Thanks to my wacked-out health, there was an incident last Sunday that landed me in an extended stay hotel until yesterday morning. As documented on my Facebook, I ended up with Blake's cold a couple of weeks ago. Since 2015, I don't just get to have a simple cold and be done with it, no. I end up with secondary infections and my sleep patterns and behaviour are almost always affected. That means I sleepwalk. After the cold began to wane, I developed some sort of viral infection under my tongue. I caved and went to the doctor about that last Friday. He gave me some lidocaine for the pain and told me to ride it out for about a week, at which time, it should be getting better. But it wasn't just that. A knot - infection? lymph gland? who knows? - began growing behind my left ear. I felt generally unwell. The next thing I remember, Janice is driving me to Crossland Suites. She thought I had over-taken some of my medication and, when she couldn't find it in my stuff, was not going to be convinced otherwise. I was so sick and out of it, I was incapable of explaining what I had done with my meds, and had no way to show her that all was in order, because I'd repacked everything a couple of days prior, along with the meds I'd had moved from San Diego to here. It was an effort in poor organisation. The next day, I Uber'd to the closest CVS and had them check my temp at the minute clinic. My throat was on fire, and I felt delusional, and couldn't think straight. I had a fever of 103. I got some aspirin and juice, and went back to the hotel to die. Then I lost my voice for three days.
Fortunately, I began to recover from this nightmare on Thursday. Friday was the big day of the move, so I had to be at least marginally functional! When Friday came, my voice was back, my mouth had recovered almost completely, and my throat was only a little scratchy. I was still weak and underwhelmed, but I was present and accounted for.
It's been slow going like you wouldn't believe with the unpacking process. I don't have furniture to put things on, and I don't want to put stuff on the floor, in the event Toby decides he wants to mark something, like an asshole, so I'm having to pick and choose what I pull out for right now. Today, I wanted to smudge the apartment, and set up a little bit of sacred space in the bedroom, but I can't find my supplies and incense. I've gone through everything and can't find an inkling of Witchery anywhere. But I did find the prescriptions I'd consolidated! I called Janice to let her know and, when I see her, I'm gonna show her what I'd done and why it looked so bad, when she went to check on my medicinal intake. I also apologised for acting so wonky. I really could not help it, though!
Yesterday, I got a delivery of cheese garlic bread and a Pepsi, which I have been subsisting on for almost 24 hours. About an hour ago, I did something I had not done since 2013: I used a pot and cooked soup on a real stove. To most, I guess this is no big deal but, for me, it's truly a momentous occasion that means several things. It means that I'm more self-sufficient now that I have been in years. It means I can begin to eat properly and have more variety in my life as a crap foodie. It means that I am going to save a huge amount of money on food, because I have so much storage space, a whole damned fridge, and the ability to prepare food rather than depending on prepackaged junk food. Cooking that soup on a stove top, in my own pot, with my own spoon, means that I am free. It also means that Gordon Ramsay will have one more vegetarian pseudo-cook to rail at for existing, and daring to darken the sacred doors of a kitchen!
Of course, I could not have gotten to this mini-milestone, had it not been for the kind souls of my Tribe and our extended clan. Were I able, I would cook up a flipping cauldron of soup and share it with you all, as we party as hard as a pack of introverts could!