I am STILL sick!
I woke up this morning sure that the worst of it was over. I left for work all chipper in my cute little skirt and hair that actually didn’t frizz for once, got in half an hour early, grabbed a coffee, settled in and felt great – for about an hour. When lunch rolled around, I couldn’t stop sniffling and sneezing; by the time 3pm hit, I was so fuzzy I was lucky I could remember my name – forget about talking intelligently about curriculum stuff!
The worst part? (Well, aside from feeling worse than I’ve felt since this started Saturday) When I left for the day, I joked with the other staff that I was going to go OD on Sudafed and pass out on the couch. They kind of looked at me funny, and the other (new) English teacher asked, “Are you sick?”
Ummm, hi. How did you fail to notice the crumpled up tissues in my hand? The scratchy, obnoxious cough from the desk next to you? The every-ten-second sniffle? The glow-in-the-dark red nose? The sheer misery in my voice?
Gah! I really hope they don’t think I’m naturally this spacey and dopey. I mean, I definitely have my Phoebe-Dharma moments, but really – I’m a bright, witty girl, I swear! And since this was my first day with the other English teacher – who, I might add, has her MEd from NYU (no intimidation there) – I really was hoping to be able to hold my own.
Sadly, all I held was a snot-filled tissue. Not exactly the brilliant start I was hoping for. Hello! It’s summer! What the hell is up with the freaking week-long miserable cold? NyQuil, I love you. Meet me in the bedroom at 9 with your sweet, syrupy goodness, and I’m all yours for the rest of the night.
Achooo.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?
Have I mentioned that I’m completely in love with our garden? I look forward to watering it every morning. Yesterday afternoon I found complete calm in slowly weeding and planting and caring for the little sprouts. We’re forever checking to see how many little maters are popping up or how big the garden salsa peppers are getting. The zucchini plants are bursting with huge, beautiful orange-yellow blossoms. My wildflowers are just starting to peek through the dirt as little slices of green, and while something ate most of my little baby sunflowers for breakfast, a few strong ones are still pushing their way towards the sky.
I’ve heard people talking about how zen gardening can be, but I had no idea. There’s something about the smell of the dirt that’s so calming. I’m learning patience – the idea that some things are out of my control, that things won’t always be perfect right away, that there’s wonder and energy in the little curls of green even before they become wildflowers I envision in my mind, and most importantly – and the hardest lesson for me to learn – that I need to step back and let things just be sometimes. I need to learn to find and embrace the beauty in that balance, in that state of simply being.
I’m learning how very much everything in our garden is simply a work in progress – and that means me, too.

I have this weird thing about scars. I love my scars. Each one – at least the good ones – have stories and fond memories attached to them. The one on my knuckle? I beat the crap out of this chick who was picking on my little sister. (Ok, complete lie, I’ve never been in a fight with anyone BUT my sister. I cut it on a loose piece of metal in my locker, and my mom insisted that I didn’t need stitches, though I swear I could practically see the bone. She pulled it together with butterfly bandages and now my knuckle wrinkles are all crooked.)
The long one across my thigh? I cut it racing through cars to save a little kitty who was about to be hit in traffic. (Another lie. I sliced it on a license plate while playing hide-and-seek when I was 8.)
The little pockmark ones up and down my arms? My sister had viciously long nails growing up, and she would rip me to pieces when my mom wasn’t looking. She would then produce this insane tears and sob to my mom that I was picking on her when I wasn’t, and I’d get in trouble. (That’s completely true, rotten little liar. Love you Mel!)
That long-ass one up my shin? Yeah, that’s not as cool. Oh yeah – it’s not even a scar yet. How is it that I’m 29 years old and I still cut up my legs while shaving? Figure I started shaving daily when I was 14 – that 5,475 times I’ve shaved my legs, give or take a day or two when I went camping. And I still nick my knees or shins at least one a week. This morning it was three times. Three! And I wasn’t even in a rush! WTF?
Gah.
And an update on the termites: I came home yesterday afternoon and all my winged friends had disappeared – except for the one in the baggie, whom I half expected to have gnawed his way through the plastic. But no, he was there and still alive. Creepy. I’m certain they’ve set up a town hall somewhere in our walls and are simply deciding how best to split up and chew our house down. Yay. We’ll be calling around for exterminators this afternoon.
So bleeding knees and gross termites – happy morning to you!

I went into the kitchen to get my morning cup of coffee and found an ant-like creature crawling up the wall. Not your normal ant – no, this one has wings. I know better – not all ants have wings. Most termites, however, prefer to sport the latest winged fashions. Shit.
It was like staring at the night sky and seeing more and more stars popping out. As I stood and looked at him, trying to convince myself that he really was just an ant with wings and with everything else going on with this house, we couldn’t possibly have termites too, I saw another. And then another. And another. And another. I counted six of them. I don’t condone killing little creatures, but I snagged one and put him in a plastic baggie and viciously squished the rest with a napkin. The poor little guy is trying to crawl his way out the sealed ziploc bag. I can’t watch it, it’s too cruel. But then again – having my kitchen wall for breakfast is cruel, too, little buggie!
So I did a search online for “pictures of termites northeast.” Yup, they’re definitely termites. A whole freakin’ mess of termites. And now I know that the correct terminology (gah, that word looks too close to termite!) is a “swarm.” A swarm of termites. In my kitchen. All my doped-up-sniffly-self wanted was a nice cup of coffee and maybe some yogurt. I’m going to cry.
I keep looking for pictures and pictures so maybe I’ll find one that doesn’t look like the little guy in the baggie here – but nada. Instead, I find this: “Swarming most often occurs during the morning following a warm rain shower whereby the soil temperature is around 70

I spent the day at the school where I’ll be teaching in the fall. I settled in a bit at my desk, laid claim to my classroom and had lunch with the other staff. I’m a teacher! A sniffly, sneezy, achy, coughy teacher, but a teacher nonetheless!

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Princess, enjoying a lazy Sunday morning in the sun.
Our kitties have it so rough.

This morning, bright and early, Jay and my mom stumbled their sleepy selves down the stairs to find out where the sounds of Helen Kane’s “I Wanna Be Loved By You” were drifting in from.
Turns out – the music was coming from our dining room.
Our neighbors next door are moving – and piling lots and lots of trash out at the curb. My dad, who is visiting from NY, was up early and was walking around the outside of the house. He saw this great old oak box in the pile and figured maybe there were some old tools or random things inside. Either way, it was a beautiful old box, and it would be good for something. He moved it to our driveway, and when I woke up, he had me bring it in. Little did we realize what we’d find inside when we opened it -
- a gorgeous, fully functional 1904 Victor Victrola – from the same year our house was built.
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. No kidding! The outside wood needs a little cleaning up in spots, but otherwise it’s in excellent condition. It came with two records and some extra needles, and it’s rather eerily beautiful to listen to. The music has that scratchy, distant sound – you can almost imagine the way it must have sounded on a summer Sunday morning a hundred years ago when these houses were still new and proud, before there were the sounds of cars racing up the street or the chatter of TVs creeping in from the open windows of houses next door.
I wanna be loved by you, just you,
And nobody else but you,
I wanna be loved by you, alone!
Boop-boop-a-doop!
(Edited: Jay did some research and found out that our model was produced in 1922 and originally sold for $50 – that was a lot of money in 1922! )

Ok, I understand – I’m an adult. I should be able to handle shots without crying or freaking out. I get this.
However – I’ve grown accustomed to getting stickers or lollipops when I get shots. I’ve had nurses run to my side when I’m *thisclose* to passing out when they need to draw blood – and on more than one occasion. I need to hold someone’s hand when they come anywhere near me with a needle – I don’t hide the fact that I’m a huge baby when it comes to this. I don’t try to hide the fact that I’m really a 12-year-old trapped in a 29-year-old’s body. I’m comfortable with the fact that I need to be dealt with like a little girl when it comes to needles and my body. Needles suck. MY body. Stay away. And when I do what you need me to do – reward me, dammit!
So today, when I sucked it up like the big girl I am and got the tetanus shot without much of a whimper, I expected the usual “Good girl!” treatment. But noooooo – no sticker, no lollipop – hell, not even a cool band-aid. I got a freakin’ Lipitor band-aid. Lipitor. WTF? Where are my daisies? My balloons? I didn’t cry. I didn’t pass out. WHERE THE HELL IS MY LOLLIPOP?
And why the hell did he offer to give me my tetanus shot in MY BUTT? No, I will not bare my ass, even under the pretenses of saving me from the horrors of lockjaw. Give me the shot in my arm, give me a lollipop, and let’s get on with our lives, shall we?
Mean doctor. I want a cool band-aid. I WANT A LOLLIPOP, DAMMIT!
I hate being 29.

I woke up about 2am with all sorts of weird muscle twitches and aches. My skin was numb and I just did not feel right. My paranoia really kicked in: I haven’t had a tetanus shot in over ten years. I was certain that I had contracted tetanus from the rusty hoe on Sunday (that just sounds so funny), and that it was coursing its way through my body as the night went on. So in addition to weird muscle twitches and aches, I had full blown anxiety sending shockwaves through my poor system as well. I wasn’t sure if the problems breathing were panic-related or a result of all the muscles in my body that were locking up because of the tetanus germs I was certain were having a large festival in my blood.
Aren’t you glad you’re not married to me and my many psychoses?
So because I’m a paranoid freak, first thing this morning I called the doctor, who assured me that if I had contracted tetanus on Sunday, I’d be long dead by now. I pointed out to her that all the sites I saw on the internet said it could take up to 8 days for symptoms of tetanus to show up and that I was only on day 5. I’m sure my doctor’s a good doctor and all, but c’mon, the internet said it, so it must be true! I’ve heard that doctors reeeeeally love it when you pull this kind of shit on them.
Either way, yours truly will be sitting her butt on one of those vinyl chairs at 2:15pm getting jabbed with a needle full of the tetanus vaccine while the doctor curses me out in her head: “That’s for quoting the damned internet! Did the internet spend $300,000 on medical school? I don’t THINK so!” Jab jab – fun-filled goodness for the whole family! It’ll be great for the peace of mind after 2:15, but you can bet I’m still going to walk around all morning contorting my face and practicing my vowels with overexaggerated motions, just to make really sure lockjaw isn’t setting in. The internet said it’s possible, and I’m not taking any chances!

Q: What’s the difference between a dead dog in the road and a dead Yankees fan in the road?
A: There are skid marks in front of the dog.

Sorry, I just couldn’t resist. More Yankees jokes below.

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