Last Friday night/Saturday morning – in the wee, dark, small hours when the house was blissfully asleep – I was possessed by a demon from the depths of hades.
Well, *maybe* that isn’t what actually happened, but I woke from a peaceful slumber and went into a very good imitation of Linda Blair and the split pea soup incident from the Exorcist in 2.2 seconds and it sure as shit felt like a foreign presence had overtaken my being.
I am proud to say that, after prayerfully holding down toast and chicken broth yesterday, I graduated to full Keri pig out mode normal today. Huzzah – she’s back in the saddle again!!
That being said, it was by far the sickest I have been since we set up camp back in the old hometown, and there are somethings that are just different about being sick in the suburbs.
Don’t get me wrong, some of those differences are very good. Like the part when I realized that the foul and mysterious illness wasn’t a mere one-and-done attack of the barfs and called my dad early Saturday morning to come wisk Jr away from the giant puking germ his mom to the land of magical grandparent lovin’ now located 5 minutes away.
Also , there is the ability to shoot Binky-the-wonder-dog out the back sliding door to do his doggie business, no muss, no fuss. Previously that would have required me to get (semi) presentable and make it down the elevator and up and down the street while he tried to find a suitable spot to poo (making no promises that I wouldn’t then use that spot to ralph instead, taking us back to square one.) However, that is only somewhat successful with a dog who is as reluctantly suburban as his mom is.
So there is that.
HOWEVER.
There is also the fact that packages don’t just get left in the lobby anymore. The UPS/FED-EX/DHL/WT-to-the-F delivery person cheerfully dings on the door and waits for you to answer and receive your package “just wanted to make sure someone was home to get this.” Yep, someone is home. Oh look, it appears to be a female version of Beetlejuice toting a plastic bucket and groaning softly.
Also, living not only in the suburbs but also in the town where one was raised makes it completely impossible to “just run in for a few things” to the grocery store.
Someone I know is going to see me.
To see me in a slightly modified version of The Suit, with a bachelor basket full of bananas, saltine crackers, Jr diapers, and generic chicken noodle soup. Unbrushed hair tied in an actual knot at the back of my head, no make-up on, doing a runner and praying that I make it at least back to the bucket in my car and don’t heave in isle 9.
(Blessedly this time it was my oldest, dearest friend, who was horrified only out of concern, but still didn’t deserve to see that dead man walking through the produce section, yo?)
I would say that the comically unneeded amount of square footage we have is a good thing, since it meant that The Mr was able to stay upstairs and away from my gross while I cowered on the sofa like a wounded animal hiding its weakness and watching TCM 24/7; except that the basement renovation has reached phase two (where we find nit-picky cosmetic stuff that we no longer like in our new pretty space and re-do it.) This means that, based solely on what I know of how much sound carries through our vents in certain situations, I am pretty sure that the contractor heard me power-barf in the 2nd floor powder room as he assessed the situation for new decorative tile in the basement bathroom. Hot? Not.
Basically living in the ‘burbs means that I am forced to inflict the sights and sounds of Illin’ Keri on way more actual people than I ever had to as a sicky in the city. An experience NO ONE should really have to have.
I will say this – 4 bathrooms can really come in handy once in a while. I never thought there would be a situation where I needed to be tripping over a bathroom every damn place I went in a house.
Keri can admit when she is wrong.
Filed under musing
Whew – the holiday craziness has finally given way to post-celebratory malaise and I am coming up for air. (But as for getting the Christmas decorations down? That might require a late-to-the-game Christmas miracle.)
This was a “Texas Christmas” as I refer to our every-other-year pilgrimage to spend the holiday with The Mr’s fam in the Lone Star State.
I love these Christmases for all of the ways they are so very different from Christmas at home, and thinking about it weeks later still has me smiling.
I know I am in Texas for Christmas when:
Upon cracking my eyes open each morning, this is the first thing I see:
– All I can think about is Kolaches, and Green Sauce, and (I hear angels) Chicken Fried Steak from the Old Montgomery Steak House. ::::wiping a bit of drool::::
– Holiday lawn decorations are as likely to include the Texas flag and bucking broncos as they might snowmen, Santa, and Nativity scenes. (And Santa is probably wearing a cowboy hat.)
– I laugh so hard with my Sister-in-law that I either suck wine up my nose or almost pee my pants.
– A normal sight is my Father-in-law sitting on the back patio offering season’s greetings (and maybe a little nip of something fabulous) to his neighbors as they play through on the golf course in the Houston “winter” weather.
– Shiner seems like a really good idea. Like any time, day or night.
– I sit up shamelessly late reading romance-intrigue novels gifted from the fabulous author who lives down the street from my in-laws.
– Bigger hair also seems like a really good idea.
– Another normal sight out the back window is of neighbors navigating their boats out into the main part of the lake (again, Texas “winter.”)
– My rural-family roots come bubbling up to the surface and I abandon my sometimes-attempts to not say “y’all” and just let it flow. Along with “fixin’ to” do things, and blessing the hearts of those who tick me off.
– I come home thinking “we need to get down there more often,” and spend the next month trying to perfect a Green Sauce recipe, listening to bluegrass, and blessing everybodys’ hearts, y’all.
Love every single bit of it.
Filed under musing
A big vat of these suckers just arrived from my boss in the east coast office.
M&Ms are my drug candy of choice for any candy-centric situation. (Halloween, cookie-making, stocking-stuffing, Tuesdays, etc.)
A note for The Mr: These are thoughtfully labeled with the intended eater’s name.
That means they burn like eating the sun if any other shmoe attempts to snack them down. It’s a total fact.
Just Sayin’.
Filed under Just Sayin'
Reluctantly Suburban 