It's Probably Shingles

I might have shingles, which would be sort of awesome because it seems exotic and dangerous.
By which, I of course mean redneck and unwashed but whatevs.
Which, it's neither. It's just a strain of chicken pox that you get when you are really stressed out and you immune system is down a little.

In a writer's blocked time like this one, beggars can't be choosers, yo. Shingles sounds kind of redneck, so let's pretend I'm a barefoot farm girl who doesn't have access to a real doctor and that once the rash is all healed up, through the kindness of an elderly medicine man, I go on to become one of the most beautiful heroines of the labor movement and make history in the fight for the rights of textile workers everywhere.
But most importantly, I am famous for my startling beauty that nobody knew about when I was younger because of the disease.
It gives me an edge in terms of being able to hone in on true intentions.

But anyway.
I really do have some symptoms of shingles, notably, a raging ear-ache and neck pain.
As I deteriorated during a staff meeting, feeling weaker and more feverish by the minute, I decided to seek medical attention.

Here's what I learned:
"Running up to the Urgent Care" was actually going mean spending the day with screaming children while huddling under a chair and holding pulpy little ear drum in hand, obviously not ranking on the scale of 1 to 10, 1 being a sore throat with no white spots and 10 being Ebola.

My ear HURTS. When you combine it with the unavoidable dehydration that results from a 2 hour, outside work-out in summertime Arizona and the unfortunate facts of any given Monday, you get a very sad little Sarah who wants her doglet and her mama. Me and the dog can lie on the couch and my mama can leave some home-made soup for me, or better yet, chicken pot pie. If I could get my hands on some of my mother's cooking, I would promise to not give even one little bite to Rosie. She can stare at me and act cute and interested and do back flips trying to get my attention, and therefore my food rewards, but it would not work if I had some of my mom's cooking.
Even a muffin or something.
Nevermind the muffin.
It's Not Allowed.

No carbs.
This is the first time in my life I have cut down on carbs.
It's Day 2 and considering that my favorite meal is Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with a side of Cheetos, I think that my pita breakfast was pretty brilliant.

Speaking of Cheetos, if I had a dollar for every time that I thought I had all the cheese residue sucked off of my fingers before I reached for the remote that was sitting so unassumingly on my NEW WHITE SOFA, I would be taking you out to lunch today. Sushi, and not from the grocery store.

I donít know what I was thinking. I just liked it, okay. Itís so clean, itís Ikea, itís modern and simple and when I saw it, I forgot about dog paws and cat claws. I didnít think of the psychological terror I would be inflicting upon myself with every bite of processed, fake-colored food goodness that I put into my trap all weekend every weekend. Gone, I guess, are the days, when I would burn through the Micky Deeís drive through on the way home from Friday nightís work-out and then shove Asian Chicken salad down the hatch with no regard for what was falling both from the fork and from my hard-working jaws.
No longer will I allow a basted anything for the dog.
I canít DO cranberry juice without a straw anymore.
Iím a prisoner of my own good taste.

My TASTE is a PRISONER of my TASTE!!!!!!!!

That is sooooo creepy.

Iím re-doing my bed, too, and what I fell in love with was silky and shiny and rich in color. It has embroidery.

I donít need to remind anyone that I routinely wake up with a cat at each shoulder and a dog on my feetÖ. silky?

Nothing says adult like pretty sheets with dirty paw prints on them.

I am in this weird phase of cleanliness, though.
So much so that I have a towel by the door and no animal is allowed inside without being her toes getting a brush from the Big Blue Towel.

Iím not popular at home these days, but dammit, is it too much to ask that I want all of the stains to be from food products and not from pet dirt?
I think not.

Someday, when I have space and children and a husband to bitch about, I am going to look back on these days of complete self-absorption and entertainment with the utmost of respect, maybe even a little longing.
In the meantime, I am going to hang out quietly at work and look up the symptoms for Shingles.
Oh yeah!
How did I get to conclude shingles from waking up with a really bad ear-ache?

Two people in my office told me thatís probably what I have.
Throw in my own melodramatic tendencies and by tomorrow morning, I am going to have a rash the size of Wisconsin and Iím not going to be able to bring my fever down under 99 degrees, which means that I will need a day with Starting Over and painkillers in order to feel whole again.

arizonasarah at 10:47 a.m.

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