I have to be at work in roughly eight hours and I can't sleep because I've got the runs. OUCH. My abdomen is distended. I am fatigued. I am getting dehydrated. Grumble.
Part of my diet involves exercising daily, but unless you count driving around a little and pushing a cart around Costco, I didn't exercise. This (when I'm ill) is when I gain weight. If I can get through this week, get well, and not gain anything, I'll be amazed.
I wish I weren't out of Immodium. Damn. I think Warren's out of it, too. I had some chewable tablets, but they disappeared when the maid service came Thursday.
I also miss Fuzzball this time of year. If she were still alive she'd be by my side, comforting me and making faces to make me laugh.
December 29th was Pop-Pop's birthday (my paternal grandfather). He died on December 20th, 1979. I remember the day well. I had just come back from a massive all-day "teach-in" in the Music building. It was pretty cool; half of the reason for going was the sheer experience of attending it. All the Music Appreciation teachers got together and were doing a review of the course. We showed up to support our teacher, but some of the others were a hoot. The one I remember best was the one who air-conducted a recording of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.
I came back to my dorm room to find out Pop-Pop had died while Dad and Uncle Marty (Dad's brother) were en route to Florida. Since Grandmom (my maternal grandmother) was ill with cancer, Mom didn't want to go down, so I offered to go down in her place. Mom wouldn't let me, saying Nanny (my paternal grandmother) wouldn't want me down there. That hurt.
I reacted the way anyone who suddenly lost a vital, living grandparent would do: I cried. My roommate then yelled at me to "Stop crying" because it was interfering with her studying. She THEN proceeded to tell me how she was "going to get LAYED for Christmas!"
I was really grossed out by that and had to get out of the room, so I went to the dorm room of this guy I'd help throw a Star Trek movie premiere party. He wasn't in, but there was a poem on his door by Oscar Wilde that began "Higgledy Piggledy my fat hen/She lays eggs for gentlemen."
I went back to my dorm room and put on my Glenn Miller "Pure Gold" (my mother said it had my name on it) album, and out of me poured "The Old Virginia Chicken Song," one of the most warped things I've ever written.
Everyone who ever heard that song assumed it was me who was getting layed when, in fact, it was my roommate; I was going to Grandmom's house for what would be my Last Real Christmas. It's easy to do Christmas when you're Jewish and you're really mooching off your goyish grandparents to elbow in on the holiday. It's hard to do Christmas when you don't have immediately family to hang around.