[Please excuse typos. I’m tired from doing all of the things in this post.]
I’ve been living in the CF netherworld of not feeling great, but not feeling bad enough to go in for IVs. It’s like riding a mediocre wave for as long as you can before you fall into the water. I’m on colistin, so it’s not surprising that I only feel “okay.” When I go back on Cayston in December, which was planned that way, I’ll feel better. This is the time of year where I do my best to stay out of the hospital but know I’m one bad cold away from an infection. I wash my hands a lot, give people knuckles instead of a handshake, and touch door handles with my shirt sleeve. Oh, and I don’t kiss supermodels because who knows where they’ve been. I ain’t taking no chances this time of year, crazy tall lady who wants to break up my marriage.
Speaking of my obviously better half, my wife got me hooked on Angry Birds, which may not make her my better half right now. I’ve been resisting games on the iPad because they’re productivity killers (have you seen many blog posts lately?) She downloaded the game on her iPhone. I followed. Holy f**k. This game is like crack cocaine – not that I’d know what crack cocaine is like, but my supermodel friends tell me about it all the time. Angry Turds, as we call it sometimes to great laughter from my daughter, mirrors crack in two ways. First, you think you’re only going to play one or two scenes or puzzles or whatever they call them. Nope. You play 10 puzzles. It’s hard to stop. Second, you lie to yourself that if you start you can stop in five or ten minutes. “I can handle it. I can play at 11:45 p.m. and be done at midnight. Liar, liar. Argh. I feel like a junkie.
When I haven’t been playing the birds game, I’ve been watching the third season of Californication. I watched the first two seasons in the hospital and got hooked. (Lots of talk tonight about addictions. Nothing like my OCD maxed out.) Great show. California is a cool place to live if you’re a stud book writer. Or you live by the beach. Otherwise, it’s full of foreclosures and polluted air.
The process of buying a used car bites. Plain and simple. It’s not fun. It takes a ton of time to find the right car because unlike the stupid commercial that showed 40 red Mustangs pulling up to a driveway with one staying – the perfect car – it’s quite the opposite of having fun. It’s “let’s drive to faraway places to look at cars that don’t match the description in the ad.” Occasionally, it’s cool to see new parts of L.A. I drove to an area north of Sunset Blvd the other day. Old-school L.A. with narrow streets and no parking and big houses wedged together that cost millions of dollars. Very nice. I can only imagine the weekends in that area. A couple of Brits I know would party hard and wake up in a pool the next morning.
Work, work, work. What can I say. It’s work. I’ve been getting rush projects one after another, including the large one I had to keep moving while I was in the hospital and technically not allowed to work. But they didn’t mind me working because the work had to get done. Even not working the last week in the hole didn’t kill my deadlines. So there work gods, I got one over on you. Or did I? Who got hosed here? Nothing like pushing off all of your scheduled projects for ones that are “hot” and “urgent.” Madness, I say. Madness.
That’s it. That’s the update. Time to go play Angry Birds before I go to sleep. I can handle it. I’ll only play one puzzle. Just one. Yeah, that’s right. When’s the intervention?