The Hoots are not a Gaggle but I might be a Jildo!

One day I will understand how it is that the Fredster and I resolve conflict. Right now, all I know for sure is that laughter's role is key -- almost the Personification of Laughter, a third person in the relationship.

Not exactly Mr. Chuckles.

Sometimes Delayed Mirth will show up, more often Unexplained Giggles.

The Hoots are the best -- actually a group of Hoots that I wanted to call a Gaggle, but upon checking, feel that the term is already sufficiently coopted:


A gaggle is a term of venery for a flock of geese that isn't in flight; in flight, the group can be called a skein.

In military slang, a gaggle is an unorganized group doing nothing. In aviation, it is a large, loosely organized tactical formation of aircraft.

In colloquial Western Canadian English, a gaggle is an adjective describing a largely disorganized group of Jildos (another colloquial adjective describing a woman that tends to be annoying and lacking in her own individual opinions) putting forth discontent among all related fellows.

In the field of systems biology, The Gaggle is an open source software framework for exchanging data between independently developed software tools and databases to enable interactive exploration of data.

Okay, so The Hoots are not a Gaggle but I might be a Jildo!

What is requiring so much hilarity? What else, but the possibility of more surgery? Yes, the Infectious Disease crowd -- and *that* could easily be a gaggle of Jildos, head honcho excluded -- opines that the right shoulder spacer is infected; Indeed, it is now deemed to be nothing if not a germ magnet. Ergo, take the sucker out! Cut this woman to shreds! And then probably do it again!

My white count is still up. The C-reactive protein -- to which people seem very attentive -- is way high and has more than doubled in a week's time. Sed rate is up (but it almost always is up). RDWs are elevated. The hemoglobin and such? They've decided to go the opposite route and are in decline... not enough to mean anything, I don't think.

And, okay, if you insist on taking my temperature, I am likely to have a fever in the afternoon and evening. Yes, it is my evening wear. Glassy eyes, gleaming not unlike a hyena's orbs in darkness, nicely offset by my glittery, sallow skin. (Ewwww! "glittery, sallow skin"? Ewwww!)

Actually, I am pretty sallow. And pale at the same time. My hair? Oh, God. Sad to say, I haven't had the energy to demand a ride to get it cut. Usually, before a surgery, that is the last thing that I do in preparation in an all out battle against Bed Head. It didn't happen this time and now I cannot even raise my hands to my hair without burying my chin in my chest first.

Today's challenge? A shower. The first since December 15. I got my staples out on Wednesday and was told to wait a day or two -- one of the staples ended up wanting to be a permanent piercing and that area is raw. I will need the Fredster to Saran Wrap the PICC line first. Also, this cold Manor is going to have to warm up a bit -- we will go hew some yew trees to feed the fiery furnace before I hop into the shower stall.

I am not sure what the PICC line symbolizes to him. It means something and I am definitely out of the semiotic loop. The last go 'round with one of these thangs, he quit two days into it. Dare I say "in a fit of pique"? Hell yes, I dare say it: A bloody fit of bloody pique.

So this time, I spoke with him, using my inside voice, first. He was shocked that I would even think it possible for him to bail on such a task. Okie-dokie, then!

And suddenly he is deciding that the dose that was due at 11 am would be perfectly fine if given at 4 pm. What does it matter? And then... the next dose -- it is an every 12-hour schedule -- will be at the completely arbitrary time of 1 am. Everything has become a battle.

Is it possible that he can consider the failure of the cultures to grow out an offending organism to be some sort of personal failure on my part? The continuing pain and trouble doing almost everything? He is just plain sick of it. *That* I understand, sharing the sentiment. I am trying not to ask for too much. In fact, today, all that I am asking of him is the care of the PICC line (including the shower wrap). The only thing I have been able to eat is peanut butter sandwiches (I cannot get the strawberry preserves top off the jar) and microwave popcorn. This is supplemented by raw broc and cauliflower -- which I love. It just is not exactly... cuisine.

Something has happened and I missed it. Even The Hoots are not hanging around the edges -- and as a very bad writer friend of mine would say: there is no limning going on.

How very much I miss our fellowship when I feel its absence.