Yesterday afternoon I worked from home for myriad reasons, among them that I had intense thinking to do and I find that hard to do in my all-open, all the time, PBS-fundraiser-call-center open floor plan that’s open open open.
So I drove the six minutes and sat in my quiet den. I like having a den. It feels very lion-y. I got everything done a little after 5:00. I was about to send everything when I realized I’d copied one thing in Word over another thing in Word.
Naturally I called IT in a lather, because that’s what I do, and what they said is despite all of our deadlines being horrific and despite everything having to be perfect and despite having to retrieve our original documents from four or five different sites, despite having to know where to get it in the first place, then also having to know what your password is for all of those sites and where it is once you’re in the right site and
be sure to also save everything while you’re working on it in something called Blox.
HURRY, IT’S DUE!
Then be sure to go to another site and record how much work you did and USE THE RIGHT JOB CODE DON’T STRESS OUT.
Okay. Thanks! I’ll…not do any of that. Or I will, and then totally completely stress out.
So I tried to recreate from my mind what I wrote in the first place, but at about 6:00, I gave up because I’d made myself sweaty and stressed, and got up from my chair.
As you all know from your Big Book of June Events, I have hurt my back in yet another sports injury, because being an athlete is part of my very fiber. I simply must compete and push hard through the
But when I got up from that chair after three harrowing hours of being athletic at a computer, it wasn’t just my back that hurt, it was my side.
Oh my god, it really hurt. As I am not one to make a fuss
I assumed it was just a stitch, but not the way I am a funny funny stitch. I walked about, feeding the dog, slopping the hogs, and so forth. As you also know from your BB of JE, I planted some daylilies this week (“They’re POISON to cats, Juuuuuuun!”) and my friend R told me to “water the shit out of them for 10 days.”
And that is why for the second time that day, I lugged the hose from the side of the house to the front of the house, Milhous chasing it all the way, and watered the shit out my daylilies.
When he got bored chasing the hose, Milhous peed right next to every place I watered. He squatted unceremoniously and haughtily glared at me each time.
OW! Oh my god, OW!
Am certain I was a picture out there, Milhous the Squatter, me bent at the waist saying “Ow!” like I was James Brown.
Eventually I hunched back to the hose holder on the side of my house, Milhous gripping every last inch of it while I tried to coil it back nicely. The people who lived here before were neatniks, man. They have this little contraption in the pantry so you can hang your brooms and another to hang your cleaning agents. They have a slidey-out thing under the sink so you can roll out the barrel and also the trash can. They even had, permanently mounted, a dustbuster from 1974 that I immediately broke.
They also have this hang-your-hose-neatly thing that I try to honor, but I hope they didn’t drive by last night to judge me because it was sort of loop, loop, loo—oh fuck it smash. I kind of just glommed the rest of the hose up there haphazardly because
OW, did I mention?
I usually like to sit in my back yard and admire fireflies in the evening, but instead I humped over to the bed and gingerly lay down on it like I’m Prince Harry. It dawned on me sometime between the hose put-up ceremony and the Notre Dame hunch back into the house that it might be my appendix.
“Oh, it’s not your appendix,” said the 1/18th of me that’s sensible. You know how you have to be some part Native American to get into school for free? The part of me that’s sensible isn’t enough to even get a partial scholarship.
“BUT WHAT IF IT IS AND IT BURSTS?” the rest of me asked, wringing its hands.
So I looked up the symptoms. I didn’t even know what side one’s appendix is on, but it turns out it’s the right side, same as my pain.
Unsensible me nodded knowingly.
Pain that’s worse if you press it and let it go.
“OW!” I James Browned, pressing and letting go.
It also mentioned fever, nausea and vomiting, and since I was wondering if a bowl of popcorn might make me feel better, I could write off those symptoms.
The pain was the kind where if you try to move you have to kind of scream a little. Which I did, and every time I did, all the animals rolled their eyes. You know how Snow White had all those helpful animals who dried the dishes with their tails and so on? She gets that; I get a pack of dicks.
It occurred to me I could call someone for help, but who? The Poet lives close by, but she was entertaining family and I didn’t know if they were gone. R, my neighbor, was on the next block, but did I know her well enough to burst an appendix in front of her?
Finally I decided if it got really bad, I’d drive the mile to the ER my own damn self. But I really didn’t want to go there and sit in a waiting room and catch ebola if I didn’t really have anything wrong with me. Plus isn’t it like $20,000 to go to the ER?
After looking at every website on appendicitis (they all say the same thing, by the way. Next time yours bursts, just look at one and move on), I had an idea. I forced myself off the bed and hunched over to the cabinet where my antacid lives.
I took two.
I laid back down.
And in about 20 minutes, my appendicitis was miraculously cured.
P.S. I totally forgot: Lottie Blanco got her dog’s DNA back. Her “Corgi’s” DNA back.