:00 pm. The bartender ordered pizza for dinner and we ate it watching two brilliant college basketball games which both had piss poor outcomes. Shortly after 9:00 pm, I very suddenly became completely exhausted. Because unlike a cold that starts with the sniffles and builds into a full blown illness, the flu prefers to just sneak up on you and clobber you over the head with everything it's got.

"Imma fuck you up."

I was startled at how tired I suddenly was, which is to say I was tired enough to get in bed at 9:30 on a Saturday night. At which point, I immediately realized I was starting to run a fever. And that I had a terrible chest rattling cough. And that I was in for something serious. Because from that moment until this morning, I have only gotten out of bed to pee and throw up*.

I have never, EVER been this ill before as an adult. At some point during the week, I called the comic in a fever delirium to explain that I wouldn't being seeing him in May because I was bound for death in a few short hours. He congratulated me on being sensible enough to stay home from work. Normally I'm not and will force myself to get up get things done, as per the American way. I wasn't being sensible this time either, I simply couldn't move. To go from the couch to my bed was a monumental undertaking. Making it to the kitchen was out of the question. I couldn't have gone to work even if I'd wanted to because there wasn't strength enough in my body to turn a doorknob so as to get out of the house.

I am upright and mobile now, finally, after 6 days. Sort of anyway. I still can't stand for longer than 10 or 15 minutes at a time. I get winded walking across a room. The cough still hasn't abated and my lungs feel like they're on fire. I lost 6 pounds in four days time and I look like Karen Carpenter. I never really grasped before that the flu is something thousands of people actually die from every year, but I get it now. The flu does not fuck around.

Let this be a lesson to you: just get the fucking flu shot.

*Except for the one time I got out of bed to take a shower, which did not go well. I should have taken a bath, but I'd been lying down for three days and I thought I would try being upright for a while. It lasted long enough for me to get shampoo in my hair and then I was overwhelmed. I finished my shower sitting on the bottom of the tub, dried my hair sitting on the bathroom floor, and crawled - literally - back to my bed.

More Hatiness

Still sick and really hopped up on whatever it is I'm taking. I've been acting like I'm on speed all day long, and have just overwhelmed the accountant with a conversation in the kitchen that included diagonal air vents, aliens, ethnic heritage, things that are green, the fact that all the Bourne movies taken together are one extremely long chase scene, the relative value of Los Angeles and a half a dozen other things that I've already forgotten. Which is not the point. In reality I probably would have been somewhat better off not coming to work. However, it is bar night tonight AND it is St. Pat's AND the NCAA tourney started this morning AND I'm still feeling hostile, so I want to go to Tai's tonight in my "Fuck You" etc. t-shirt and argue with people. But in my head there's an "If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding! How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?" kind of thing going on where I feel like if I think I'm too sick to go to work, I must then also be too sick to go to the bar. So I had to go to work. Which also isn't the point. The entire paragraph is to introduce the fact that I still feel like I did yesterday and offer that up as an explanation of why I am ranting about another commercial that I hate. Which I told you would probably happen. OK? Good.

There was one commercial I forgot to mention yesterday which I also hate right now, which is the latest offering from 5 Hour Energy. Apparently, they are trying to gain market share now by going after the morning wake up market in addition to the stay-up-all-night crowd and the man-that-was-a-long-day crowd by attacking coffee. Specifically, by pointing out how enormously difficult and taxing it is to brew it and have to add cream and sugar to it, or what a travesty it is to have to wait in line to buy it if you don't want to make it yourself. It is the classic ploy of creating a problem that doesn't actually exist and then providing a solution that nobody needs. Listen to me: making coffee is not that hard. It isn't. It just isn't. You don't want to wait in line at this Starbucks? NO PROBLEM. There's bound to be five other ones across the street. You make yours at home but you don't want to have to wait for it to brew? NO PROBLEM. Most coffee makers these days have timers set on them so you can program when you want it to start brewing and then when you get up there will be a fresh pot of coffee waiting for you as if by magic. It's so much work to stir in a little cream? Actually, I can't really help you here. If you can't handle the thought of having to put cream in your coffee there is no hope for you anyway. Fuck off and drink it black then. NO ONE IS CHALLENGED BY COFFEE*. And if you are sitting in your kitchen staring at the empty coffee pot thinking "You mean I have to turn on a machine and wait for it to brew and pour it into a cup and put things in it and lift the cup to my lips and take a sip and swallow this coffee all by myself? Why must I be made to suffer this gross injustice day in and day out?" then maybe you better re-evaluate your life and whether or not it should be allowed to continue because you are the most useless human being on the entire planet and an asshole on top of it. No, 5 hour energy needs to stick with what it's good at, which is sending college students to an early grave due to massive amounts of alternating stimulants and depressants.

*Generally. Strictly speaking, this is not always true. When I went to visit the comic the first time he asked me to make him a cup of coffee and I have to admit I was stymied by it at first. This is because in England they all drink instant coffee, not brewed coffee, and I was unfamiliar. "You just put a spoonful of crystals into the water and stir it," he explained. It seemed like it was almost too easy and I was worried that it might be a trap. But I tried it and it worked and nothing bad happened at all, if you don't count the comic drinking a really shitty cup of coffee. Which I don't because he is English and doesn't know any better.

My Trip To The ER

Coming home from blighty, and for the last two days I was there, I found I was having a fair amount of back pain near the place where my right kidney resides. It got progressively worse and by Friday I could barely move. I was told repeatedly by many people to get my ass to the doctor, but I am stubborn and I was convinced all I needed was Tylenol, a heating pad and time. Until I realized I had started running a fever. Even then, I was sure it could wait til morning when the bartender would be home from work and I could drive myself there in the car. My neighbors Sugar and Spice were not having any of it. Spice called me from downstairs where they were watching the hockey game. "[Sugar] says she had a friend who died because of a kidney infection. She says if you don't come down here right now, [the Marine] is going to come up there and hog tie you and carry you to the car." Under those circumstances I allowed them to drive me to Northwestern (after the hockey game of course. Come on, it was Game 7 of the Stanley Cup!).
We arrived at Northwestern Emergency and checked me in. I got a fancy bracelet and was quickly called in to see the nurse. "I'm running a fever and I have a lot of pain in my right kidney," I told her.
"How do you know it's your kidney?" she asked.
This struck me as a trick question, but then again I had a fever. "Um, well, it's in the place where they taught me in biology class my kidney is supposed to be, so I just figured..." This seemed to be a satisfactory answer. She took my temperature (99.3), gave me a cup to pee in and told me to go to the desk if I suddenly got any worse.
I went and sat with Sugar and Spice. I didn't want to sit. I was in pain and had a fever and I wanted to lay down. But as all the seats in the waiting room have metal arms and it's not socially acceptable to lay on the floor in public I ended up curling myself into an upright fetal position and resting my head on my knees. And we waited.
And we waited.
The only good thing about having to go to the ER is that they are endlessly entertaining. There was a guy who worked there in some capacity (crowd control?) we named "Bernie Mac Guy" because he bore a resemblance to Bernie Mac and he was pimping out in a black suit of indeterminate material, a red shirt, a black tie and an incongruous pair of white latex gloves. I announced I wanted to marry him (fever). There was also a decrepit old man doing Sanford and Son impressions obnoxiously enough that Bernie Mac Guy told him if he didn't shut up he'd be put away in a room by himself. My favorite was a kid who may or may not have been in his mid twenties who I named Captain Vomit. Captain Vomit was so named because he was clearly going through severe withdrawal. He'd been issued a bed pan and every 15 minutes or so he would violently throw up into it and then button it with a pitiful moan of "Oooohh God, I want to die." God did not appear to be listening. But Captain Vomit is obviously much smarter than I, because as I was trying to get comfortable curled into a ball in a hard plastic chair, Captain Vomit took his bed pan and his blanket and lay down right in the middle of the waiting room floor. The staff yelled at him for some time to get up to no avail. Eventually they gave up and, get this people, wheeled a bed in for him to lay in so he would get off the floor. I was furious. "Is that it?" I complained to Spice. "All I had to do was lay on the fucking floor and they would have brought me a bed? Man, this is bullshit." And we waited.
While all this was going on, I was progressively getting worse. My legs were numb from my knees to my ass because of the way I was sitting, and the fever was making me too nauseous to hold my head up. Sugar and Spice were carrying on a conversation that I was listening to, but not much participating in because speaking (let alone thinking) was an effort. But apparently I tried. And apparently when I'm in a fever delirium I am fucking hilarious. It was related to me later (and mind you, I have almost no memory of any of this) that while they were talking I would appear to drift off to sleep, only to abruptly pop my head up every 20 minutes, make a completely inappropriate sexual comment, and immediately go back to sleep. Some of the things I allegedly said (anyone I'm related to would do well to stop reading right here and go to the next paragraph) are that "sperm is delicious!", that in fact I was a "come connoisseur" and therefore knew what I was talking about, and that a fun thing I found out I liked was being slapped in the face. I can't really argue with them - these are all things that I would definitely think, just not usually out loud.
At some point it became clear to the pair of them that I was in way worse shape than when I got there and Sugar talked the nurse into taking my temperature again, which had rocketed up to 102.2 over the two hours we'd been sitting there. The nurse gave me some Motrin and then I sat there and whined for the next 20 minutes about "when is it going to wooooooooork" until it kicked in. And we waited.
By this time it was past 1:30 in the morning and Sugar had taken a cab home. Spice and I sat discussing something (probably sex toys) for another hour or so until an enormous group of enormous people came in. They were all dressed like skanks, entirely in white, and every single one had blood on their clothes somewhere. It seemed they had been at a white party and several people had been stabbed, shot or both. One woman had poured herself into an outfit three sizes too small and made out of terrycloth with huge gold buttons down the front. "I want an outfit made out of a towel," I pouted to Spice, who pissed herself laughing. In the midst of this commotion my name was finally called.
The doctor, who was pleasantly surprised when we applauded her entrance to the room, told me I had a kidney infection and possibly a kidney stone, but that I would need a CT scan to find out about that last part. She then put me on a fluid drip and ran away with several vials of my blood. I was now very excited because 1) I love having an IV because it makes me feel important and 2) I had never had a CT scan before so I was curious and besides, how could a giant doughnut not be fun?
It turns out a CT scan is mostly just lonely because there's no one in there with you. The highlight was the contrast fluid. They ran it into my IV and a few seconds later everything from my neck to my vajay was really really hot for about 30 seconds. It was awesome. They did this twice. Boo-yah.
Anyway, long story even longer, I did not have a kidney stone so they gave me some antibiotics, an anti nausea and some Vicodin and sent me away. Total hospital time: 8 hours. Total hospital bill: just under $11,000. Hilarious moments I'm still giggling at a month later and that freak out the marine: Priceless.
Sugar and Spice: Thank you so much for out stubborning me and then sitting with me in the psych ward for the injured all night! You are both princesses among women.

Sex Kittens

I just renewed my subscription to Playboy by sending them a check with a picture of kittens on it. It may be the Vicodin, but this strikes me as hilarious.

I'll explain the Vicodin shortly. I'm not typing so well right now.

P.S. Also used a Yoda postage stamp. They may not send me the magazine anymore on principle.

99 Pink Balloons

I am sick and heavily medicated. Don't judge me.

me: so what was the clown car thing before? is someone having quadruplets or something?
H-town: friends and i were just discussing women who have a lot of babies
it's a vagina, not a clown car
so we laughed at that
me: i love that phrase
H-town: me too
me: i don't want lots of babies. clowns are scary
H-town: true dat
clowns are weird
weird = able to stab people at any time
me: i don't really understand clowns. the only thing is i like the ones that are good at making balloon animals. but i think maybe you don't have to be a clown to learn that
H-town: you don't
me: if i knew how to do that i'd make a bunch of obscene things probably. that's how i roll
H-town: balloon wangs would be easy to make, i'd want to see you make balloon cootchies
that's a challenge
complete with different colored balloons
me: i was thinking a balloon vagina with a bunch of balloon clowns coming out of it
H-town: hahaha
i'd pay you money to make that
me: if i ever learn this craft, that will be my goal

Pimpin' Ain't Easy (With the Flu)

I have been sick for well over a week. I told MrSteve that I had malaria. He was skeptical of this, as I have not been out of the country or anywhere near a river, and all the mosquitoes in Chicago have flown south for the winter, or where ever it is that they go. I looked in my throat in the mirror with a flashlight and found that my flesh most closely resembled freshly ground beef. This, combined with a week of hacking up respiratory organs, was enough to finally convince me that I should have a medical professional look into it.

We have previously established, I think, that I am a very lazy person. Procrastination is my main form of artistic self-expression. Because of this I only go to the doctor when prescriptions expire. And since my dad doesn't live here and can't do things like pick out doctors for me, I have no primary care physician in Chicago. This is the circumstance that led me to seek answers at an immediate care clinic.

I sat in the waiting room and checked out the magazine selection. I had my choice of Field and Stream or Sporting News Weekly. I picked up a two week old Sporting News Weekly and thumbed through it. It predicted a Superbowl battle between the Cowboys and the Ravens. This made me laugh out loud.

The nurse called my name and ushered me into a room. It quickly became apparent that English was not her first language. Eventually I started answering yes or no to her questions at random rather than point out that I couldn't understand half of what she was saying. "Are you on any medications?"

"Yes, Tri-levelen and Welbutrin."

"OK, can you spell for me?" I thought maybe I should make more of an effort to find a private practice somewhere. She swabbed my throat to make sure I didn't have strep (which was my primary concern; my tonsils came out in second grade because I kept getting it) and told me that the doctor would be in soon.

Whatever fears I had about the quality of care at this place vanished as soon as the doctor came in the door. He introduced himself and shook my hand. "How are you today?"

"Sick."

"That's a great answer. If you would have said good I would have known you were a liar."

He took a look in my throat. "Good news!" he told me. "You don't have tonsilitis! But you knew that, because you don't have tonsils."

He had me lay down so he could listen to my chest. When I pulled my shirt up he gasped at my belly piercing. "OH MY GOD! Didn't that hurt?"

"Not really, I mean not much. Like getting a shot." He shook his head in dismay.

"Shots hurt. No piercings for me. No tattoos. I told my wife if I die with more holes in my body than I was born with, that's the hole that killed me."

I took my glasses off so he could tap on my head. "Do you wear contact lenses?"

I feared this might be a trick question. "Um, yes. Sometimes. I mean, not all the time."

"Good. You should wear them. You have beautiful eyes. It would be a shame to hide them behind those glasses." I decided he was the best doctor ever.

In the end he decided I had sinusitis, which is really just a fancy word for the entire upper half of my body is filled with snot. I decided this was not nearly as interesting as having malaria. He prescribed an antibiotic, an antihistamine and two cough medications, and sent me on my way.

It wasn't until the desk receptionist checked me out and I turned to leave that I remembered I was in an immediate care clinic and not at my awesome new doctor's private practice. Sitting in the waiting room, sniffling like it was his job, was a pimp in a bright green pimp suit. Green suit with his shirt half open, matching shiny green shoes, mounds of bling and, for real kids, a bright green hat with a feather in it. He had a gold knobbed walking stick laying across his lap. I almost looked around for cameras. I was sure he had stepped right out of a Snoop Dogg video. Pimps need doctors too I guess. It's hard to keep your bitches in line if you keep sneezing all over them.

Pity Party

My throat hurts. I can barely swallow. My head weighs 60 pounds and some asshole is blowing up a balloon right behind my eye sockets. Trains and walking induce nausea. It is obvious I am dying of typhoid. I hope to tell you all one last spider story before I die with what is left of my strength. But not right now.

Fear and Drinking in Las Vegas

Hi. I'm back. From Vegas.

As it turns out, what happens in Vegas actually DOESN'T stay in Vegas and the reason for this is that I have a blog. The trip was ostensibly for the Tai's Til 4 family of employees and patrons to attend the bar and restaurant show which was in town. The real reason was for us all to get very very drunk and gamble a lot. I've been trying to write this post for 3 days now, but for some reason these people keep giving me work to do. So instead of the original post I was going to write that would have taken you six days to read, I now present the abridged version:

• The bartender, who was my roommate for the trip, and I headed over to Paris the first day to sit in the sports book. I am not a gambler myself, so I was basically there just to watch television. The bartender finds this "not gambling" thing completely foreign and set out trying to convert me by teaching me how to read stat sheets. He might have had a better chance if he hadn't started the lesson with, "Hey math geek, check this out."
• Later that evening, we traipsed over to New York New York and met MrSteve for drinks at the Irish bar. We proceeded to get very drunk. Also, I spent a lot of time staring at our bartender, whose nametag said he was called Lee, because he was the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. In our drunk, the three of us decided the best course of action would be to all stand near the bar, pull out our phones, and start texting people we left in Chicago, where it was approximately 3 a.m. It seems we texted Brandon a few times, which he was very pleased about given that he had to get up in the morning for his first day at a new job. Also, all three of us sent a barrage of messages to Big Charlie, who was also drunk. A good time was had by all.
• The second day, MrSteve and I decide it's time to hit the Star Trek Museum. This was by far the thing I was most looking forward to in Vegas, because I am a huge geek. Luckily, MrSteve also likes to get his geek on so I had a partner. There are two rides at the museum. The first one we went on was Klingon Encounter, where I got to stand on the bridge of the Enterprise, somewhere near the tactical station (hello, NERD!). Somehow Steve and I managed to lose each other in the gift shop after the first ride, and I ended up going on the second ride by myself. This was a mistake because I had no one to grab onto when the Borg started jumping out from behind things and dragging people away to be assimilated. I assure you, it was one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
• Afterwards, MrSteve and I decide to hit up Quark's Bar for an alcoholic beverage. This beverage is called a Warp Core Breach. It is served with dry ice in it so that it smokes and bubbles, and it tastes like purple. While enjoying this, a very drunk woman began trying to start a very loud an incoherent conversation with us. Eventually we moved down to sit closer to her and her husband. Their names were Don and Matilda (I know there's a Waltzing Matilda joke in there somewhere, but I just can't find it) and they were at the Star Trek museum celebrating their 21st wedding anniversary. Don was very nice and normal, was a 49ers fan and talked football with me for some time, while MrSteve was dragged by Matilda into a conversation I'm not entirely sure he needed to be there for. All was well until suddenly I found Matilda behind me, playing with my hair and stroking my neck. Much as I enjoy people playing with my hair, it's kind of creepy when total strangers do it, and I was more than a little freaked out.
• That night, a large group of us went over to The Foundation Room for some fun and vodka. We were waiting for a few late comers to show up when the body came over to the bartender and me and told us he'd taken some new pictures on his phone he wanted to show us. Apparently he'd gone out and hooked up with not one, but two different women his first night in Vegas. Which we didn't know when he came walking up to us and so we were totally unprepared for his pictures. We both stood with our mouths hanging open as the body narrated his little slide show: "This is a picture of her tits, and this is a picture of her sucking my dick, and this is a picture of me sticking it in her ass..." He looked at us for our approval of his two conquests, but we were a little bit freaked out. All the bartender could manage was "I can't believe I just saw your dick."
• The next day I woke up with a fever and a sore throat, because that is exactly what I should have been expecting on my first real vacation in 10 years. Needless to say I was pretty upset, though not as upset as the bartender was. We had discovered the day before when Steve and I went to Star Trek that I was the bartenders lucky charm. Whenever I was standing next to him he won, and whenever I was somewhere else he lost. He had taken to dragging me around with him to all his favorite slot machines and rubbing my head for luck. Sure enough he lost that day.
• The bartender was waiting for a phone call from his friend who was driving us to the airport on our last day. When the phone call came he had just gotten out of the shower and came running out of the bathroom stark raving naked to answer it. This made me extremely happy because I think he should be naked all the time. Later when he was dressed he asked me if I was feeling any better. I told him it should be obvious that I wasn't by the fact that I didn't attack him when he was running around all nekkid, which he agreed was a good point.
• Ever gotten on a plane when you're sick? Don't. It sucks about seven kinds of ass. It sucks about 700 kinds of ass when you're sick and sitting next to Fatty McGee who is taking up half your seat and can't seem to sit still, and also you're in an aisle seat and are prone to motion sickness and really really need to be by a window, and also you want to try to sleep but four other people on the plane are snoring like it's their job, and also there's so much turbulence that you're sure the plane is going to fall right out if the sky.

So those are the highlights (and lowlights) of Amberance Goes to Vegas 2006. Stay tuned for Amberance Goes to Florida in May and Football Season: Vegas Strikes Back sometime in the fall.

Hide Your Vegetables. Thugglife's In Town.

As I mentioned earlier, I'm out at the Douche Dorm this weekend, and I have the plague. It reached it's worst point yesterday evening while Fish, Thugglife and I were watching American History X. So when it was decided that the group would go out to dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings, I declined to attend. I wasn't terribly hungry, what with the plague and all, and I didn't want to face the prospect of having to sit up in a chair for an extended period of time. Instead it was decided that I would take a nap on the couch while JoE, Fish, Chester and Thugglife went to dinner, and that they would bring me back an order of celery and ranch.

So I napped fitfully for a while and awaited their return. In the course of this I suddenly discovered I was ravenously hungry. It came out of nowhere - I wasn't hungry at all, and then in the next moment I could have devoured an entire horse. So I was happy when Klug came home and told me the boys were on their way back, which meant that so was my celery. Or so I thought.

The guys trooped into the house. The moods of these gentlemen were a bizarre mix: Fish had a look of barely restrained fury, Thugglife was moping along sheepishly, Chester seemed nervous, and JoE was on the verge of cracking up laughing. I knew immediately that something was up. Fish sat down beside me on the couch. "Where's my celery?" I asked.

"Ask Chris," says Fish, at the same time as Chester says "There isn't any." Chris looked at his feet and JoE snickered.

I tried again. "Where's my celery? I'm starving," I addressed to Fish a second time.

"I told you to ask Chris," he spat. Chris had retired to the porch for a cigarette by now but JoE and Chester were in the kitchen attempting to restrain laughter. "Yeah, it's real funny for you guys, but I'm going to be the one getting guilt-tripped all night because there isn't any celery."

"You guys forgot my celery?"

"No. Almost. We remembered at the last minute and JoE went to get it. But it's gone now."

"What happened to it?"

"Ask Chris."

I am now pissed off for a number of reasons. First of all I am starving, and the meager dinner I was expecting was clearly not going to materialize. Secondly, there is obviously something going on that I don't know about and they're doing a shitty job of hiding it. And third, I'm angry at Fish for apparently thinking that I am going to start a jihad over a couple pieces of celery. Does he really think I am that much of a shrew? I decided on the silent treatment method of punishment for them all, closed my eyes and pretended I was trying to go back to sleep.

When Thugglife came back inside he sat down in the Lovesac and said quietly, "I'm sorry, ish*."

"Chris, where's my celery?"

Crickets.

Fish says, "Do you want me to make you something?"

I am exasperated. "NO. What I want is for people to answer questions when I ask them something. Where's my celery?"

"I already told you. The person you can thank for your celery not being here is Chris. So ask him. I'm going outside."

I exploded. "JESUS CHRIST! Is it that hard for you people to answer a simple fucking QUESTION? It's JUST LETTUCE!" Fish said nothing and shut the door behind him. JoE sat down on the couch next to me and I looked at Thugglife.

"I'm sorry, ish," he said in a tiny voice.

"Chris," I said calmly, "I'm not going to freak out over a couple pieces of celery. The only way I would freak out about it is if you guys just said, 'Fuck her' and didn't bother to get me any. Obviously at some point there was celery, and now there's not. What happened to it?"

"I ran it over with the car."

"You WHAT?" I shouted, and then burst into hysterical laughter.

"I ran it over with the car," he said again.

I was laughing so hard that I had tears running down my face. "Chris," I choked out. "How the hell do you run over celery with the car?"

"It was in the street."

"The street? How did it get in the street?"

"Ask JoE."

By now I'm laughing so hard my head hurts and I turned to JoE, who was also doubled over. "What did you DO?"

"O.K.," he says, "Here's how it went. We went out and then realized we forgot to get your celery. So I ran back in to get it. When I was coming out, it just leapt out of my hands and into the street right behind the wheel. And Chris ran it over. And then I just jumped in the car and we took off."

I didn't think I could laugh any harder than I was already laughing, but somehow I did. My head is pounding and I still can't stop. "That's just....(laughing)...That's...(laughing)....you ran it over with the car? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA!!!" Over and over, until finally I had the entire house cracking up with me.

I dined on pretzels and orange juice that night. It was the best I'd felt all weekend.

*They nicknamed me ish, because while I am not Fish's girlfriend, I am girlfriend-ish.

I Think I'll Go For A Walk

Hey there kids. Just wanted to say that I have the plague. I'm in the care of Dr. Fish and his crack(head) team of nurses out in Lisle. Dr. Fish has me on a strict regimen of DayQuil, Kool-aid and episodes of Deadwood. I hope to have my condition improve soon, as I don't want to go on the cart.

You Bastard(s)

I am tired. I am exhausted beyond belief. I sleep and I sleep, and I'm just as tired as before. I also have a sore throat and a headache, and my body is sore. And because I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night, I know that what I have is mono.

Alright now, who was it? Come on, fess up. Which one of you fuckos that I've been kissing was sick and didn't fucking tell me? You know who you are. Hell, you know who each other are (hint: if you haven't been in the Chicago area in the last two weeks, it's probably not you). I swear to you, next month when I have the energy to stand for longer than 4 minutes at a time, you'll pay big.

You just think about owning up, you germ-leaving kissing bandit you. You think about it...while I go take (another) nap...

Sicko de Mayo

I have been sick all week long. This is the fault of PGS Joe, who breathed on my roommate, who in turn breathed on me. Wednesday night we pathetically sat on the couch together, eating chicken noodle soup and watching pathetically bad movies whilst going through an entire box of Kleenex. I creatively dubbed the evening "Misery loves company" and speculated on Hot Heather's possible reactions to finding both our dead bodies on the couch with Miss Congeniality playing in the background. Jim would have laughed, but his lungs hurt.

At any rate, I went to work on Thursday despite a fever and the shakes because I really have that much to do, and unlike the number factory, there are no other people here who can cover for me. As I lamented having to get up and attempt to be functional, Vicodin Jim was lamenting that he couldn't go out and party for Cinco de Mayo.

A word on Cinco de Mayo: Chicago, where Jim and I reside, is not in Mexico. If it were, it would make no difference, because they don't get nutty over this in Mexico like we do in America. The fact that we do merely proves to me that we are a country of drunks, and that alcoholism is the true national pastime. And I have absolutely NO PROBLEM with this whatsoever. I just don't need to make up holidays as an excuse to get drunk. I'm happy to get drunk any old time. So missing the festivities of Cinco de Mayo was not on my list of things to be crabby about while I rode the train to work Thursday morning with fire in my lungs.

After putting in a 9 hour day, I was looking forward to drinking that sweet elixur NyQuil and passing out indefinitely upon my arrival at home. Alas, it was not to be. Well, the drinking and the passing out was, just not the NyQuil.

I wearily climbed the stairs to my second floor abode, but could not enter due to a 6 foot tall human with a bottle of Jose in one hand and a shotglass in the other sitting in a chair with a pile of chewed up limes in front of it and a fresh box of tissues at his feet. This human would be my roommate Vicodin Jim. "I thought you were sick, " I wheezed. "What are you doing?"

"I am sick," he replied cheerily, "but I can't even tell now because I've had 10 shots of tequila and a whole bunch of beers. I'm not going to let being sick ruin my Cinco de Mayo! Holy shit! You look like death! I mean really, you're all pale! Are you ok? Heather, go make Amber some tea before she passes out. Do you want me to make you some tomato soup? Oh and Heather, could you cut up another lime and bring a beer for Amber too?"

It was true. I was pale and I did look like death. Because of this I protested Jim's plan. Tea was ok, beer not ok. Tea, NyQuil and my bed. That was the plan I was sticking to. Jim would have none of it. "No. Some tea to revive you, and then you're drinking with me. Now, go put on some sweatpants, get a shot glass and come back out here."

At what point, exactly, did I lose all instinct for self preservation and the ability to think for myself? I'd like to go back to that moment, if you please, and slap myself.

I got some comfy clothes, scrounged up my shot glass and trudged wearily back to the porch, where I found Heather with my fresh cup of tea, freshly cut up lime, and freshly opened bottle of Corona Light. Jim poured us each a shot, while Heather informed us that we were on our last lime. Let the debauchery begin.

Jim and I went through the final lime in the space of about 10 minutes. Being that Jim was drunk, Heather was tipsy, and I was on my way, we decided it would be best if we walked the 2 blocks to our local Jewel to replenish our limes. By the way, shopping when drunk is worse than shopping when hungry. Erring on the side of caution we bought no less than 14 limes. Additionally, the spirit of the holiday hit Jim as we were leaving the store, when he attempted to get into some fisticuffs with a little Mexican kid standing outside.

After Heather and I dragged him home, we settled in on the porch. Things escalated quickly. Here is what I remember: 3 beers, 6 shots of tequila, hiding Jim's phone to prevent him from sending drunk text messages to his ex, eating chex mix, and waking up in my bed when my alarm went off at 6 the next morning.

I was confused. How did I get here? I don't remember walking here. Did I walk here? How do I feel? I'm not hung over. Am I still sick? Yeah kinda. But seriously, how did I get here? Another mystery: as I showered I discovered two HUGE bruises; one on each kneecap. Hmmm...

Heather filled in the blanks later. She estimates 10 or 12 shots of tequila were consumed by me, and approximately 25 by Jim. It seems I also drank a few more beers. We were, I am told, visited at some point by our friends the Smash and VonDouche. I have exactly zero recollection of seeing these people. My trip to my bedroom consisted of Jim hauling me to my feet and Heather walking me there. The tequila was emptied. Most of the limes were destroyed. I did not, it seems, do anything untoward, such as fall down the stairs or try to suck anyone's dick, which is good I suppose, but does little to explain the bruises on my knees. I may never know the story of that.

The moral of the story is...well, there really are no morals in this story. But what I learned was sickness needn't prevent you from getting pissed on fake holidays, tequila seems to have the ability to wipe out my memory and if I'm going to be drinking it, it's best to be at home amongst caring and helpful roommates and not out and about, because who knows how many people/canines/fire hydrants I would have tried to sleep with and/or beat up on my way home?

But I would really like to know what happened to my knees.

Advice

If you wake up with a pounding headache, and you take two Excedrin to make it go away, you probably shouldn't drink two giant cups of coffee as soon as you get to work.

Who the eff put my office on spin cycle?

Hostage Situation

I was a prisoner in my own home this weekend. Friday I left work early, went home, drank a fifth of Nyquil (ok, it was the recommended dose - I just like to pretend I'm badass) and fell asleep on my couch watching Star Trek: Enterprise. On Saturday, I woke up feeling like a train hit me. Another shot of Nyquil and a treat (maybe 3 treats) for Kristen then immediately back to bed. At 2 pm, more because of an irrational fear of getting bed sores than anything else, I finally rousted myself from my bedchamber and looked outside. Apparently while I had been channeling Rip Van Winkle, God had decided it would be funny to first drop another foot of snow on Ohio, and then swirl it all around, culminating in a giant 3 foot snow drift covering half my driveway. Seriously, snow up to Alistair's door handles. In addition to my aching mucus-riddled head, I suddenly realized I was experiencing another sensation: Hunger. This was likely due to my having consumed nothing but Nyquil and water for the better part of two days.

I checked the fridge: onions, one Corona (been in there for 5 months - also no lime), expired apple cider, assorted condiments. Hmm. It seems I haven't gone grocery shopping in a while. I tried the cabinet: a can of stewed tomatoes, cheesecake flavored pudding mix, half a jar of Jif, olive oil, teabags, two packets of Changin'-Cherry Kool-Aid mix (the package reads "Watch the Green mix change into a Blue liquid. Surprise! It tastes like juicy Red cherry!" I think to myself :OH YEEAAHH! and crash through a brick wall, figuratively of course). OK. First of all, I can't believe I don't have any friggin pasta in my house. I ALWAYS have pasta; I'm Italian for fuck's sake. I can always count on pasta in an emergency. Not so much today. There is no way I am going to be able to shovel myself out of the driveway and get to the grocery store in my current condition. I'm woozy just from standing up for 10 minutes. I sigh, make a cup of tea, grab the Jif and a spoon and settle in on the couch.

I proceed to spend the next umpteen hours watching "I Love the 90's: Part Deux" on VH1. If you haven't seen it yet, check it out. It's worth it just for "Ben Stein's Pimpin'-est Tracks". Also for Hal Sparks' speculation that "More Than Words" by Extreme is not so much a love song as it is a euphemism for "Shut up and give me a blow job". Hal Sparks - what a card. I laughed out loud, and then said "Ow." When I finally couldn't take any more of that I put the Jif away and went to bed.

On Sunday I woke up feeling exactly the same, except now my lungs also hurt. I glanced out the window hoping that the snow had been miraculously swept away, but it hadn't. I really wanted to do two things: go to the doctor and buy groceries so I'd have something to eat. To do that I needed to get my car out of the driveway. To do that, I'd have to shovel. I put 27 pairs of pants on, my heaviest coat, my mittens (I wear mittens like a little kid - they're warm and I think it's funny when people say "What the hell are you wearing? Mittens?"), a hat, and my yard-work shoes and headed out to the driveway. I managed to shovel about a quarter of it before my disease-weakened frame gave out. I was not going anywhere. Defeated I trudged back into the house. Nyquil followed, and then football. Halfway through the NFC game I suddenly recalled that it was possible to actually have pizza delivered to the house. It just hadn't occurred to me before. So I called Pizza Hut and they brought me the first solid food I'd had in days. Smurfiest pizza I'd ever tasted.

I guess it wasn't so terrible. Kristen was pleased that I stayed home with her for two entire days, my inability to leave gave me a chance to watch both football games in their entirety, and I'd had the forethought to buy the Cherry Nyquil instead of that ass-flavored stuff, so I wasn't gagging on that all weekend. But in the future I will definitely make sure I have staple foods in the house at all times. And a backup plan for having some poor sap come over and shovel for me. Because you never know.

Ill Communication

I am coming down with something. It feels like there is another, slightly smaller head inside of my outer head, and it's growing and trying to push it's way out. Sort of like Army of Darkness, except coming out of my head instead of my shoulder ("See, you're *good* Amber, and I'm BAD Amber!!!!") Also most of the cavities in my head are filled with goo. My head weighs 80 pounds right now. It is so gross being sick. We're starting our busy season at work, the time where I pack a bag, work all night and take a sponge bath in the bathroom at 6 am every morning. It is not a good time to be getting sick. I am going home, drinking some Nyquil, and getting catatonic with my bad self.

I'm out like NHL hockey.