I'm still gross and sick, so I'm spending the bulk of my time laying down while sniffling, hacking, consuming liquids, and having impromptu, drool-heavy naps. This activity, combined with my slug-like physique, has led me to dub the platform bed that I'm conducting this important business from as "Jabba's Barge". Maybe it's the Buckley's, but this all seems like a pretty accurate reflection of what's happening in my room right now (except instead of demanding the death of Han Solo, I'm simply satisfied with orange juice and Jane Austen films. That, and Patrick no longer fits into the metal bikini):
Sadly, this is how I'm going to be spending New Year's Eve this year: out with a pathetic gurgle.
Hopefully your New Year's Eve is more fun than that and that 2012 is your best year ever!
Thanks for reading the blog and I hope to see you next year! U kalle rah doe kankee kung!
I got up the other morning, determined to get my 50s housewife on. I wasn't feeling great, but I thought that maybe things would improve once I got going.
I started dolling myself up in the bathroom but didn't want to put lipstick on; still being sick, I knew I'd have to toss the tube after using it to prevent getting this flu (yes, flu, wah) again. Instead, I washed my hands, dipped my finger in a tub of Vaseline and attempted to pretty my lips like a 12-year old does when she's not yet allowed to wear make-up and figures medicinal products are a great way to skirt mom's rules (Bonus Fact From the Tween Vault: Try as you might, Pepto Bismol will never make your cheeks look rouged).
Anyway, my lips were dry, so the experience quickly became less about glamour and more about relief. I spread the petroleum jelly slightly outside the borders of my lips to extend the soothing feeling where my skin needed it.
And then, I couldn't help myself ...
I started smearing the Vaseline along my nostrils. You see, they were really dry and chapped from all the snottiness and nose-blowing and were aching for the same relief my mouth was reveling in a mere inch below.
It turned out that my nose was in thorough need of repair and so a second finger-dunk of Vaseline was required to fully cover and smother all the rashy areas.
I then took a good look at myself in the mirror. Before me hunched a thoroughly bagged individual whose snout was glistening and gooped-up as if she had been the victim of a half-assed Queller Demon attack (not boned up on your Buffyverse monsters? How dare you. You can see what I mean if you watch this clip, specifically around the 3:25 mark).
Have the visual? Here's more: to make matters more attractive, with every violent cough or sneeze I had, a small glop of Vaseline would fly from my face. Had a casting director been nearby, I surely would have clinched a spot as a title character in Turner & Hooch 2 - and not the Tom Hanks role.
It was then that I realized that the 50s housewife experiment, part deux was probably going to have to wait. I'll start it up on Monday, gentle readers. Surely by then I'll be at full strength to put on heels and make-up and trample on the feminist movement with charming gusto.
And then last night I got really, really sick (you thought I was going to say 'drunk', didn't you? Well, normally, you might have been right, so I don't blame you. It was a Sunday, after all).
Long story short, I didn't get to sleep (on the couch - aren't I nice?) until about 6am and by the time Patrick was getting up to go to work, I was totally drained, had no voice left due to a combination of coughing, dry heaving and not-so-dry heaving, and was still feeling pretty hellish. I somehow doubted that throwing on a bow and a spot of lipstick would have disguised that or prevented me from retching into Patrick's fresh-squeezed orange juice.
So, I'm currently laid up and delaying the new experiment until at least tomorrow. BOO.
Now, I won't deprive you entirely of a 50s experience, though. As luck would have it, there is information in Foods & Home Management (a 1957 textbook by the BC Department of Education) for what to do when one is ill (click to expand):
That all sounds rather pleasant, provided that you're a-ok with being referred to as an "invalid." But here's why I'm not embracing this today; this is what people in the 1950s fed their loved ones when they were feeling ill: Nothing says "get well" like a not-at-all-puke-and-phlegm-inducing menu of eggnog, gruel and toast dripping with milky white sauce.
I don't care if it's served on the shiniest of silver platters and with linen spun from gold thread, none of that will help the situation. In fact, just saying the word "eggnog" during a time like this is likely enough to send some "invalids" flying to the nearest toilet.
I'll be sticking with my water and Premium Plus crackers, thanks.
In other sad 50s housewife news, the grande dame of 50s housewifery, Barbara Billingsley (a.k.a. June Cleaver from Leave it to Beaver) passed away on the weekend. Below is part 1 of the last episode of Leave it to Beaver in which the family basically does a "best of" flashback episode:
Anyway, I hope to have a better update for tomorrow!
If you follow along, you'll see that they found some garden snails, fattened them on cornmeal (anyone who says corn products don't contribute to weight gain is a liar) and then fried them up.
When the head chef tested a somewhat rare escargot and commented that it was "mucusy", I had a shrimp in my mouth and started dry heaving.
Sulk ... I *love* shrimp and at the moment, I can barely think of them without wanting to ralph.
Crackers have long held a treasured role in The Sick Day. If your tummy was feeling a little shaky, saltines (and a wee glass of ginger ale) would be on the menu. They are in the pantries of every binge drinker, mother of small children and hypochondriac (those people aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. If and when I become a mother, you can bet the binge drinking will continue if not increase … substantially).
In this tough economic time, it seems Premium Plus doesn’t want to patiently stand by and wait for you to get sick and need their product. Instead, they’d now like to play an active role in acquiring queasy customers. Take a look:
All I see are bowls and bowls of colourful projectile vomit. Most convincing is that last chunky-looking orange one on the diner counter - it even gets a super slow-mo treatment just so you can drink that image right in. When this commercial comes on, I literally start dry-heaving even before the first cracker makes contact. The suggestion near the end that someone has then EATEN the puke soup (the spoon twirling around the empty bowl) has me panicking for an empty garbage can.
I do have to give this ad a bit of credit: You know the scene where four sprays of barf can be seen gushing from cubicles? I think it quite accurately captures how the majority of people feel when they get into the office.
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This week we’ve been in plagued with illness. Patrick in particular. The walk-in clinic diagnosed him as having some kind of virus – so he’s been acting like a little bitch staying at home to deal with the congestion and feverishness.
He’s been living on the couch all week – dozing, working on the laptop, watching TV, eating the food that I fetch him. He’s been layered in blankets and his hoodie with a mounting collection of stuff (Kleenex boxes, empty bottles of ginger ale, cracker crumbs) gathering around him. Think of a skinnier Jabba the Hut (complete with strings of mucous) and our Ektorp as his platform, and you have what I see in our living room.
Thankfully, among his *cough cough, wimper* requests for soup, Vicks Vapo Rubs and new batteries for the remote, there has not been one for a metal bikini.
I am stuffed up. I have itchy eyes, a runny nose, an achey bod and I'm sneezing quite a bit. My face and chest feel as though I've just finished a really big cry. I do believe that I am sick. And I'm sooo happy.
For whatever reason, I've always kinda liked getting a cold. You feel all wonderfully dopey. Your voice sounds hilarious. You get to wear pajamas all day. People feel sorry for you. You can eat as much chicken noodle soup as you like. You get smothered in yummy Vick's Vapour Rub. You get to live on the couch with pillows and a blanket and magazines and Oprah.
LOVE IT. Maybe this is why I am so unsympathetic when I hear other people are sick. I'm not the uncaring cow you think I am. I'm actually just jealous.
My name is Jen and I look like that picture at all times. I enjoy appetizers as entrees, fountains choreographed to music and television shows intended for teenage girls. Oh - and I really dislike it when people spell it "Jenn"; it's practically a phobia.
Chuck Lorre Club "music" CUPCAKES Extremism Factory farming Fruit-flavoured teas Humid days Hypocrisy (EXCEPT MINE) Laugh tracks Mice Mob mentalities Mondays My typos PC policing Prop 8 Self-defecation Sexy Halloween costumes Snakes Social media obsession Sports highlights The Easily Offended The Easily Outraged The Humourless The Super Cynical
Need words? I'm a Toronto-based freelance writer who injects great ones into blogs, websites, magazines, ads and more. So many services, one lovely Jen (with one 'n').
(the book)
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