February 9, 2018

In Search Of A Karmic Travel Agent

Dirk Gently has his Holistic Detective Agency, but what I really want to find is a Karmic Travel Agent.

This last week has been odd.  And that's the short description.  A true breakdown of a string of 5 days where you're sent a pneumatic sex toy by an anonymous admirer deserves more than a single syllable, but that's for another time.

I have had a day from hell.  I started out by considering it a pothole day; the sort where you're derailed for 24 hours, lick your wounds, and start over after a good meal and a night's sleep.  And then, as always, it got weird.


I woke up this morning, and everything hurt.  My right had was cold and weak, my right side was spasming, and nothing about any of this made me think driving, and making analytical decisions on pain pills and muscle relaxants was a good idea.  I called off work, and went back to bed, trying to nurse my mood and body back to health.

Not long after, I dragged myself out from under the safety of my bed to take the first of three baths, hoping the heat would relax my muscles.  The water got cold before I could wash my hair, so I was warming up for my method acting audition for the part of homeless woman #1 when I wandered down to the kitchen after drying off.  I know that when my mood is in the toilet, often times I need to either eat or drink something, and I'd had a very caring friend urge me to eat something sugary, drink some water, and rub one out to boost my mood.  (Which, by the way is actually sound advice.). I told her I was way ahead of her, but nothing had helped yet.  I'd taken my daily meds as well as pain and muscle relaxants in an effort to hit this hard and fast.  Now I just had to wait for them to work.  So, I got something more to munch on, and decided since I had a modicum of energy, I'd throw the pot roast I had planned on making tomorrow in a slow cooker so I'd have something to eat later.  Sounds smart, right? I thought so.

From about 10:30 until roughly 3:45, I spent my day either trying to nap, being restless in bed under the covers, reading puff pieces on the internet, texting with friends, or randomly tearing up at things that on a normal day would wash right over of me.  Between the medication and the demon I know as depression, I'm sure I was a treat to be around, even virtually.  Somewhere in there, I sat in the tub until the water got cold and I ran out of desire to freshen it up a 5th time so I could wash my hair properly.  My books went unread, my mood didn't change.  I slunk back to bed where the dog was taking up more than her fair share.

Finally, around 4:00, I decided that I was going to try bath number 3, and I would use that to finally wash my hair.  Not being gross can only help a person's mood, right?

Well, I'm happy to say that I accomplished what I set out to do.  However.  However, if I had only accomplished washing my hair, this wouldn't be the story that is, would it.  Oh no.

Let me just tell you, and I speak from experience now, never, ever, trust a fart in a bathtub after 40.  Don't do it.  It will only end in Clorox and cussing.  Oh, but wait.  There's more.  I didn't notice what we'll call crumbs in the bathwater, until I was finally feeling like I'd relaxed a little and was ready to call it good.  As I was drying off, I looked down, saw a whirlpool of little shit pellets where my asscheeks had just been, and put together why that innocent little fart had seemed a little off.   In my haste to get out of the putrid soup, I managed to kick the faucet, making me question whether I broke my toe in the process.

It's an extreme emotional reaction when I forget words in favor of mindless and guttural screaming.

After scrubbing myself to the point of losing the top layer of skin in the shower with only the use of my left hand, and a healthy amount of bleach poured into the tub, I decided it was time to go treat myself to the roast I was sure I had waiting for me.  I had the taste and the texture of melt in your mouth beef wholly formed on my tongue when I put tongs to meat.  And it jiggled just a little too much. . .

Ok, well, not to be deterred, I put the roast on a cutting board to let it rest before I sliced it.  Maybe the knife will tell a different story.  Fast forward 10 minutes, and by some miracle neither the dog or the football shaped cat has stolen my prize off the counter.  I cut a slice, not too close to the end to give a false sense of doneness, or to close to the middle to ruin the whole thing.  And it's pink all the way through, like some discount prime rib.  Could it be done?  Maybe.  But I had my heart set on falling apart if you looked at it funny tender.  This was not that.  Frustrated at the mere warmth in the middle, I nestled the meat back in the bath of au jus left in the slow cooker.  It was then that I noticed the problem.  The roast had been "cooking" on warm all damn day.  It's amazing it didn't moo at me out of annoyance when I lifted it out of its wading pool to let it rest!  I put the lid back on the cooker, cranked the temperature up to high, and resigned myself to a late dinner just as my stomach made noises that told me being too far from indoor plumbing would be a bad idea for at least the next few hours.

Honestly.  I get it.  I've got a reality distortion field with a pathological need to balance the scales.  And after the weirdness that was the pneumatic dildo from some as yet unidentified admirer, it would only make sense that one pan of the scale was too light, and some weight needed to be piled on to bring it back to level.  It's how it works.  But truthfully, it was hard to handle it all at once, on a day where treading water was about the best I could hope for myself.  Right now, I want to pay obscene amounts of money to some kind of karmic travel agent who can book me a month where nothing. weird. happens.  Not good weird.  Not bad.  72 degrees every day.  Nice sunlight that doesn't give me a sunburn.  Where I'm neither bored nor harried during the day, and entertained at night.  Where I get a good night's sleep, and have as you like it orgasms on demand.  I would mortgage myself into the next century if we could make this happen.

But for the moment.  Dear Hollywood.  Anybody need an idea for a comedy?  I've got a few laughs you can buy.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.