Most of the morning and much of the afternoon was dedicated to diuresis, and there was great success in that endeavor, with fifteen trips to the bathroom ending in the suspicion of ankles down there where the leg ends. Oh, and all my rings fell off! [I wear three at all times. Unless they fall off, willful little Tolkien-cribbers.]
The dregs of this Summer Viral Thingy had my throat sore enough that I did not want to drink, and the seemingly endless trips to the WC only reinforced that reticence. Of the things I did manage to swallow, 50% was a strong Italian roast. The remainder was split between a Diet Root Beer and a paltry 12 ounces of water. This is noteworthy as I normally drink too much water (according to the Go-To-Guy Doc) -- roughly 4 litres. That's water on top of coffee and 1-2 diet decaffeinated drinks. I could try to justify this weirdness but I won't.
We are out of yogurt. This hardly ever happens. I need yogurt in much the way I yearn for lots and lots of water. I popped the foil on my last container last night only to find that it was... abnormal. That's right, my last serving (or three) of yogurt came on Wednesday night. Please keep in mind that I am continually on antibiotics and that my gut therefore has its own appreciation of my low fat plain yogurt concoctions. I add a preferred amount of artificial sweetener and a dusting of cinnamon, or cocoa, or a spritz of vanilla extract... Add the current novel and you have my bedtime routine in its entirety. Of course, "bedtime" around here is a laughing-stock of a notion. Last night? I kinda-sorta slept from 22:30 to midnight and then again from 03:00 - almost 05:00. When exactly was bedtime? Now, Fred sleeps like the proverbial rock as well as the fabled log. He came to bed at 03:00, read precisely 5 pages of his book, and then rose from the bed at... drumroll, please... 15:30! ManorFest 2011 is sapping the boy's strength.
Oh, you thought I had forgotten ManorFest 2011? Not so, not so. I am just at a loss for the best words to EXPLAIN it. It hasn't exactly been your normal ManorFest...
Okay, so... the last of today's oddities. That would be my handling of blood sugars. I recently became a bit hot under the collar at the price of diabetic testing supplies (one of the greatest undisclosed absurdities of Medical Economics, probably because we poorer diabetics don't want to embarrass ourselves in front of the doctors, be they Go-To-Guys or not). My anger resulted in the brilliant decision to not test as frequently as recommended. Like sometimes not at all. Which is what I did today, while not eating, not drinking, taking a humongous amount of Lasix, all the while still having my usual fever and *sweats*.
The sweats and the heat (Yes! Even here in Tête de Hergé, it's freaking hot!) consorted to make me decidedly in need of a shower. That's a major undertaking, so I filed it under "things to consider doing later, like, when I'm feeling really weak and shaky."
What? Why, yes, I *did* take my insulin. As scheduled. Right on time! Without eating, without testing. What? Why, yes, I *am* a Brainiac!
(Are you still with me?)
Fred, all perky-like after his marathon sleep session, heard me whining about not having any yogurt and cheerfully volunteered to make a yogurt run -- and I bet you've already guessed that one of the Cistercians' numerous cottage/mail order industries is yogurt-making! Put Fred and Abbot Truffatore together on a Friday evening and you have a recipe for communion wine and politics. Jump back, Jack! Not that there's anything around here as exciting as the debt-ceiling debacle in The States, mind you. We have, nonetheless, our own brand of titillating government scandals. And they just go down better, says Fred and The Abbot, with communion wine on Friday nights. Sometimes Tante Louise totters down to the Monks' Mess and joins in, but we won't talk about that. It's okay, though -- she has a cell phone now so there won't be any more missed "911" calls.
Not that there's much of a need for "911" calls in Tête de Hergé.
{cough}
Ah, alone in our apartment within the West Wing of Marlinspike Hall! What a luxury. Why not surprise Fred with a freshly scrubbed face (and feet, don't forget the feet, those things purported to be down there at the end of my legs... where are my legs?)? Some fresh bright Gimp Clothes to tie my red face and purple feets together, and my goodness, he will faint from shock.
Which is, of course, what I did in the shower...
While alone in our apartment within the West Wing of Marlinspike Hall;
With La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore on duty out in the middle of the ManorFest 2011 maze (as if she'd be of any help were she in the shower with me);
With Fred getting potted in the stolid arms of Tante Louise as the Sweet Boys sing the world a lullaby, and settle in for the night's silence.
I am fine.
Stupid, a little bruised, but fine.
Let's thank God for the shower chair, perfectly placed, as it happens.
Fred just made it home, fine purveyor that he is of all things I ever need. I can hear him banging around in the Medieval Kitchen, shelving his purchases, feeding the felines, doing little jigs. And Bianca's there, too -- determined to have a cup of tea despite the blanket of heat. I think I hear The Cabana Boy, as well, humming along with the dread Jewel Song she never ceases to rehearse -- Sven's son. Oh. My.
Well, some catastrophes just have to happen, I guess.
I am going to finish chugging this water, then devour my sixth piece of hard, sweet candy, and go join the merriment. Right after I verify a blood sugar above 38...
