Woke up this morning to discover that I no longer had the ability to breathe, and could only wheeze in pain. This is always a bad sign. Either I was very sick or I was turning into Darth Vadar (and frankly, I think that I wotld have been a far better Darth Vadar that Hayden Christensen). It was a day of four dog walks in sweltering heat, and when I finally dragged my coughing and hacking self to the doctor's office, I felt sure that relief was at hand.
Relief, technically, was another hour and a half away. If I should have the good fortune of having some doctors in my audience, I implore you to please, please a) be on time, or knowing the inevitability of doctor lateness, b) get magazines other than Autoweek and Soap Opera Digest in your waiting room. Seriously. If you're going to make us wait, fill the place up with junk reading material
I was just starting to simmer with anger and frustration--when I wasn't hyperventilating or doubled over coughing--when the doctor finally saw me. In additional to the Hippocratic oath, all doctors must swear some kind of allegiance to the Ford Motor Company, because I have never seen such an efficent assembly line. I was stripped, stuffed into a gown, poked, prodded, re-dressed and sent on my way within 10 minutes. The whole thing was smooth as silk, except for the few minutes I spent waiting for the doctor to re-enter the room and laugh hysterically at the sight of me in the blue paper robe. To kill the time, I began reading about travel innoculations, particularly since I am still thinking about my Egyptian archaeological vacation. There were the usual warnings about typhoid and malaria and yellow fever, all of which I am on more than passing acquaintance with, having taken the usual truckload of pills every time I go to India. But then, disturbing in its simplicity, was the word "Plague."
Um...plague? I've got to worry about the Plague, on top of everything else? What kind of plague--black or Bubonic? Aren't they the same thing? Is this related to The Rdd Death? Didn't someone think to take care of this in the Middle Ages? I tried to read more about where the plague might be of concern to me, but it was remarkably unhelpful. Just 1 dose every 3 hours, or some nonsense like that. I decided to ask the doctor, but she was working that assembly line so fast that I didn't even get the question out. I just starting coughing away, which inspired her to give me a tuberculosis injection. Fabulous.
But, really, I'm not complaining. After an hour and a half wait, I was happy to bustled out of there, prescriptions in hand, into my local pharmacy. And let me tell you something--sure, they make you wait at the pharmacy (usually behind some guy with an expired insurance card), but they have good sense to locate it near the magazine rack. Reading about Angelina/Brad/Jen and Tom/Katie and Ben/Jen (the Sequel)...well, time just flew.
Dust Bunnies' Revenge
There is nothing like a hacking cough to make you realize the importance of, er, breathing. I'm not sure where it came from, but I have a sneaking and embarassing suspicion that it came after I gave my living room a thorough cleaning--including the hefty dust bunnies that have set up a colony under the couches. This is in an effort to do some redecorating in a post-colonial-safari/parisian brothel theme, which requires many more plants, dark wood and red velvet. And a dust mask, apparently.
Vacations
Daniel Craig, Colm Meaney and some other people in Layer Cake
Another little vacation from the blog, unintended, but perhaps necessary. After the last Jerry-Hall-Ovation Channel entry, I think I needed a break. I suspect my readers would prefer a continued series of short, pithy posts rather than my more longwinded er, flights of fancy.
So, let's experiment with brevity. Nice hot weekend spent wandering around the city, running into a craft fair or street fair every few blocks. Resisted the urge to invest in more socks, sheet sets or sunglasses--or to finally get a hand-knit ethnic sweater, a small-to-medium sized stone buddha or 10 minute neck massage. Drank with investment bankers at a effort-intensive Hawaii-themed party--(every body got lei'd at the door). Got dolled up and went to see Layer Cake with Julie at the old Sunshine theater. (I tried to convince Miss Julie to try the Gourmet Popcorn toppings--jalepeno in particular--but no dice).
Layer Cake, incidentally, is a fine movie. I admit that I have a weakness for the British gangster genre. (In particular, I was a Guy Ritchie fan in particular until Swept Away, which...well, it sadly exposed his deficiencies as a director away from South London). I like the whole British gangster genre (long live The Italian Job!) because it brings a much needed humor and irony to the gangster genre--which was shriveling up a few years ago--and I like it because I like British settings, humor and men. Daniel Craig in particular--they're calling him the next James Bond, but that would sort of be like calling Steve McQueen the next James Bond. (Then again, the James Bond series needs all the help it can get).
The Steve McQueen comparison is one of the highest I can make for a guy. The other top one is the Connery-as-Bond comparison (which I only really make for Clive Owen) and the Cary Grant comparison (which I only really make for George Clooney). If you could smoosh everyone into one guy, I'd be in love for a couple lifetimes, at least. But Steve McQueen is the most real--he has dirty mechanic's hands, that indestructible aura of cool, the ability to drive a car, shoot straight and woo a woman. And, in particular, the ability to wear tight jeans without looking like a particularly fussy gay model. (And, apparently, we share a love of cheese: not kidding)Daniel Craig has that same thing too, even when he's getting the shit kicked out of him.
Let's see, what else...am now fixated on the idea of going either on an archaeological dig, or a volunteer vacation. The volunteer vacation is particularly interesting as it's tax deductible. The archaeological dig may be because I came drunk last night and stayed up blearily watching The Mummy again. But I really do have an Egyptology fetish. Then again, I have a dinosaur fetish too, so the idea of going to China and working two weeks as volunteer on some prehistoric digging site sounds pretty good too. But I'm not sure how rustic I want to get. The real problem, of course, is that my altruistic motives don't count for much, and they both cost a ridiculous amount of money. Perhaps I can convince some foundation that my Indian chick-lit novel necessitates traveling to India to work on restoring some temple for two weeks. Any takers?
The volunteer vacations in America are pretty cool too and much less pricy. The best ones are in New Mexico, working on an Indian reservation, or rebuilding some Arizona community center. The problem is the idea of spending a couple weeks in the sweltering desert, in the middle of summer. I mean, I loved that it was hot and sunny this weekend, but I'm not sure that I want to be camping and working in it. And I like the idea of volunteering; I'm not into suffering.
If anyone knows of an Egyptian archaeological dig that needs a volunteer for one-to-two weeks at a reasonable price, write me. It would help if the dig came complete with some semblance of indoor plumbing and absolutely no snakes. It would also help if the other members of the dig are two older lesbian women who travel together, an overbearing dragon of a woman with mousy secretary, an unscrupulous, yet rouguishly handsome man, a tart flapper, a retired Army colonel, and a small Belgian detective.
Thanks!
(Okay, screw brevity. Next time.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)