Sunday, May 26, 2013

You know when you try to leave a comment on someone's blog or fill out an online form, how you are asked to type a string of nonsensical words to prove that you are not a robot?  I always get an uneasy feeling that I am slowly typing out a confession for something I haven't done over the course of years and years.  Like somebody is keeping track of every word I enter into these boxes and in twenty years a jury will hand down a sentence of GUILTY on the charge of VERteBRaE GOmmInG (which computer records prove I once typed) for which I will be SLOMmED in the BuRKlopS until my dear husband can scrape together enough DouGhNuT5 to pay my bail.
So what am I to do?  Typing the wrong nonsensical word only makes it madder, causing it to produce an even longer, crazier sentence that looks like it has been held too close to the fire or was spray-painted by a vandal riding a unicycle.


These are the thoughts that crowd my fevered brain as I try to cure myself of strep throat.  You see, Friday morning I woke up with an unpleasantly sore throat.  By the afternoon it became clear that dinner plans would have to be cancelled as I lay on the couch shivering under several blankets.  I watched a documentary on Absinthe and as my fever neared 102, I began thinking...Oooo Wooooormwood!  ...where can I get one??

This being a memorial day weekend, it is a well known fact that nobody will ever get sick or maimed during any holiday weekend so it is okay to close all doctor's offices and urgent care facilities.  Also, my doctor hasn't seen me for 4 years and won't call in a prescription without having seen me for so long because there is a chance that I have morphed into some kind of duck-billed creature or giant cockroach over the last few years and it would be wrong to prescribe medication to a giant cockroach without looking down its throat first.

Some years ago I got strep while living far away from anybody I knew with no car or doctor money and wound up with a fever of 104 and thinking the microwave was plotting with the hairdryer to kill me.  I knew if I didn't do something with current strep, the appliances would try again.  So on to the trusty internet to cure myself.

First up was a horrible concoction of minced garlic, honey and cayenne.  I was supposed to cram 1/4 tsp of the wretched stuff down my miserable gullet every half hour and let it sit on the back of my throat for a few minutes.  How anybody is supposed to let something sit on the back of their throat without choking is a mystery to me.  So now my throat hurts, I am trying not to throw up, and my breath could wilt a giant sequoia.  My house smells like I am fending off a colony of vampires.

That is when I decide that whatever the cure will be, it will NOT involve raw garlic.

Next is a mixture of apple cider vinegar, honey and water.  I write this as I gingerly sip my acrid brew at 5:30 in the morning and hope it doesn't turn me into a giant cockroach.



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