You can't die from these, right?!?

Heather the Valkyrie
Deviant Art
(helmet acquired from the artist Lodin)

It's been more than two weeks now, suffering from the Nachtschweiß.  I feel the German phrasing is warranted  because night-sweat effects are near-Wagnerian.  I am THIS close to grabbing a winged helmet and shrieking from a mountain top.  

Sunday morning, I was doing the dishes naked.  I'd had a bathrobe on, but when that burst into flames, I dropped it. David really wanted to take a picture of me at the sink like that, "You are ADORABLE!" but didn't want to get arrested for promoting pornography.  Rissa just shook her head.  "You are naked ALL the time!"

If only I could use this power for good.  Like Johnny Storm.  "FLAME ON!"    Although in my case it might be "SWEAT ON!"  I could emit a shower of sweat from my body and drown criminals in it.

But if I go around naked, I just get cold.  Too hot - then too cold.  I need Open & Close Clothes so that I can just open up when I'm hot and close when I'm cold.  Wait, I think they have that already - it's called a trench-coat.  Maybe flashers are just men having hot flashes...

I've been taking a sleeping pill every third evening, so that I can occasionally get a full night's sleep, but not get addicted to sleeping pills.  The after-effects of the pill stay with you for a bit, but so totally worth it to be able to sleep for more than 45 minutes at a time.     I've been walking around like a freaking zombie.  I can't do caffeine - because it's bad for hot flashes.  At turns, I'm grumpy and weepy... my family just has to guess which version of me they'll find.  It's like having a new baby or a puppy in the house.  I'm 44 frickin' years old.  Rissa was a baby a dozen years ago - I didn't  have the energy for no sleep when I was 32, I certainly can't pull an all-nighter now.  I can't stay up past 10:00 pm - unless I'm reading a good book.

I am praying with every fibre of my being that when my calcium channel blockers kick back in, this spate of Nachtschweiß will settle down.  If not, my mother assures me that "This too shall pass."  WHEN?!?  WHEN shall it pass?  "Well, my hot flashes stopped by the time I was... maybe... 63."   I can therefore optimistically say that it won't be two full decades of suffering then - just 18 years.   See, there's always a silver lining.

They'd get scared off by the smut...

I highly recommend Megan Hart's erotica

Friends want me to join them on "Goodreads."  I would, but I worry that they'd get scared off by the smut.  I read smut.  And lots of it.  I could varnish the truth and say I read romance, but really, it's smut.  I'm not dog-earing pages in these books to re-read passages for their pithy wording or great insights into philosophy.

That's not to say that I don't also read lit-ruh-cha... (please read that with a poncy upper class British accent).  I do.  I've read and continue to read Pulitzer Prize, Governor General and Hugo award-winning books.  Shakespeare's my guy!  It might be surprising to realize, but there is smut out there that is well-written.  And no, I ain't talking Fifty Shades of Grey.  I did a whole other post about that last summer.

It's just that I'd feel bad, say, if a friend who might have wanted a closer bond with me by looking through my "want to read" section, then panics when s/he discovers many of my titles might involve... threesomes featuring strong men with single syllable masculine names like Nick, or Zach or Jake spending all their waking hours pleasuring a woman whom they both love and worship.  Though honestly?  Most of the time I read for escapism and what better way for me to escape ... then to imagine two men making sure that my breasts are warm?  A gal has two breasts, she might as well have a mouth on each of them... I'm just saying...  But To Kill A Mockingbird is still totally my favourite book.

ps.  Thank you to Badger for reminding me of Tom Leher's take on SMUT

JK Rowling got it right...

A respectful deviation on Wingsdomain Art and Photography's - Quoth the Raven Nevermore

Picture, if you will, a raven.  Now imagine that raven on the inside of your skull.  Imagine that raven has its claws firmly around your eyeballs.  Your optic nerves haven't been severed... yet... but you can actually feel the claws around the eyeball.  That is what a migraine feels like.  Raven claws around your eyeballs."RAVENCLAW" The perfect description for an ocular migraine.  JK Rowling must get them.


Am I right?  Can I hear a "TESTIFY!!" from all the other ocular migraine sufferers?  It doesn't take the pain away, but knowing exactly how to describe it?  Gives some measure of comfort.  And it makes me feel like I know JK Rowling just that much better.  She's probably an asthma sufferer too - I mean, come on... HUFFLEPUFF?!?   I'm not saying that I'd fist bump her or anything upon sight, but I think we'd give each other this knowing, yet pained, looked.

Hooray for Bollywood!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=alpOkCbt5SU

Bollywood.  I want to be covered in Bollywood.  I want to wallow in its delicious colour and music.  I've been on the periphery for several years.  I saw Bride and Prejudice,  Monsoon Wedding and Slumdog Millionaire.  I love when So You Think You Can Dance assigns Bollywood as a dance style.  But last weekend?  Last weekend I experienced all that was Jhoom Barabar Jhoom.  There should be appropriately placed Bollywood Bangra music to accompany that last sentence.

It was perfection.  I had a big stupid grin on my face the whole time.  I was almost crying I was so happy.  Rissa and David thought that I'd lost my mind, but they didn't understand the brilliance of the film.  It was cheese from beginning to end.  Spontaneous dance numbers, over-the-top comedy, self-aware irony - PLUS (but wait there's more!) a seemingly endless dance competition sequence!  And yet... and yet in the midst of all of this... there were a couple of tender and true dramatic moments that honest to God, caught my breath.

I need more.  I need recommendations.  I want the best.  I want the worst.  I want to get on the ride again and wave my arms in the air shrieking with the all-encompassing joy of it.  I mean, sure, I can make my way through Netflix and just try everything...   Wait!  What am I saying?!? That's exactly what I'm going to do... The good, the bad, the ridiculous - I will discover it all.  BRING IT ON!!

I am now officially pretentious...

David bought me a single serving Bodum.  I have a freaking French Press.  I'm going to start using he word 'whom' from now on.

Thing is?  In its adorably wee and compact single coffee serving sized carafe, it makes a helluva good cup of coffee.  I feel so Cosmopolitan.  And pretentious.  I am prepared to accept the pretension because I am now enjoying my morning coffee so much more on account of the fact that it tastes like, well, coffee... instead of weak chicory-flavoured bark.

Death sucks

Big time.  Really a lot.  I mean, HOLY CRAP does death suck!  You think you're doing okay until the deathiversary happens.  That day bitch slaps you every time.  Four years gone and your heart ruptures all over again - an explosion of cardiac tissue splattering your rib cage and spine.

You struggle for breath. A sip of air dragged into your red-covered lungs.  How is it that you can still breathe without a heart?  Cling to a memory - one of the good ones - where you were laughing together, being silly.  That split-second of joy chased away by anger and sadness and pain.  The hurt.  Not as bad as when you first found out, not as bad as that first fortnight staggering through life without her in the world, but those waves of pain tearing through you, in the now, have you teetering on the edge of nausea.

And even though you know she wouldn't want you to wallow in it - to drown in that pain - you think you're entitled.  Just for today.  For today you will rage against the fucking senseless loss of her.  You can remember the good tomorrow.  But today, the anniversary of her death, you're going to wail, you're going to scream, you're going to pray for the calm to eventually return.  Tomorrow, you'll smile when you think of her, but today... today you're fucking decimated.

memoria meus amicus

Pouty Mc-Pouts-A-Lot...

In the continuing saga of how Heather is a brain-dead bunny...  Apparently, I caused my own withdrawal. Because why?  Because I am a moron.  I mean, seriously.  WHAT. THE. FUCK.  There should be a picture of me next to the "Do not operate heavy machinery" warning.  

Last week?  When I tried to circumvent the pharmacy staff to get the refills on my old angina prescription?  I didn't even need to. The pharmacy had already filled the scrip.  The day I went in.  A week before I ran out of meds.  They called my doc and he faxed it in, I guess.  But did the pharmacy call to tell ME they did this?  NO.  They did NOT.  So here I was, trying to tricky-dick my way around the system and I didn't even need to.    I should have double-checked with the pharmacy!  Why didn't I check with the pharmacy?!?  Because I'm a moron.  Because I forgot.  Because my body is being held hostage by thyroid and/or  peri-menopause symptoms!

This entire last week of me not being able to sleep because of horrendous hot flashes, nausea and chest pain?  Could have been completely avoided...  if I weren't a moron.  Next time, and there WILL be a next time, I'll send myself reminders through my email...  Or maybe, I should just hire an assistant to help me with all of this!  A fit, attractive, young man who could, you know, keep me on task.   By reminding me of my appointments... whispering hotly in my ear as he gave me scheduled back rubs...  I'm pretty sure that would keep me on the ball... so to speak...