No, I wasn't in Napa Valley, sipping wine and watching peacocks roam the vineyard grounds. No, I wasn't locked away in my art studio creating abstract oil paintings of my vagina (mostly because I have yet to master my oil painting techniques and because my garage can't really be described as an art studio). And no, I didn't pay off some of those old moving violations by doing seven days in County, although now that I think about it, that might not be such a bad idea.
Nope. In fact my absence isn't even really blog worthy, but that's never stopped me before. In fact, writing about nonsense and things that nobody cares about is sort of my specialty. My gift, if you will.
Last week, some kind of virus crept into my throat and very quickly robbed me of my ability to swallow my own spit, breathe through my nose and eventually, I was left without the ability to even speak ... which for me, is abominable. If I can't verbally tell you to fuck off then who am I? Reduced to an impotent version of myself, I took to my bed (which sounds more noble or romantic than it really was).
And because I'm one of the 40 million or so Americans that don't have health insurance, I have no choice but to self-diagnose which in the end is alright because it gives me the opportunity to self-medicate and I'm fantastic at that. I've actually gotten quite good at self-diagnosing, too. Miss Spoken, MD.
For example, after The Boy was born I diagnosed myself with Audio Psychosis. My symptoms included constantly hearing things that didn't exist. I'd put The Boy to sleep and carefully slip into the shower for some much needed hosing down but as soon as I stepped into the shower I would hear The Boy crying, or the phone ringing, or the front door being kicked in. I'd scamper out into the hallway naked, hair dripping, soap in my eyes and yet ..... nothing. The Boy would still be sleeping, I'd remember that my phone was set to vibrate and the front door would be intact. I often accused my roommates of installing hidden speakers throughout the house from which they would repeatedly play the sound of a baby crying. They denied it, whatever. One night, I could distinctly hear music being played from the vacant room downstairs. In fact, it was so clear to me that I could identify the song and sing along:
But as the wind changed direction
The temple band took five
The crowd caught a whiff
Of that crazy Casbah jjjiiiivvvveeee
Audio Psychosis; take a few benzos and call me in the morning.
I've gotten so good that I can also diagnose other people. I've already diagnosed The Boy with an eating disorder. Boss Lady is showing early signs of Megalomania and Legal is clearly crippled with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Why else would she get so tired just from being awake? Poor baby.
It's my prowess as an amateur MD that enables me to feel totally justified sipping Nyquil straight from the bottle, along with some cough syrup with maybe a sleep inducer on top of that. Reading warning labels and all those other words like "recommended dosage" and "do not use if" is for rookies. I'm a professional, or something close to it.
Besides, I'm pretty sure what I had is walking pneumonia. Or maybe bronchitis. Restless Leg Syndrome? Probably some kind of pulmonary vascular disease.
Whatever it was, I mean is, I'm sure I need to crawl back under my 14,000 lb. Ralph Lauren down comforter and stretch my bare legs against my 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and rest some more. My voice is only just now returning, even though I still sound like a tranny and it makes me say things like, "You wanna see my rope collection?"