ugly bedroom

i've been quiet because... things turn on a dime.

anyone want to come and redesign my bedroom?  the centerpiece is now one butt-ugly brown hospital bed. i remain, o my president, author of obamacare, which allowed me to receive a hospital bed with trapeze within 48 hours of the doctor ordering it, o do i remain ever grateful!

but a butt-ugly bedroom will not do.

new rugs will be necessary, because i don't want to fall off the butt-ugly brown bed onto the slick butt-ugly brown floor.

this morning, after dear fred went to a sunday morning shake-and-bake with the militant existential lesbian feminists, taking along a gourmet tuna salad with a fresh and golden loaf of bread, i challenged myself.  "self," i said...

sorry.

anyway, i cleaned the common areas we share with the castafiore and her amours, and with the hangers-on that groups such as ours attract.  mollusks. oops.  typed that out loud, i did!

in my brief period of profound laziness, the feline triumvirate has been intensively training.  dry, sculptural, free-standing hair ball sculptures tucked like hidden treasures behind furniture legs -- sublime!  a stylized swirl of hardened ocean waves, slick and seemingly splashing, reaching for the sky -- carefully presented alongside a gravity-bound fourteenth-century leather and iron virginal hope chest.  the first pieces were clearly the creation of marmy fluffy butt, and her fury was swift and fierce when my efforts to preserve her commentary on world hunger somehow fell prey to the chaotic anti-art suction of my hoover.  the watery, shellacked offering was from the suddenly shy buddy, of maine coon provenance, and he approved its destruction, seeing his arching, asiatic columns as bits of performance art that already were passé.

using the forensic skills that only advanced students of french literature (and its intertwined, inbred complications known as critics) are able to focus upon the disparate remnants of avant garde cat art, i determined that dobby, the edgiest of this feline force, had dabbled with such success in a retrospective homage to trompe-l'oeil that it will be only by chance that we discern his gastric artiface from our hooman accoutrements and clutter.

so i am back in the putrid brown bed.  i confess that it helps my body relax, that joints previously screaming at an annoying level are now making only the occasional habitual moue.

but this room... this room.  a disaster.  i offer proof:

© 2013 L. Ryan

i love my go-to-guy

my eyes are almost swollen shut from self-pity, since my self-pity, combined with my rising fever and 9.9 out of 10 ranking on the retarded pain scale, equate to nonsensical tears but my mind is relatively unburdened, thanks to an hour and a half spent with dear, sweet, smart, inventive, superior go-to-guy, my "concierge" doctor that you'll have to shoot me to give up.  yes, i am poor -- and advocate living within one's means -- but i have budgeted for what i consider a compelling necessity, a medical gate-keeper.

anyway, his eyes lit up as he hit on an idea of how to work our peculiar situation and magic with the HMO i am now enrolled in, and with which he is not affiliated.  but the flat fee that i pay each year to "retain" him, well, it retains him.  in dire circumstances, and we are familiar with them, having him around... pays off.

anyway, we went over blood work, we devised a plan to so mesmerize the HMO and the physician i will have to choose in their network, and then...

we decided it was time for me to have a hospital bed with a trapeze. that will make things easier for me, but is one of those moments, you know?  the "oh, yeah, i am ready for disease and disability to reduce me a bit farther." reduce me, constrict me... also, though, on that sliver of pragmatism to which i cling -- it's a change that won't reduce me to tears when i think of how to turn over or sit up or, the ultimate!  when i think of how to both sit up, pivot so as to sit on the side of the bed, then stand and walk to the bathroom.

i went to my doctor's appointment without having brushed my teeth, much less showering.  that caused mucho boo-hooing on my part.  i am nothing if not ridiculous.

it's going to take a while to get the new doctors on board ("you realize they are going to take one look at your history and my summary of the last few years, and either take off running, screaming, or try to reinvent the wheel by ordering every test under the sun, don't you?") and so it will take a while before my carefully put together bedroom gets torn apart.  captain haddock is going to have a cow.  marlinspike hall's beautiful and antiquated décor -- and by "antiquated,"  i mean full of gorgeous and one-of-a-kind antiquities -- has never been so abused.  maybe the haddock corporation will see this as the last straw and put me and my belongings in a pile by the barn, just beyond the moat, and the reach of the drawbridge.  maybe the carnie rehab facility, right now mostly limited to cirque du soleil and local freak show addicts of the finest and most acrobatic kind... will take me in.  i could be a kind of barn mother hen.  and heck, who knows what monumental one-of-a-kind gymnastic moves i can come up with when provided with a hospital bed and a trapeze? eh?

see?  it's all rather too much to take in.

so we're cooking a chicken pizza, and plan on watching something mindless. dr. phil, or one of the multitude of law and orders.  maybe a cold case, or judge judy.

go-to-guy also rapidly and kindly filled out my POLST form, so i am covered -- live and let die!

my mind is jiggling like jello.

© 2013 L. Ryan