And With That, She's Back
Sorry for the ages-long hiatus. I've been doing battle with the Neverending Sucky Ass Kidney Infection of Death (NSAKIoD). I won. Me = 1. NSAKIoD = 0. I dance on your grave, NSAKIoD!!! Muhahahahahaha!
I've learned much from the experience. The Number One Thing Learned (NOTL), is Fuck The Rest of The World and Take Antibiotics When You Have a UTI. And I shall do so. I shall flagrantly Fuck The Rest of The World whenever necessary, making Levaquin smoothies and sucking them down with vigor. I shall scoop up Cipro in giant handfuls, crunching them down like peanut M & M's. No more shall I rely on the "natural remedies" of Goldenseal, Saw Palmetto, and Cranberry Extract. I say Fuck the Natural Remedies. I say Bring on the Antibiotics. I say it so firmly that I must capitalize nearly all of it.
I've missed out on countless fun things this week. Notably, there was Dinner with Mike (that particular incident became Grab Take-out and Take Redpanda to the ER). Then there was brunch and cavorting with the lovely Paige and Theron, who were left to eat and cavort sans me. (They did bring me a beautious plant, though! Not to mention books and movies to occupy myself. They rock!) But the very worst thing that has happened--I have developed a scorching, tragic addiction to TLC.
I watched approximately 47 hours of TLC during my time at home.
Actually, it was worse than that. I would start at 9 am with A Baby Story and not stop till the end of Clean Sweep at 7 pm.
Actually, sometimes it was even worse than that. And I would sit there, in my fever-and-drug-altered state, weeping with joy at A Wedding Story or Perfect Proposal. I would cry when Hilde on Trading Spaces created yet another disaster room. I would call up Sean, sobbing uncontrollably about how happy or unhappy someone was when they were reunited on Second Chance.
And now, that time is over. I'm back at work, suffering from acute TLC withdrawl.
It's not a pretty thing.
Tivo would be a disaster at this point. There would be 166 hours of TLC recorded in a given week. And I would shamefacedly watch every last second of it, gleefully stuffing Kettle Korn in my mouth and bribing Sean to turn a blind eye with the promise of neverending burritos.
The burritos, of course, would never materialize. And I would become a bitter old woman, hurling obscenities at the TV screen when it dared to take a commercial break while I was trying to focus on the life of a couple in Wichita, KS.