katallison: (giles fresh hell)
Today's boring chapter in the Saga of the Aging Body:

So for the past few weeks I'd been experiencing chronic medium-grade distress in the digestive regions, which delicacy and kindness to readers forbid me from elucidating further. At first I just assumed I'd eaten something funky (entirely plausible, given the state of everything in my refrigerator); then I thought maybe I'd picked up a transient stomach bug. When it persisted, my inner Deranged Hypochondriac sprung to life, telling me that this was definitely colon cancer, which the gods were smiting me with as recompense for having chickened out on the Really Unpleasant Check-Up Procedure last year. (My inner D.H. is all about the guilt-tripping.)

And then, over the weekend, some vestige of a clue drifted into my brain, and I thought to myself, Self, I thought, this sounds exactly like the accounts and descriptions I've seen of lactose intolerance (which apparently can crop up suddenly in later life). So I immediately ceased all consumption of dairy products, and -- within 24 hours, le crud digestif had completely abated.

It could be, of course, that there was something else entirely going on with the innards, and it just happened to subside at the same time I stopped eating dairy products. So the final step will be to re-introduce the independent variable (I *knew* all those research methodology classes would come in handy someday) by picking a low-activity day and slamming down a couple of glasses of milk, and seeing if I experience a recrudescence, as it were (and boy, were it ever) of the Inner Distress. If so -- well, *dammit.* I've always loved milk and cheese, they're two of my foundational comfort foods, and I would be very sad to lose them. I'll have to investigate those Lactaid pills, I guess...
katallison: (Default)
Have yet another disgusting cold.
Feel like ass.
Feel like triple-distilled quintessence of ass on toast points.
House looks like it has been used to quarter Huns. Huns who have an unholy love for electronics and never wash the dishes. And who like to strew used tissues.
Have both computers up and running, one to the left of me, one to the right. Feel like Captain Whoever, on the holodeck. Whichever captain that was. All of which would be much cooler if eyes could focus on either monitor.
Have successfully completed first-ever bittorrent download! Am gratified to have joined 21st century. Second download, proceeding at approx. 4.7 kB/s, may be completed by autumn. Need to figure out NAT problem. Have no brain, also cannot focus eyes on instructions.
Am miles behind on LJ. Owe comments to many lovely people, but have no grasp of English. Also, no pronouns.
Am approximately 3748925 miles behind on everything at work.
Am going to bed now, with box of kleenex, zinc tablets, and thermos of tea.
katallison: (Default)
(Footnote to previous rant: This would all be much simpler if I were not simultaneously and concurrently experiencing Bronchitis: The Special Remix Edition, Now! With Extra Hacking!) (OK, </self-pity>.)
katallison: (Default)
I am so very, very, very, VERY tired of coughing.

I am also so very, very, very, VERY tired of:

--my co-workers' solicitous appearances at my door -- "Are you all right? It sounds like you're DYING in there! You should go home!" Because, work to do, can't go home. (Though I love my co-workers, kindly souls that they are.) (Especially my sweet funny queer-boy colleague A.--::walking in cradling hands carefully in front of him, holding invisible object:: "Hey, I found this in the hall! Your liver, right? I *thought* I heard you coughing it up! You'll probably want this back!")

--also, watching TV. Even watching DVDs of stuff I love on TV.

--also, having no brain whatsoever, and the attention span of a mayfly with ADD.

--also, having no appetite whatsoever for food of any kind.

--also, the entire house being ankle-deep in (a) used tissues and (b) dirty dishes.

--also, my bed, with its rumpled sweat-soaked-and-dried-out-again dirty sheets and heaps of disordered blankets, which I am too tired to change and straighten.

--also, being too damn tired to do anything except crawl into my messy bed by 8 p.m.

Have no concept of how I shall accomplish (a) Christmas shopping, (b) Christmas tree purchase, transport, erection, and decoration, (c) Seekrit Santa story (due in two weeks, ack ack ack!), (d) bazillion overdue projects at work.

Is it 8 p.m. yet? Can I go to bed? ::hack hack hack cough COUGH WHEEEEEEZE::


Nov. 28th, 2004 10:11 am
katallison: (Default)
Accomplishments of the weekend thus far:

Nose blown approximately 87257682 times.
Fever of 102.5 attained at 1:35 a.m. last night.
Roughly 3000-word lyrical and poetic description of the strange marvels of fever-state written in head, between 1:35 and 6 a.m., now forgotten.
Two episodes of Farscape viewed yesterday afternoon with Deb, Carol and Jackie.
Knee sprained due to slipping on snow while returning home from Farscape viewing. (Not a bad sprain, just hellishly annoying.)
Lower back wrenched from gimping around lopsidedly due to sprained knee.
Many hours of dreadful TV watched, including VH1's 50 Most Awesomely Bad Dirty Songs Of All Time, or whatever that thing was called, the emotional scars from which may lead me to never even want to *contemplate* sex again.
Amount of writing done: zilch-o.
Current number of functioning brain cells: perhaps five.

I shall now gimp myself back to bed for some more feverish slumber.
katallison: (Default)
So I woke up at 3 a.m. with (a) pounding headache, and (b) searingly raw throat. The former can be attributed to the half-bottle of red wine consumed last night, and I don't begrudge it a bit--a 2001 Renwood Old-Vine Zinfandel, ohmy*god* so rich and sumptuous and wonderful. The latter, however, appears to be the sign that my uncanny run of cold-germ-avoiding luck this fall has run out, and so today I am guzzling grapefruit juice and hot ginger tea and vitamins and making a big pot of garlic soup and preparing to collapse on the sofa with old MST3K tapes and a box of kleenex.

It is, I must say, a good day (if there is ever such) to be sickish and sofabound--outside it's in the mid-30s, with a steady cold drizzle falling, which will soon turn into freezing drizzle and sleet, and then into snow. So bundling in with a blanket and hot drinks feels good. But my voluminous-writing plans are temporarily in abeyance, being as how my brain feels like a boiled turnip. Sadness.

And I'm hoping this doesn't derail my getting-together plans for tomorrow with Deb and Carol and Jackie--I've sometimes been able to short-circuit a cold early on via the vitamins-ginger-garlic-total-collapse method. (Ladies, let me know, of course, if you'd rather I just kept my germy self well away from you, which I would totally understand.)


katallison: (Default)

November 2009



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