Boondock Ramblings

Feeling "unprofound"

Lately I've been reading a lot of profound writing, good writing, writing that makes you want to be a better writer. Only it doesn't seem to be helping me become a better writer. Instead, I seem to be floundering in a sea of mediocrity, slipping further and further from a firm shore of successful prose.

I feel "unprofound." I lack profoundness. I am void of anything profound.

I've always been a writer -- even if it was to write "Brian O. is sooo cute!" in my small, brown diary with a lock on it. One would think that over time I would have gotten better. Instead, lately, I feel stagnant, stuck in a rut.

Being sick hasn't helped the situation at all. My energy has been absolutely drained -- emotional energy, physical and mental. Gone. All of it. I am left with slush and ooze and a strong desire to simply lay in bed and cry. Only crying would require energy and I don't have any, so I would probably lay in bed and just stare. Or just lay in bed. Like a slug. I'd like to be a slug right now. That seems like a good profession. Being sluggish is my area of expertise right now.

I'm hoping I can pull myself out of this funk soon and actually settle on something interesting to write about. Life is pretty slow right now, with all of the family being sick. There are things I'd like to write about, but hesitate to because I'm already in enough trouble with some of my family after a grumpy weekend of grunting and glaring.

I'm counting on all of you to write for me. Be profound, or don't be, but just write. And I'll read. Hopefully I can find enough mental power to also comment and say more than, "Wow."

Somedays are for being cranky

I'm cranky today. More than that, I'm still sick and pissed about it. This cough won't go away. It holds on and refuses to let go and that makes me mad. I'm missing out on quality time with my 3-year old because all I can do is sit, stare and scowl.

I'm missing out on time with my husband because everything he does drives me nuts and I don't know why.

I want to feel better. I want this junk in my chest to clear out.

I'm grateful my son clung to me most of the day and is feeling better, but I want to feel better too. I know, I sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum and I feel like one too. I want to throw myself on the floor, kick and scream and yell: "It's not fair! I want to feel better!"

I feel like I'm getting a panic attack from it all and that would be piss me off even more.

The only thing making me smile today? The fact my toddler no longer believes it is necessary to wear clothes. He pulls off his diaper, underwear, jeans, shirt and roams the house naked. Today he agreed to wear underwear, but not to sit on the potty. It was a fight to get him to do that and he ended up peeing all over the floor. No, he's not yet fully potty trained -- if you hadn't guessed.

After the drama of the potty he has since remained naked. I'm sure before long he'll be chanting what he was last night, "naked butt! naked butt!" while slapping his naked bottom and giggling.

"I love you too."

You and I were both feeling feverish and achy. We popped in Wall-E, which Daddy and I had bought for your birthday.

We curled up under a blanket on the chair and Daddy went upstairs to update his status on Facebook and check his e-mail. You leaned your head against me.

"I sick," you said.

"I know. So am I," I said.

After battling a cough, fever and chills all weekend I was feeling like a truck had run over me a few times.

"Better," you said.

"You feel better?" I asked.

"No!" you said.

"You want to feel better?" I asked.

"Uh-huh," you said softly.

I kissed the top of your head.

"I love you Jonathan."

"I love you too," you said, your tone of voice similar to daddy's when he says the same words as if to say "Well, duh. Of course I love you."

My heart melted.

You'd never said those words back to me before, without being prompted.

Suddenly having the flu wasn't so bad after all.

Hosted by Cecily and JENNIFER

I have a post up about my new camera at Views Beyond the Lens.

I think I may have angered some folks

I'm not a fan of 'Twilight.' If you are I'm sorry for what I wrote on Powder Room Graffiti this week.

A three-year old's birthday . . .

He woke up looking for toys and answering our questions of "How old are you?" with, "Tree!"

He didn't seem to understand the whole "birthday" concept even this year, but nodded his head in agreement when we told him he would have to wait to open his gifts until he arrived at grandpa and grandma's for his party.

He almost ruined the entire "surprise" thing when it comes to gifts after he pushed open the closed bedroom door and discovered the wrapper from his Superman costume. 

Maybe it was weird, but I'd bought him the Superman costume on clearance, left over from Halloween, of course. He'd had the same costume last year and had loved it (wearing it only after Halloween, not on Halloween). Now with a Spiderman costume left from this Halloween, he could be whichever favorite superhero he wanted on any given day. Except Ironman. I haven't got that costume for him yet. Or Green Lantern. Ah crap. Next year, I guess.

Grandma and Grandpa had gone all out for the "party", which turned out actually to be a family dinner, since illness throughout the family kept cousins and aunts and uncles grounded. Instead I simply exposed my parents and aunt to the dreaded Swine Flu (before realizing I had it, but suspecting I did.) Grandma had purchased Spiderman decorations from a tablecloth, to plates, napkins, cups and a banner.

The biggest hit of the day? Green Lantern in all his green costume glory.

Second biggest hit? Handy Manny. Later the next day it was the Lincoln logs from Grandma and Grandpa which got some attention. On the actual day, Grandpa seemed to have the most fun with those logs.

Really, there isn't much to say about "the day" or "the party." It wasn't overwhelming. It wasn't terribly exciting.

Yet it was all of that because Jonathan turned three and the world did not explode; tantrums were not thrown; a crumpled face did not transform my cherubs smile into the Devil's snarl. No, that "Terrible Threes" I braced myself for did not come that day, nor the next.

Eh, who am I kidding? It's only been a few days. The Terrible Threes could be just around the corner.

But, if there are days this good mixed in between those bad days then I can handle it.

See more photos of Jonathan's birthday HERE.

Don't go to the doctors when you are sick. . .

Somehow they seem nicer when you're not sick. 

The woman behind the counter slapped the sign-in sheet and a pen on top of the counter without even looking up from her computer. I signed Jonathan and I in, slipped my face mask on and stumbled into the waiting room with 15 other bleary-eyed, feverish patients.

"Mumble. Mumble. Mumble. Garble."

My ears are stuffed. Did that woman just call my son's name? He hasn't been here before. Maybe they need his information.

"I'm sorry, did you say Jonathan?"

She looks up at me, expression hovering between bored and annoyed.

"I said 'Looouiseeee Joooohnnnnson," she clips, dragging out each syllable of the woman's name so I knoooow what an idiiiiioooott I am.

"Oh. Sorry."

An hour and a half later we're seated in the examine room. The nurse would smile if she could, but she can't because her face would most certainly crack.

"I guess I can take this off. You've had all your shots right?" I quip, slipping off the mask.

She stares at me, expressionless.

"My shots?" she seems indignant. "No. I'm allergic to the shots."

"Oh." I slip the mask back on, properly shamed into obedience.

"So. What's going on with Jonathan today?" she types hard onto the keyboard and doesn't look up.

In my feverish state I verbally wander between Jonathan's symptoms and my own.

She looks at me out of the corner of her red glowing eyes and I think I see horns pushing up through the mounds of curls on top of her head.

"I can only do.one.patient.at.a.time," she snaps. "Let's stick with Jonathan, shall we?"

I'm ready to walk at this point, but I don't. Because I'm sick. But more importantly because I want to be sure Jonathan isn't sick too. So, I'll put up with the curt behavior of our "health care professionals."

She seems to loosen up a little, but leaves the room without a good-bye or a "the doctor will be with you in a moment." Her bedside manner? Yeah, needs a little work.

The doctor is a different story all together. She breezes in with a smile and a concerned, "So, we're not feeling very well in this room are we?"

Soon she's launched into how bad this H1N1 has been hitting everyone and how the symptoms last for so long even after the sickness seems to go away. She is wonderful with Jonathan. He lets her look in his ears, down his throat, and listen to his lungs. She says he's fine.

My lungs are not so clear and she prescribes albuterol for me. We're to keep an eye on Jonathan, stay on top of his fever and mine and that's it. We're done. She prints out my diagnosis and oddly enough it doesn't say H1N1, even though that's what she said it was. Diagnosis? "Flu Syndrome."

Close enough.

She writes me a doctor's excuse for work, not even mentioning what she diagnosed me with, simply saying for "medical reasons" I need to stay home. At least it didn't say "mental reasons."

But I can only stay home a day and a half, not the seven days she wanted. I don't have vacation or sick days left and each day I'm gone I slip further into poverty.

This H1N1 has already cost me a couple hundred dollars; my energy; my sanity; my health; the health of my family (Hubby is now coughing and has the chills and Jonathan is coughing a little too) and my concentration.

Con.cen.traaation. Hee. Hee. That's a funny word.

Did I mention it's fried my brain?

*snort*

Who are you people again?

*Updated to add...does any of this post make sense? Somewhere in the middle I started blacking out.