I have a disabling auto-immune disease which, for three years running now, results in week-long hospital stays in the neuro wing for observation and mild intervention.
Exactly nine weeks ago I was taken into a different (wrong) hospital for unrelated emergency surgery. Apparently Voltaren (diclofenac) does not mix with steroids of any kind; together they Swiss cheese your digestive tract. News to me and my doctors who'd been prescribing both. The hospital used meds completely contraindicated by my condition, then undermedicated me in recovery.
Seven-and-a-half weeks ago I told 'em to stick the opiates, checked out, and went back home to be with my family. Grin & bear it, I'd still make Christmas.
It's that season, and (water-)buffalo mozz is available for only 4× what the regular stuff costs. The difference is a bit of tang which is lost if you dare put any basil paste, balsamic (white or regular) or pretty much anything else on it.
The difference between the cheap shit from Aldi and the expensive stuff from Italian gourmet shops run by PhD-Chem virgins who studied for 20 years in the Japanese style is the difference between Exxon and Shell 93 octane gasoline/petrol.
Also, any fucking TV series wannabe who calls the cheese "mootz" or "mootsaRella" can die in a fire that I have NSA double-secret probationary clearance to set.
I really should do. What though? Happy, sad, insightful, reflective? Recollection or nostalgia or politics or a good yarn? Parental pride & bragging? Woe-is-me tales?
At least here we discuss shit. And I miss that, even if it feels like there's no time for it. Facebook has led me to abbreviate almost everything; I'm there out of necessity; what little I post is intended to be either funny or glossed-over politics. I didn't mean to alienate half the Husians to whom I was FB-tied.
We actually managed to get some sleep although there were some night wakings, and I was alive when up shortly before the 7:00a.m. screamy-shouty-noisiness that is a clever 3-year-old. And I was intent on Mama getting a few extra minutes' sleep.
A breakfast of waffles (which the Puppy helped make) consumed, I went upstairs for a few minutes with a crappy game on a crappy phone just to be away from stuff.
And then I heard a thump. And some noises from downstairs. And I leapt up and ran down, holding one eye closed, losing parallax but making sure I wouldn't become the ER centre of attention.
Where do I start? Where does it end? Do I share an awesome tweaked recipe for brisket? Do I go into detail about my stupidity? Do I carry on with more pride than 10 people deserve like every other idiot who ever managed to procreate?
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