I’m sorry to report that our heroine has been under the weather. And snowy weather at that. Yes, snow. On the jasmine:
On the huckleberry bushes:
It’s everywhere! It’s beautiful. Audrey likes it. I think it reminds her of her Canadian roots.
As you know, I am a snow fan and am not blaming the literal weather for the figurative weather I’m under. For the past week, I have been subject to an apparently endless compulsive and convulsive cough, which makes both my throat and my stomach ache. Both of my brain cells have gone on strike, and it sounds like ripping rotting lace when I breathe. Add in endless nausea, chills, and burning up and you have quite the cocktail of misery.
I took three days off from work, even though our sick days and vacation days are all the same thing. At the end of the three days, I didn’t feel any better, but I was tired of bleeding precious time off, so I returned to work, where everything seemed like a horrible dream and a million details had piled up on my desk.
Remembering Eddie Murphy’s instruction in “Raw” that Tussin can fix anything, I got some on my way to work. I wanted a totalitarian regime that would suppress any cough or even ideas of coughs.
My Tussin hopes turned out to be as unrealistic as my painkiller hopes. The Tussin was unequal to the admittedly Herculean task of repressing The Cough from Hell, much as the broken rib pain chortled merrily at the very idea of the painkiller loosing its agonizing grip.
My co-worker convinced me to get seen by one of my other co-workers. I said that she would tell me that it was a virus, there was nothing they could do, and please pay your co-pay on your way back to your desk. This is exactly what happened. Personally, I am convinced that they tell you it’s a virus when they don’t know what the hell it is.
I gave up on the Tussin days ago and am drinking a tea made of Meyer lemon slices, turmeric root, fresh ginger, and a spoonful of local honey, which I realize makes me sound like a gigantic hippie. Maybe I am. There’s a lot of evidence against me, including the fact that I live in Mendocino County, pretty much the official home of the hippie, my family has an organic garden and orchard, and I live in a hippie hovel, so…guilty as charged?
A YEAR AGO: The smallest of small town days.
FIVE YEARS AGO: Growing up Archi! Still Jarrett’s BFF.
TEN YEARS AGO: A civilized train ride. Is there any other kind?