A tribute to The Shingles

The shingles is potentially a really huge-ass blessing. Now hear me out on this, Internets. The past three days of sitting home all day (and staying up most of the night) has left me a little bit introspective, if not delirious, and there are actually some good things, nay, some great things I'm learning about myself through the shingles. I'm still in the midst of some of those lessons, but what I have for you today is "Little Ms. Notetaker's Top 10 Hottest Things About Shingles."

Number 10: It's not lymphoma. There was a period of 12 hours when my paranoid little mind was convinced that I was showing the symptoms of lymphoma. I knew I was being paranoid, but I still went there, because the mind loves it some worst-case scenario drama. Thankfully, it's just the shingles. Thank you, shingles... and WebMD, not so much.

Number 9: Nakedness. Almost everything annoys my sensitive skin right now. It's all prickly and tickly. Really the only cure is nakedness. Unfortunately, the properties right next to mine were built within sneezing distance of all of my main floor windows which doesn't allow for much nakedness, but that's okay because it leads me to number eight.

Number 8: Wearing your shirt like you did in the summers of your childhood. You know, like this:

When you can't be naked, wouldn't you like to be like this? Of course you would.

Number 7: Scratch marks. There are certain places I can scratch and certain places are off limits. So when one of those off limits places starts itching, I vigorously scratch some other part of my body, hoping to play some Vulcan mind trick on myself. It doesn't really work, but that hasn't stopped me from continuing to do it.

Number 6: Constant bed head. Bed head like that slightly tousled slightly greasy look; you know the one, like I just stepped out of the pages of Vogue, only I didn't. I just got up off the couch to be upright so I could take another mega dose of Vitamin C.

Number 5: Memoirs of a Geisha. In case you have a thing for ladies of the orient, in particular their kimonos and obis, a girl with the shingles is the girl for you. I've found that when all else fails, nothing soothes the itching more than swaddling myself with a blanket. If I wrap it as tight as I can around my abdomen, I'm offered a few minutes of temporary relief. And if you happen to have a thing for Geishas dressed in fleece Strawberry Shortcake blankets, well, then have I got the girl for you.

Number 4: Tweety bird. After my first visit to the doctor, I got a healthy dose of vitamin B12 injected into my rear. When I went to take a shower the next day, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and had a minor panic attack that the shingles had spread to my derriere and had taken the form of a very dark circle. Oh, wait. It's just a tweety bird band-aid from the doctor. As you were, LMNT.

Number 3: A year's worth of date movies all in three days. Movies viewed: 13 and counting.

Number 2: Not having to cook. Oh. My. Gracious. This is pretty close to being number one. I have been blessed with some phenomenal people in my life and they have coordinated meal deliveries. Being able to nurse myself back to health with yummy and nutritious food (yummy and nutritious food that I didn't have to make for myself) is beyond amazing. Unbelievable amounts of gratitude for my good Italian friend, for whom making sure people are well fed is top priority. Coach A mobilized the lovely ladies and their meals-on-wheels initiative. My itchy, but satiated belly thanks you.

Number 1: Knowing that I will probably (hopefully) never have the shingles again. Enough said.

Professional Back Scratcher needed. Apply within.

Internets, I have the shingles. The shingles! Shingles are NOT fun. No way, no how. What is fun, however, is self-medicating your shingles with frozen custard. What is also fun? Calling shingles "the shingles."

So, yeah. The shingles. Apparently LMNT is not immune to the diseases most commonly associated with those in their advanced years like shingles and pneumonia. What's next? Becoming a bad tipper? Slow driving? Beating down the door to the Golden Corral at 4:45 for the sunsetter's special?

Note to self: Relax.

If you're not in advanced age, shingles is usually caused by an extremely weakened immune system or from stress. When I went to see my doctor today, she asked me if I was really stressed out. I don't think so. I mean I'm always in a heightened state of high-strungedness, but I'm not any more stressed out than usual. I don't think it's work; if anything is stressing me out, it's all of life's extra-curricular activities, like: will I make it to the soccer game on time, do we have enough women to play in our flag football game, and can I assemble a team for a mini-golf charity event? Internets, apparently the adult co-rec activities in which I participate have caused a viral herpes outbreak on my back (a big fat you're welcome to all the 12-year-olds trapped inside of you that chuckled their way through that sentence).

So, sports are bad and the shingles are worse.

It started out as a rash on my back, not necessarily itchy but noticably present. Then there were the random bruise like pains in my groin and running down my rib cage. Something did not seem right, so last night I took to the web to feed my hypochondria through trusty website diagnosis. Shingles seemed an obvious choice. And actually there were several other somewhat obscure and fatal choices that to my brain seemed quite possible, nay probable, so I spent the better part of the night stressing out about the fact that I'd be lucky to be awake in the morning because I'd probably be consumed whole by the flesh-eating disease currently devouring my back. Remember the part about stress causing the shingles? Yeah, I don't think I was helping my own cause. Oh and looking at pictures of shingles on skin on the Internets (skinternets)? That didn't help my cause either.

So, I'm gonna try to get all zen, but it's a really hard state to achieve when I'm simultaneously prickling with the sensation that all the scratching in the world won't relieve this itch, and writhing from the pain of someone having kicked my ribcage into oblivion, and the back pain, and the swollen lymph nodes, and the rash, and the uncontrollable urge to strap anything colder than room temperature onto my lower back. Oh, and not to mention the doctor's recommendation to take 6 grams of vitamin C each day. You might think that's not a lot, but 6 grams is actually 12 normal doses of vitamin C. Count them (like you would if you were going to the ladybug picnic): 12 pills! And, by the way, that much vitamin C wreaks havoc on your intestines. But I'm going to be all zen about this as my body is trying to tell me something, and if I don't listen I think the vitamin C will smack me in the face, pull my hair, and threaten a swirly until I start listening.

See you later, alligator

They say, if you love something set it free and if it comes back to you it was meant to be. But I know for sure this one's not coming back. It was too good to be true, I knew it from the start.

I was driving home from work today in heavy stop-and-go traffic, all proud of myself for finding my "new to me" hubcap yesterday, when I came to a quick stop just to see that very hubcap roll across the freeway lane in front of my car. No no no no no no no! Awh, man. Blarg.

As I watched it roll, in super slo-mo and then come to rest in the lane next to me, I strongly considered pulling the emergency brake, hopping out and grabbing the wayward cap. Wasn't it destiny that this hubcap and I were reunited yesterday? I guess not. And I also guessed it was better that I didn't jump out of my car in the middle of the freeway during rush hour. And just like that, I've got to go reinvent my wheel.

Oh yes, I did.

Note to self: keepeth thine faith in the hubcap humanitarian.

Internets, guess what I found driving home from work today? Yep, a hubcap. But wait, not just any hubcap, a hubcap for a Volkswagen, a hubcap for a Volkswagen that matches the other three hubcaps on my Volkswagen. There it was in all of its glory propped up against a bus stop shelter, undoubtedly placed there by a selfless saint.

Was it my hubcap (the one I lost months ago)? Eh, probably not. Did I immediately pull over, walk down the street, pick it up, carry it back, and attach it to my wheel? You bet I most certainly did.

As I parked my car down the road, I hemmed and hawed about if it was the right thing to do. Was it wrong for me to go and grab that hubcap off the side of the road? And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it had to be the right thing. How many of those abandoned little hubcaps do I see every day? Too many to count. How many blog posts do I have to write about hubcap humanitarians? Okay, probably too many of those to count, too. But, even if that hubcap wasn't really mine, the simple act of pulling over and claiming it is exactly why hubcap humanitarians do what they do. So, it's not so much that I was stealing something that wasn't mine, but I was creating a virtuous cycle within the hubcap humanitarian community. And although it is highly likely that hubcap is not mine, I will love it as if it were my very own--it may be a little scratched up and has been living out on the street for quite some time now--I'm thinking a gently used, free hubcap is better than no hubcap at all.

They really do happen in threes

Remember how I am a manifester of all things chocolate? Like donettes and candy bars? What do they say, if it happens once it's random, twice it's a pattern? Well, what if it happens thrice? I think it's a true sign of my ESP: Extra Snack Power!

I made a special trip to the vending machine at work today, again. And, you guessed it I scored free candy, again. Peanut M&Ms this time. You'd have to be there to believe it; thankfully, AP was.

I keep thinking my candy karma might be coming to an end, and even thought I had run out today, for when I entered my selection the first package of peanut M&Ms got stuck and didn't drop. Both AP and I had the same reaction with matching sad trombone sound effect. But then, just when it seemed all hope for chocolate was lost, the machine revved up and spun me out not one, but two bags of M&Ms. AP squealed and did a happy little dance--which quite surprised the man getting coffee at the other end of the kitchenette.

And don't get me wrong (especially you, St. Macarius of Alexandria, patron saint of candy makers), I like the free candy and all, but I really need to figure out how to channel my ESP into other arenas. Until then, Internets, if you need stuff, chocolate stuff, you know who to call.

One for the Pants

Those of you that use Blogger may have noticed when you draft and publish your posts the program provides you with some example labels you could attach to your post, "scooters, vacation, fall." For as long as I've been blogging, I've always wanted to tackle the challenge of writing a post that incorporates all of those items. Guess what? I have one, and even better, it's a fitting tribute to dad on Father's Day.

Ah, Dad. Dad, Denny, Lenny, Leonard, DenPants. Lots of loving names for the ol' man I love so much.

When I think about him, it's hard not to think of the things that are so uniquely him, his Dennyisms, if you will. The Dennyism that is most memorable to me (other than his impersonation of the Incredible Hulk, but that's another story) is his stock response to injury. Regardless the severity of your malady, if you went running to dad you'd get the standard answer, "rub it." Stub your toe? Rub it. Trip down the stairs at the neighbor's house wearing high heels from the dress-up box and scrape your knee? Rub it. Slam your thumb in the car door, rip it out of said car door, see blood drip from under the nail bed, nearly faint? Go to the hospital and get an x-ray because it's clearly broken? No. Have you not learned anything? RUB IT! The man was nothing if not consistent.

Growing up, we'd frequently take mini-vacations up to the cabin our grandparent's had in the foothills of the Rockies. We use the term cabin loosely, as it wasn't a rustic log cabin, but it was a nice little getaway on a reservoir with a boat, some dirt bikes, and a couple of Vespa-type scooters. I remember my brother and I entertaining ourselves for hours out in the garage. We'd climb up into the boat and pretend to drive it, and when that got old, we'd sit on the scooters and make believe we were driving around getting groceries and whatnot, you know, doing the things you do on scooters. And then when that got old, we'd go in beg any of the adults to take us out for real rides on the scooters to get groceries or just do the things you do on scooters, which was mostly just ride them.

At the tender age of 12 (which at the time I'm sure made perfect sense), I had it in my mind that it was high time I learned how to drive the scooter. I wasn't really of a stature that could control the scooter, I was lanky, awkward, and klutzy, but by golly I was determined to drive that scooter all on my own! I had been plotting that time for at least a year and I know that I was completely fixated on learning how that entire weekend vacation.

Finally, my dad caved and agreed to teach me. We strapped on helmets and headed up the hill to some property that my grandpa owned where I could practice on wide, level space that was off the street. My brother came along too, on one of the little dirt bikes. It's important to note that this property is dirt and gravel--ideal for the little dirt bikes, maybe not-so-ideal for scooters operated by tentative scrawny first-time drivers.

After some brief instruction--dad, I got this, I ride this thing in my imagination ALL THE TIME in the garage, trust me, I'm a pro--away I go with the task of practicing big loopy figure eights. I'm great on the first straightaway, I feel the wind on my skin and it's all that I dreamed it could be. And then I get to my first turn. Now what was it he was saying about turning? Slow down a little? Lean into it? Hmm, I don't think I like driving scooters anymore. I think I'd like to stop--OH NO! Look out for that rock! Turn. Rock. Turn. Lean? Screw it. And just as I was taking the scooter over the rock, without a hint of lean in my body, I yank the handle bars as hard as I can to the right and fall off. Yep. I laid that scooter down, only that makes it sound much more graceful than it was. As I remember it, I got up, shattered ego and scraped elbow, the throbbing kind where you can feel the blood dripping down your limb. Crying from the embarrassment, frustration, and pain, I was done. I turned to my dad, hoping for some sympathy and what I got-- in what I am sure was the most sympathetic way he knew how? Yes. Rub it.

I lost it. In what I am sure was the most dramatic way I knew how, I exclaimed I would NOT be rubbing my arm because my elbow was gushing blood, it hurt, and THERE ARE ROCKS LODGED IN THERE and rubbing it would only grind them in more! I then informed him I would not be riding on that scooter back to the cabin and proceeded to walk my stubborn sobbing self (with my helmet still strapped firmly to my head) back down the hill.

My dad and brother seemed somewhat surprised at my response; I think that may have been one of the first times my dad realized he was raising a teenage girl. Oh the fun of teenage emotions he had in store, lucky lucky him. I didn't have the same mentality that he or my brother had, where a scrape and a little blood didn't stop you, in fact a scrape and blood made you keep on going. I had the mentality that a scrape and blood took the fun out of it and made me want to abandon the scooter and go home.

You'll be glad to know my elbow and ego both healed. Dad even helped me make it through the teenage years and into adulthood (with plenty of Dennyisms all along the way). And while I've not driven a scooter since that vacation, I have had several falls, and the first voice that pops into my head is always that of dad. And even if I don't take his advice every time, it's reassuring to know that he's always there ready to offer it, or to drive my scooter back home for me when all I can do is walk.

Thanks, DenPants, for everything. I love you, always.

Summer Repeats

A few nights ago, I was driving home and was listening to a local call-in radio program. The topic was the impact of the video game industry and as I pulled up to my house I heard a very passionate father lamenting that gaming has turned his once bright and studious son into a slacker. It wasn't so much what the father was talking about, but the emotion behind it that struck me. I knew what he was feeling; well, sort of, kind of, in a way. I mean, I knew the energy he had coursing through his veins. The energy that calls you to action and compels you to call a local radio show, to ask advice... about your teenage child.

Let me explain.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my VBFF, TIG, had a boyfriend who was a senior. He was old enough to go to rated R movies, vote, buy lottery tickets and tobacco products. And TIG and I, we were not that old--and let me tell you, we were i-n-n-o-c-e-n-t little goodie-two-shoes (I know, you're all completely shocked). We were co-presidents, and now that I think about it, really the only two members of the club STAND (Students Taking a New Direction). Funny thing, it wasn't so much that we were taking a "new" direction so to speak, we were taking the only direction we had ever known: the straight and narrow. No drugs, no alcohol, no sex, no rule breaking of any kind. I've said it here before and I'll say it again, we were so flippin' cool. But we didn't really care, we had so much fun in our own dorky innocent ways, that doing anything differently never even crossed our minds.

Back to the melodarama. One day, TIG finds a can of mint chew in her boyfriend's car and is completely beside herself. Where did that come from? Why would he have that? Doesn't he know who she is and what she STANDs for? Distraught, we determine the best solution is to call into the local radio psychologist.

WAIT, Internets. I was typing this post and realized, I'VE TOLD YOU THIS STORY ALREADY! Aren't I adorable? Yep, back in 2008. And you? You were you going to let me keep going, pretending you hadn't already heard it weren't you? All the while just nodding at me, smiling and thinking, "yeah yeah yeah and then your husband bought your step-daughter a mink and yadda yadda yadda. WE KNOW!" Okay, I'll spare you all that. But if you haven't read this post, you really should. It's hilarious. Long Time Listener, First Time Caller.

Note to self: Reduce, reuse, recycle: great for the environment and maybe reviving the readership.