Low Bentham

I feel guilty not having any photos posted lately, because I know, dear reader, that sometimes you just feel like looking at the pretty pictures instead of reading someone's droll words. I'm still figuring out this whole mac thing, and iPhoto, and so I haven't been able to upload any new pics. Or rather, the photos are all on the computer, I'm just having trouble organizing and finding them. So, for now, you can look at this photo of the village of Low Bentham in Lancashire, northwest England. It's where my parents lived for six months in 1996, while I was living an hour south in Lancaster. My dad recently put this photo on his flickr site, and I haven't ever seen it before. It gave me a twinge of homesickness.

Speaking of sick, yes, I am, thank you for asking. As a BMT and PICU nurse, I take care of some very sick people. People in varying degrees of organ failure, people with their mouths and esophagus ulcerated and bleeding, people with blistered skin falling off their bodies, people requiring constant infusions of pain medication, people with cancer, people who are dying. Therefore, sometimes I find it hard to complain about or even mention being sick, since I am obviously pretty well off compared to my patients. But jeeeeezus christ I feel like ass. Like a shitsickle warmed up and refrozen. My throat is scratchy and sore, my neck aches from swollen glands, my nose is blocked up and intermittently, my eyes are red and itchy and teary, my entire head is throbbing like it's caught in a vice, and my tummy is rumbling and nauseous. Today I felt a lot worse than the day before, so I'm hoping today was the low point and I can only get better from here.

I'm glad I'm single and I live alone, so I don't have to brush my hair or worry about how grody I sound when I cough. But being single kind of sucks because even though I'm a walking Sicky McFugliness, and I've called in sick from life, I still have to empty my own dishwasher and walk the dogs and go buy my own tissues with lotion and A & D ointment (for my raw, chapped nose. Don't laugh. I'm single and I can have a shiny red nose if I want. See the vicious cycle here?) Sure, a few well-meaning friends ask how I am and if they can bring me anything, but I can't really ask them to do the things I really want, like empty my dishwasher, or put the kettle on for the hot water bottle while you're up, can I? Plus I can hear the audible relief in their voices when I tell them I don't need anything, but thank you, and they are so relieved they don't have to venture over to the Sick House, risking their own health and eyesight upon glimpsing red-nosed-messy-haired-hacking Rosebuttons. I know how it is.

In other headlines from the Sick Couch, my fancy-ass graphite grey T-Mobile moto razr phone thinks its too good to accept text messages from Verizon phones. I can send and receive calls, and send texts, I just can't receive any. This may prove to be a bit of a problem considering my two friends have Verizon phones. And also considering I much prefer texting to speaking on the phone as a method of communication. Ugh.

The darling Matrix is back from the dealer's, although they were too busy to wash her inside and out so they "owe" me a wash. So, $165 later, she's happy and running great, but still a dirty lil' mofo.

I think I may still be covered under my previous health insurance, so instead of crying and beating myself up for not realizing this sooner, and instead of being pissed off that it's a freakin' holiday weekend and everything is shut (didn't we just have a freakin' holiday weekend? Get back to work, lazy America!), I shall take a deep breath and plan to get my headache meds filled as a three-month supply next week. Cross your fingers on that one.

Ok, my whining and complaining is done for now. Carry on as you were.