Head-iquette

I decided to have a man weigh in on the bathroom exchange. Today's question: You're standing in line with 5 men in a bathroom. Do you talk with each other? Make eye contact? Open your wallets and rave about the mutiple compartments?

Kevin tells me that male bathroom ettiquette decries making eye contact. With anything. And small talk is limited to the observation that the place could stand to have more bathroom space.

They also don't chat at the sink, comb their hair, refresh their makeup, brush their teeth with their finger or contort around in the full length mirror to see if their butt looks big in those jeans.

Bathroom Talk

I was stranded in line in the women's bathroom at an interstate McDonald's. Sandwiched in between a lady with a Vera Bradley bag the size of a compact car and a lady with a Coach tote that could comfortably carry a soccer team.

Coach leans past me and gushes over VB. VB unzips to show her many pockets, pouches and matching zippered wallets. Not to be outdone, Coach slides a hand over her smooth leather then deftly unzips to reveal her expandable girth.

If this isn't maddening enough a bodiless voice chimes in from a stall then sticks out a patchwork Coach hobo with pockets inside and out. Stall Number Two springs to life and a green Kate Spade combo of shoes and bag appear above and below the door along with a verbal discourse on the wonderful pockets to be found inside. There is a chorus of admiration from the hair-combing, hand lotioning, lip coloring group clustered at the sink. (OK, I'll own it; the shoes were outrageously cute and I wanted to ask where and how much...)

My mother used to warn me about bathroom talk. To be honest, I think she meant my sailor-esque language but I'm not taking any chances here. I try to stay in stealth mode.

I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb--I'm not packing a purse and I'm the only one who hasn't made a contribution to this edifying exchange. VB and Coach look expectantly my way. I wish for a Dooney & Bourke clutch or something stunningly purple from Cole Haan. Mother's warnings be damned, I rise to the occasion, dig my hands into the pockets of my jeans and pull the linings inside out.

"Wrangler. Five pockets. Two topstitched in the back, a nifty little coin pocket that's unusable but cute as hell and two deep front ones that'll hold 5 maxipads, 7 tampons and a large Hershey bar."

The sighs of envy are audible.

Oh the Places You'll Go...

Kevin's been away all week for business. My first week of staying alone since I moved here. Used to love the alone evenings when he traveled and I was still working. Twelve hour days with a boatload of busy toddlers and preschoolers has a way of making you appreciate quiet. That really deep quiet of alone.

A week's worth of 24/7 alone quiet is a little more disconcerting.

So I've explored a few places that I have seldom or never been since moving here.

The dumpster. I do believe this is the first time I've taken out the trash since I moved here. I can see the reality of why I've avoided this place even though the lie I used to tell myself was that it was good for Kevin to get some fresh air into those chemotherapy infused cells.

The Forbidden Closet. Followed closely by the power switch on the vacuum cleaner. Things I've rarely seen. I'm keeping that door closed in the future. Vacuuming is over-rated anyway. I saw things in that closet that I haven't seen since Sweeney had to give up garage occupancy at our house.

***note to self. never trust a man when he says he'll "take care of it" if "it" involves the disposal of any of his tools, tape, nuts, bolts, screws, jars of general crap and unrecognizable bits of wire and twine***

Under the bed in the guestofficeexercisesurplusjunk room. Wow. I am never again going to doubt the man's ability to pack after seeing the vast quantities of stuff he's stowed under one puny queen sized bed.

The Storage Shed. There are spiders in there. At least one of which I am certain starred in a Harry Potter movie. Bad place.

The drive-thru feed & seed barn. Sure I've been there before as a passenger, but never before have I had the heady experience of being in the driver's seat and placing the order. Oh the power!

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!
You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own.
And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.
--Dr. Seuss

Technology Hostage Taking

I love communications technology. Voice mail. Email. Love 'em. I don't mind if a machine answers and gives me 10 choices, 9 of which involve other machines.

Except when it doesn't deliver. Then I fight the urge to throw my computer across the room. I expect an equal input/output ratio.

Yesterday I typed in the web address from last week's lab visit. Plugged in the appropriate information so everything could be cross checked to be sure I am me. (because the world is brimming with identity thieves who want to be an unemployed middle aged woman with complex hyperplasia) Came up with "We have your results. Please contact your doctor's office to review the results and discuss further treatment guidelines."

Crap. I try it agin just to see if there's a glitch in the software. Nope. So does this mean the whole online results thing is just a taunt to tell you that they are holding your information hostage? Or does it imply that something is less than normal? And who cares anyway, whatever the results are, they are MY results and I want them delivered as promised, ONLINE. Isn't there some sort of right of ownership implied in my payment?

Crap again. This is going to mean an "encounter." I call the office, listen through the choices and realize I'm going to have to talk to a real person. Who then gives me someone's voice mail.

I leave a message, one that clearly says I have checked with the lab and am following their instructions to contact the doctor. Please call me back at xxx...

The next day arrives and no one has returned my call and the stupid online site still advises that I call my doctor if I want to know whatever it is that it knows. Now I'm annoyed. I have a hostage situation with my lab results and I'm being ignored by the lady with the nice voice on the doctor's office voicemail.

I hate being "THAT patient" even more than I hate technology that doesn't give me answers on demand so I'll wait until my next appointment. Which I won't miss because a machine will call me the day before with a reminder.

Brown Bag Biking

One of the nice things about small town living is that you can get almost anywhere by bike. I had an appointment in town and decided to ride the mile and a half distance on my bike.

There are two genres of bike riders around here. The ones decked out in biking clothes and helmet with little rearview mirrors. They say things like "On your left" as they zip by in a blur on the bike trail.

Then there are the riders who bike because the Chevette finally crapped out or that fifth DUI was a deal breaker with the judge. Their bikes are on auto-pilot for the local UDF and the discount tobacco store. They wear NASCAR caps instead of bike helmets. Some of them bike with their water bottles wrapped in discrete brown paper bags.

I have an entirely different bike image in my Mind of Make Believe. Aqua blue bike with a cushy seat, easy to reach handlebars, a wicker basket on the front (with wildflowers in it) and a bell. I think it's on an ad for an osteoporosis drug; toned and trim middle aged woman pedaling her bike along a small town street with a bag of healthy produce peeking out of one of those baskets on the back. And the bell on the handlebars. The bell really factors large in my Make Believe Bike World.

Sometimes I get bit in the ass by my own fantasies. And I don't mean that kinky fun way we all secretly love.

I'm riding home and see a man selling sweet corn out of this truck. I want another dozen ears for the freezer so I stop to buy some. "This will be very cool," I think, "riding my bike home with my fresh sweet corn..." I like the fantasy so much that I buy TWO dozen ears of corn and the guy selling it is so taken with the novelty of selling sweet corn to the lady on the bike that he chucks in a few extra ears as he's quadruple bagging the stuff.

First pinprick in my cloud of fantasy....I don't have a basket--either front or back--on my bike. Mr. Sweet Corn and I MacGuyver the bag handles around my handlebars. Steering is now a bitch but I tell myself it's pretty much a straight shot home, I can just sort of lean to the right when it's time to turn off the highway.

They don't sell sweet corn by the pound and now I know why. No one could afford it. Thirty ears of sweet corn weigh about as much as a small child and balance half as well on your handlebars.

And somehow the ride home, the one that looked so level in my mind when I thought about it early this morning, is slightly uphill. I explained a few days ago that I am gravity challenged when it comes to uphill travel. My bike is wobbling with the hill effort and the effects of draft every time a car whizzes past on the highway. In my Biking Land of Make Believe the drivers cruise much slower. Probably so they can hear my little bell ring back at them when they wave a cheery hello. In Real World Time the cars zip by at 60 miles an hour which leaves them unable to hear the loud expletive I shout in their wake. I would give a one fingered wave but it takes both hands and some serious shoulder work to keep the bike on the road.

I know people driving by are looking for my discretely brown-paper-bag wrapped water bottle.

An ear of corn falls out of the bag. Then another. And another. I don't stop. What's the chance of being able to get this machine moving again? Each time my knee smacks the bulging bag another ear of corn falls to the ground.

I get home with 24 ears of corn and less of my dignity. I drop my bike in the grass and drag the corn through to the patio. I may have creamed corn in the freezer this year.

Back outside to retrieve my bike. I see a bike rider go past, a guy with a frequent flyer card from UDF. He's got a brown paper wrapped bottle in one hand, an ear of corn in the other and corn sticking out of each pocket. There's another ear of corn shoved down the front of his wife beater T shirt. He looks like an animated scarecrow as he gives me a wave with the ear of corn.

Make Believe Bike Land shatters as I imagine beaning the guy in the back of the head with my little bell. I grab a brown paper bag wrapped drink of my own to nurse my fractured dignity while I clean two dozen ears of slightly battered corn.

"Here's Your Sign," Part II

Dear Universe, Karma, Fate, *OD/God,

Thank you for sending me such a clear sign that you not only created cookies, you want me to eat them. Even the missionary bake sale cookies. While cleaning the freezer today and repacking the white chocolate/lime cookies (yech...whose idea was that flavor anyway?), I found the half dozen peanut butter cookies lurking in the bottom of what I thought was an empty bag.

Now could you be a little more definitive about the last chocolate cupcake?

L.

PS I know it's already been done but if you want to try a twist on the loaves and fishes thing, I'll leave the empty peanut butter cookie bag in the freezer.

"Here's Your Sign..."

Why does life continue to throw so many insane, crappy,outrageously ridiculous, stupid interesting, yet unbloggable, moments my way? Things I can't mock chronical online lest world peace be compromised, the global economy become unstable or potential employers refuse to ever give me a job.

Oh wait...

Anyway, the "here's your sign, stupid" moments of interaction with real life others will have to be saved for in person whispers and swearing to never reveal. Sometimes even changing the names is not enough to protect the idiotic. All of which means you, gentle reader, are left with the undirected wanderings of my mind.

Dear Universe, Karma, Fate, *OD/God,
If a woman eats the cookies she made for the missionary bake sale, will she end up in a black hole, be reincarnated as a housefly or go to hell? What if she's me? I'm not really saying either way but, just in case my overall self has been so bad lately that the cookie eating would be a deal breaker, it would be good to know.
In the interest of total honesty, she also saved the best two ears of corn for her dinner tonight from the 2 dozen she was preparing for the freezer today.
To build her own defense, the bake sale has been postponed indefinitely and she'll make some new fresh cookies (plus a few) when it is rescheduled. But you should already know that part because you are whatever/whoever you are.

L.

PS If you can't ring up with a direct answer, please send a sign. Can you at least give me some odds on how much further I'll be in if the last chocolate cupcake comes up missing?

PSS Please don't send bugs as a sign. Or a flood. Or global warming or perpetual darkness. Let's keep it simple; maybe a post-it on the frig.

Senior Adult Moments

We're sitting on a bench at the outlet mall tonight and I'm sharing the indignation of my certain age moment (see 07/21) with Mr. L.

"and then she sez, 'when you sneeze or cough does a little urine ever leak out'....Whatthehey! When did that question land on MY list? Certain age, my happy ass..."

Thinking of his own experiecnce with exams, rectal cancer, treatment and side effects, Mr. deadpans back with "Next time tell her 'No, but sometimes when my husband sneezes he shits himself.' "

You probably have to know that Mr. L. rarely swears in my hearing range so it always gets my attention or you need to be over a certain age to understand why I laughed so hard I cried.

Damn. Who knew the act of laughing was so closely related to sneezing and coughing.

Cyber-cise...size...

I went for a walk this afternoon. Just to enjoy the absence of rain and occasional bursts of sunshine. OK, not totally true, partly as a counter balance against the 2 cookies, orange soda and meatloaf sandwich (yes, it's true. Every bite. Now shut up.) that called itself "lunch."

This corner of town has too many hills. And, courtesy of the previously confessed cookies, soda and meatloaf, this body isn't made for hills. Uphill is a simply a gravity thing, the forces of nature are firmly against the propelling of this butt up that hill. Any hill. Even a gentle incline. Downhill wages war with the left knee. It just hurts. Probably due to the impact of that butt pounding along above it for every step.

So I crawled home (Until today I thought my truck was tricked out with every gadget possible. Now I know what it really needs is a tracking device where I push a button and it drives itself directly to wherever I am. Like halfway down a hill with a gimpy knee, an overweighted ass and a bad attitude.), shook the meatloaf crumbs out of the keyboard and surfed the internet. Surfing is exercise, right?

Thursday Thoughts...

...what the heck happens to a blog post that looks fine when you write it and then you publish it, drop in for a look see and your carriage returns between paragraphs have multiplied like rabbits in a clover field? What kind of demons are at work here?

... my wake up call today was oldest daughter with a verbal mental wander about what she would do with her morning communte when I die. Tomorrow. She said "Tomorrow." Now I'm wondering if she has inside information. I suggested that hopefully by the time I die she will have MADE A FRIEND. She reiterated "Tomorrow" with more emphasis. Remember you read it here. Someone call the cops if I don't wake up in the morning. They can call my kid and keep her company on her commute.

...there are horrible scary things that visit my backyard in the dark. Bugs with pinchers on their butts. I was out there tonight with my camera trying to get a picture of fireflies when the butt pincher bugs showed up. I'm going to have to do a search on bug reproduction because it looks like it might be challenging....

...what cruel and heartless rat put that mirror on the back of the door in the second bedroom? The one that had the flabby chick with the graying part line staring at me when I reached behind the door to pull out a mat board? Apparently it's a portal to a parallel world, one I'm never going to visit because I do not want to get to know the mirror chick.

...someone invited me to join their Facebook group today. I had to decline because I don't have a Facebook account. I consider it sometimes, out of sheer nosiness to know whatthehell is the big deal. But I keep coming back to the conclusion that my wall would be empty. Or worse, filled with posts from people I don't really want to talk to. Is there a friendly way to send a message of "NO!" when someone asks to be your friend on facebook and you don't want to let them into your inner sanctum? I don't think so. And then you have all these "friends" you're not all that keen to be friendly with and they probably feel the exact same way about you. Me.

...wet cool Thursdays aren't much better than rainy cold Wednesdays. They're worse actually because they've added 24 hours to the misery. I need sunlight. It makes me nicer. Not nice, nicer.

Whose List Is This?

After a nearly two decade long sabbatical I've become reaquainted with the inner workings of the doctor's office. I counted the other day and realized that if the recommendation is for a yearly visit, in the last 12 months I have made up for 17 years worth of skipped visits. Or better yet, banked ahead for the next 17 years.

Either way, I am there far too freakin' often.

There's a standard list of questions the medical assistant asks at every visit.

"Age?" "Forty-five minutes older than I was when I filled out the 'Age' line on the form the front desk lady gave me when I walked in here...."

"Date of your last...(fill in the blank with a half dozen closed door moments)" "Last week... Last month... I can't remember... This morning... Forty-nine minutes ago as I was leaving home to come here... Huh? Never, not once, not even for money."

"When you cough or sneeze does a little urine ever leak out?" "Whoa! WHAT? WHAT? "

"Oh, we ask that of every patient over a certain age. It's a very common problem for women especially if you've had several kids..."

Whose list is this anyway? WHEN did THAT question get on MY list?? Who decided it was more pertinent in my health profile to stop asking about my sex life and start asking how often I wet myself? Twenty years ago I know I was not being asked if I peed myself when the cat got too close and triggered a sneezing fit.

note to self.....like it or not, you ARE over a certain age....

note #2 to self...damn kids.

I Love Techonology

The ever so favored by women "annual." The girl at the desk even called it that when she scheduled next year's an entire year in advance. "Do you want to schedule your annual now?"

Took me a minute to think that one through. My idea of "annual" doctor visit involves decades between not twelve short months.

The woman's annual check up is full of stuff we endure and men think is nothing compared to them having to stand sideways and cough while someone watches. We used to at least be able to feel a little equality knowing men were eventually going to have to endure a friendly DRE by their doctors. And now damn if they haven't incorporated a similar maneuver into our annual exams!

"And you're doing this why?" "To check your uterus and ovaries." "I think we need to talk about geography..."

My punishment reward for skipping the April D & C was another endometrial biopsy. It's just as well to have that biopsy sneak up on you so you're not pre-planning how miserable it's going to feel.

If men had uteruses they would be put to sleep for these biopsies. For a week.

After a chat with the NP, I caved and scheduled the D & C. They get you in a weak moment when what you're thinking is, "Good. No more endo. biopsy" instead of the obvious, "Holy Crap, another D & C." The helpful scheduler pushed it ahead on the calendar because of the 4 month lapse since April. And because she knew I was already thinking of reasons to cancel.

FWIW, I think "Better safe than sorry" is a pointless phrase and I'll probably have more to say about it later even though I've agreed to the D & C now.

I did get one neat tidbit out of the morning. A website where I can input my pertinent data and get the results of my PAP online. Now that's cool. No waiting for a phone call. No listening to someone else read the highlights and wondering just how interpretive their account might be.

No talking to a real person. No encounter. I love technology.

I used to like being a girl...

One of my least favorite machines called today. The one that reminds me of appointments with the gynecologist. I ignored the machine in March, then the real life person who called to schedule the April D & C. I was busy--Kev's colonoscopy, Kate's baby, there was enough bodily invasion to go around in our family so I rationalized that my July appointment would be soon enough to talk about it.

I feel better than I did last summer. Which is pretty much the same as being all better, right? I'm big on the 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' approach when it comes to my body. And, with the exception of the last year of rebellion, my uterus and I have had a pretty good working relationship for many years with minimal interference from outsiders.

People (yes, I mean me people, not people people. But it makes me feel better to globalize certain behaviors and this is my blog...) do totally stupid things in the doctor's office. Like carefully folding their underwear inside thier pile of clothes so they can sit naked beneath a scanty open backed gown with a flimsy paper sheet over their lap while they wait for the doctor. Who will then touch, poke, prod, scrape and visually inspect places never seen by the occupant of said body. But at least the underwear will be safely tucked out of sight. Wouldn't want anyone to see anything personal, would we?

Fair Play

Quick trip over and back from Indiana today. Oddly, the baby's parents did want him returned ( I think they're afriad we're going to ruin him. Shows what they know. We are far too old and tired to intentionally wake a sleeping kid for some middle of the night rocking chair time.) We tagged the return-the-kid trip with a chance to visit Haylee and her cupcakes at the fair. CareBears this year.

I remember last summer when Kev's big pleasure was being well enough by mid-July to indulge in a little fair food. Everyone walked away satisfied today--Haylee with her blue ribbon cupcakes and Kevin with his ribeye steak sandwich and hot butter dripping sweet corn.

Travel Light in Life...

...take only what you need.....a Port-a-crib. Bouncy chair. Car seat. Base for car seat. A dozen blankets. Cloth diapers to wipe his face. Disposable diapers for the rest of him. Baby wipes to wipe any area covered by the dispoable diapers. Baby bath gel. Baby Wash Cloth. Baby bath tub. (In my parenting years the baby bath tub doubled as the kitchen sink in it's off duty hours.) Special dishwashing detergent to wash his bottles. Clothes. Many, many clothes. (which grew exponentially in number once I decided he needed the next size up. Of everything.) Pacifier. Auxillary pacifier in case the unthinkable happens and the preferred plug is lost. Shoes. (His feet have never touched the floor, but shoes are an essential part of the outfit.) Hat. Toys. (Like we're going to distract him with anything beyond our own leering grandparent faces.)

We just unloaded the last of the baby stuff from the car last night and already it's time to start packing up for the Return The Baby trip tomorrow. His parents are still, obviously, in the starry-eyed newness of parenting since they want him back.

We won't leave until early tomorrow morning, but the ritual of Packing Up The Baby's Crap Necessities began in earnest tonight. How can one little baby need so much stuff? Shouldn't there be some sort of weight to baby ratio? Two pounds of stuff for each pound of baby?

Forget buying a puppy for this kid; he needs a pack mule.

Baths, Bottles and Bedtime

Indiana this week. Got to enjoy Kate and the Flapjacks at Purdue's Summer Concert Series, see Hannah collect a blue ribbon with honors for her first venture into 4-H photography and bring the baby home for a visit. Without his parents. Drive home went well although my arm was numb from repeatedly reaching into the backseat to poke the kid. Just a little poke every so often to make sure he was traveling ok. Baby sleeps all night now and brings his own bed and blankets--making him a near perfect house guest as far as I'm concerned. Did the whole baby bath time routine tonight. Definitely a change from our usual late evening hours. A soothing bath, a bottle, some low lights...ok, so maybe it's not so different from our usual late evening hours. Anyway, it worked like a charm and grandpa and baby are both sacked out soundly.

Kate and the Flapjacks at Purdue

This is summer. How summer evenings are meant to be spent; sitting on the lawn outside the union on the Purdue University campus. A little cool for a summer evening but comfortable. Perfect, in fact. People are sitting in lawn chairs, on blankets, on benches. Some are picnicing, there are bikes leaned up against trees, some people wander through by accident and stay. Children are dancing, toes are tapping.
Music makes it way through the trees, between the campus buildings....The Woodstove Flapjacks at Purdue Summer Concert Series. Kate sang a few songs with them. Gorgeous evening for an outside show. If you haven't gone to one of these July Wednesday evenings you've been missing a good time.
I bring the baby over to hear his momma and daddy play tonight. His other grandma, Carol, rides up on her bike. We pass the baby back and forth between us as we swap grandma observations and listen to the music. Kate and James are singing together on stage. Carol holds the baby and I am alternating my camera between band and baby. Friends of mine, of Carol's, of Kate and James, stop to admire the baby, ask how things are going.
This is what it should be. This enjoying new life among us. This gathering of family. All sorts of family. You are one blessed kid, little one.

http://www.slide.com/r/46ZsYbPH7z-j-g14CnCaN77yWPy3J1dx?previous_view=mscd_embedded_url&view=original

TGFI

That's not a typo.

Not TGIF. Today is Monday.

Thank God For (the) Internet. TGFI

(Or Thank *OD For (the) Internet, T*FI, for my fundamentalist reader who won't write G-O-D. If it helps, you can think of this post as a prayer petition. I am truly thankful for the internet tonight.)

Been working with Hannah on her 4-H Photography project and we've been saved by the internet. A previously not known by me requirement of 3 activities in a manual has surfaced here at the late date of 4 days pre-judging. With Hannah in one place, me in another and some of her photos in a third, it's been a bit of technological slight of hand to make this happen.

TGFI

My family has a checkered 4-H past. Three girls, all 10 year 4-Hers, all knowing the fair began the third week of July with judging the previous week. I was never able to convince them that the 4-H motto is not "Any project worth doing is worth waiting until July 1 to begin." Our week before the fair experience was filled with sleepless nights, tears of frustration and meals eaten standing in the kitchen because every table in the house was covered with someone's work in progress. By judging day the house was silent--a combination of sheer exhaustion and that fact that no one was on speaking terms with anyone else.

I have trouble believing Hannah's projects have been completed with so little drama. It just seems un-natural, not befitting the 4-H way as my girls knew it. There's still time though. The project goes in at 7:30 on Thursday morning and Hannah's not a morning person...

Dear Joshua,

Thank you for calling to tell me about Kiwi, your new kitten. I'm sure you will take very good care of her and she will love being in your family.

Yours with Smiling Love,

Gran

Dear Joshua's Mother,

I was a bit surprised last night when Joshua called to tell us about the kitten you adopted at the street fair. But then I remembered that the line for the cat adoption booth was much shorter than the line for the clown making the balloon animals.

I know you are an accountant and understand numbers but I'm not entirely sure you've really done the math on the time investment here. It's also possible there are a few pages missing in the Manual for Moms I gave you when The Boy was born. There should be a chapter on the value of choosing pets with the lifespan of a helium fill versus those which will last to dance on your grave.

Yours with Smiling Payback Love,

Mom

Grandmothering 101

He peers down at the tiny intruder.

"Who's your favorite now, Grandma?"

"Joshua, you are my favorite first grandson because you taught me how to be a grandma, how much fun it is to have a boy around. Your cousin is my favorite second grandson because he reminds me of all the fun I've had since you were born and how much more fun the three of us will have together."

Grandmothering 101. It's a killer.

By the Numbers, July 2009

The numbers from Kev's most recent bloodwork. One year down. ONE YEAR! (no one...NO ONE...rain on my parade by pointing out the much larger number on the 'to go' side of that equation)

One year since his first post-treatment check-up. He's doing ok. Numbers look good this time. A little worry in some chemistry numbers but it's a wait and see worry, much better than a fix it yesterday worry. Neuropathy continues. Probably isn't going to go away and varies some from day to day. No obvious lumps, bumps or panic inducing sounds from within according to his oncologist.

I still worry when I see him getting tired or out of breath sooner than I expect when we're biking. Time, it just takes time to get over the side effects. Time to accept that sometimes a cough is just a cough and an afternoon nap is just an afternoon nap...

...or a prelude to something more, but that's for another blog entirely!