This is the morning report

WELL. 2011 found me up betimesish, mental, and writing terrible, maudlin love poetry that should never ever see the light of day. Have I ever done this before? I have not. I hesitate over the delete button, however, because my future self derives perverse enjoyment from mocking my weakened, pitiful, inferior past self.

I had (have?) an upper respiratory infection (Merry Fuckmas) that has lasted for about 9 days. I slept through most of Christmas but managed to see the present opening and say “Mmmhmm” and “Oooh” and “You’re welcome” at the right moments. It still hurts when I breathe a little but I think I’m on the mend. Look ma, I’m writing. I tried to get an appointment to my clinic but I was too late, and damned if I’m going to show up at the ER on New Year’s weekend. So looks like it was viral, rather than bacterial? What do I know about these things.

I did not cook for Xmas. I did not cook my final Victorian meal. I didn’t mind, really. I’ve had plenty of practice. I am gearing up to write my final essay on The Queen’s Scullery. I had planned on it earlier this week. It’s okay. I did really well this year with meeting all of my goals and life happens.

At 11:45 last night I was swigging my familiar friend Theraflu (I’ve been rotating drugs so as not to build up a tolerance just like our pal ELVIS) and lay down in bed, waiting for the clock to strike. The neighbors were out full force, banging on pots and pans and shaming my indolent self, who is at least 20 years their junior. Moonpants got into the act a few minutes later and was outside bellowing HAPPY NEW YEAR!! Or at least someone who sounds just like him.

I am happy about something! My vacuum cleaner died this morning. This seems very auspicious to me. I hated that thing for six years. However, it exhaled some kind of horrible stink on expiring that still hangs in the air. An awful melange of burnt rubber and rot. Further examination revealed that it is not simply the belt, or a hair jam. Some kind of spindle has completely fused. Can the patient be saved? NO. Good.

The bad news is that I am wrestling with cleaning the couch. There was some serious confusion in Goethe’s mind about where the litterbox was when she first came home. The beloved Lund Bjuv took the hit. She seems to have gotten over this confusion but the couch has not. I would make a Faustian bargain not to have to tear this thing apart again, but I am glad it’s IKEA “crap” instead of a quality couch, which would be ruined by a cat pee assault. I have hit the unwashable parts with enzyme stuff, and the cover has taken a trip through the washing machine. Hooray!

Xmas Steve came, and he was wretched. He even sampled some of the girls’ gingerbread houses. Strudel was VERY unimpressed by her corncob pipe. (“I CAN’T SMOKE WITH THIS THING! SMOKING IS STUPID!”) Franny hated her thrift store soccer trophy.

My favorite present was from my seamstress.

A Mondrian lozenge rendered in the medium of “pillow.”

Rancho Asshole Xmas Tally.
Members hit by vomiting: 2
Members hit by colds: 4
Members hit by upper respiratory infections/pneumonia: 1
Number of times I said “FML”: 4,002

Happy New Year!

4 thoughts on “This is the morning report

  1. I get so much mirth out of Christmas Steve. Fuck, that photo of Strudel looking at that corncob pipe like WTF. I am crying laughing.

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