Where's Oprah when you need her?

I haven't been writing about the shingles because dear God in heaven, I am sick of hearing myself talk about how I have a headache or I can't sleep or blah blah blah.

I'm not contagious. The rash is gone, replaced by pain. I'm back at work. I'm exhausted.

And things at work are amped up. We need stuff and we need it now and we're all freaking out. Basically, I was met at the door with several coworkers saying, "Hope you're feeling better. I need you to do this project for me right now."

OK, then.

So, the stress is at a higher level than when I got stress-related shingles. Gotcha.

I'm not quite doing my regular "pretend it never happened and go back to life as usual" schtick. There's a voice whispering in my brain, telling me to get this shit straightened out or next time it won't be shingles. It will be worse, whatever that means.

My Guy was scared of me when I got home from work tonight. "You slammed the crap out of the door," he said. "Why don't you have some wine?"

I'm back on Weight Watchers. Wine is, like, 7 points.

"I give you permission to not track a glass of wine," he said.

"Am I that big of a stressed-out bitch?"

He hugged me and opened the fridge. "Look - here's an open bottle!"

Is a day at Corporate Behemoth followed by a run to the grocery really that stressful? Am I a wuss if I don't want to do this anymore, whatever "this" is?

Why I will never watch Hoarders again.

I used to like that show, I really did. The lack of accountability occasionally made me crazy, but for the most part, it was a satisfying viewing experience.

No more. That guilty pleasure was snatched away from me.

See, my father-in-law reprimanded me for the fact that My Guy wrote the wrong house number on a letter he sent his dad.

Reprimanded me!

I told him I don't keep My Guy's address book and he needed to take it up with his son.

He kept talking. To me. About the address.

I looked out the window.

He informed me that he didn't receive his Father's Day Lowe's gift card in the mail because My Guy probably mailed it to the wrong address.

I looked out the window some more.

My sister-in-law asked her dad if he'd opened all of his mail. He had not. He produced two tubs full of unopened mail.

Two tubs!

While my sister-in-law looked for the envelope from Lowe's, my father-in-law regaled me with tales about how he is too tired after working in the garden every day to open his mail. His sister spent an entire day opening a years' worth of his mail for him a few months ago.

I looked out the window even more and attempted not to levitate with frustration. Finally, I couldn't take it. I turned my head, scanning the 3 family members digging through the mail, across the dusty living room with the piles of stuff, to look my father-in-law in the eye. "Since we're looking through the mail now, can we throw some if it out? Some of the old grocery store ads, maybe?

My father-in-law gave me what I'm sure he considered a winning smile. "I would, but I'm too lazy."

Separated at birth. Obviously.

Me: I will only go to Branson if we can see Dolly Parton.

My Guy: She’s not usually there.

Me: Well, nevermind then.

My Guy, thinking, but smartly not verbally expressing: You are insane.

Me: Have you ever seen 9 to 5?
My Guy: I don’t think so.

Me: It’s a fantastic movie! She’s so funny!

My Guy: Is that the one where she dresses like a man?

Me, thinking but also verbally expressing: What? No! You’re insane!

My Guy: Oh, right. That’s Yentl.
Me, dead on floor from laughter-induced heart attack: Noooooo!

My Guy: Oh, right.

Me: Bwah ha ha!

My Guy: I’m your husband! You’re so lucky! Jesus decrees that you love me even though I get my 80s movies confused!

Me: How could you confuse Dolly Parton and Barbra Streisand?

My Guy: I DON’T KNOW!

Me: Well, you’re obviously straight.

And … scene!

Images courtesy of Google Images. Which rocks.

Forget flashcards. Shingles are way more educational.

The world is ending. I took another sick day today. Surely this is a sign of the apocalypse.

So, here's what I am trying to figure out: What is it that I'm supposed to learn from having shingles?

Possible answers:

a) Nothing. Shit goes down and that's just how it is. Quit trying to analyze the universe. You should have realized this when your efforts to psychoanalyze your in-laws for fun and profit didn't work. Just leave it be.

b) Your body just *might* be reacting to an accumulation of stress and big goings on this year. This *might* be a sign that you need to respect the changes and respect the stress and *possibly* make a few tweaks in your lifestyle and how you deal with and view stress.

c) Everything is bad! Much like the story of Job, this is just the latest in a series of holy tests from above! You are being smitten and must change everything right now! Quit your job, go vegan and organic, make your own clothes, and stop drinking purple Kool-Aid RIGHT NOW.

So, yeah. Possible answers. Am I missing any? What do you think?

I just feel like if I rearrange the furniture or make some little tweak that everything will be OK. I'll stop getting these weird maladies and miraculously the stabbing, I'ma-gonna-kill-somebody pain of the shingles will magically cease.

My self-medicating has now grown to include making gazpacho (not so healing, but it sounded good at the time), showering (really? everybody wins), and Internet shopping (I have high hopes for the medicinal value of this one).

Boden and Garnet Hill are both having huge end-of-season sales. Shopping for clothes made me feel like I really will leave my house again and will require non-pajama clothes to do it in. So, really? I was shopping for the future. For America. For you and me. If I don't shop, the terrorists (and the shingles) win.

But help a girl out. What the eff am I supposed to be learning from all of this?

Self medicating.

I'm miserable. The shingles? They sucketh.

I'm finding comfort in some small things.

If I lie on my right side with the side of my face part-way leaning against a pillow, the throbbing in my torso subsides. Good to know.

And My Guy has been making lots of purple Kool-Aid, which, for whatever reason, tastes really, really good. I can't bring myself to call it grape, even though My Guy assures me that it's made from the finest grape powder. It's purple. My Guy says this is the Iowa in me, coming out loud and proud.

And if I lie on my right side with my head just so and drink purple Kool-Aid while watching Maury? Well, right now? That's about as good as it gets.

The Maury quote of the day comes courtesy of a woman who found out that the father of her three children had lied about everything - including his first name. Backstage, this is what she had to say to him.

When we get home? You get your bags and you get out. Get your bags, cuz that's all you're taking with you. I'll give you some lunch meat, but that's it.

I really, really hope she gave it to him by throwing slices of unwrapped lunch meat at him as he walked out the door. Maybe bologna, or maybe pimento loaf, because it's especially gross.

This mental image just makes me feel better.

When I say “shingles,” I’m not talking about your roof.

I have joked that since I got married, I can officially commence letting myself go.

I thought I was joking. Maybe I wasn’t.

First? I had a stress fracture in my foot. Then? Allergic reaction to gunk on stitches. Now?

Oh, Lord. I have shingles.

Seriously.

Yes, I have the chicken pox virus-induced magic that is shingles. Me, and a whole bunch of elderly people.

Perhaps this is a sign that I am worn down, since it typically strikes folks with compromised immune systems. Like cancer or AIDS patients, or the elderly. Or, you know, otherwise healthy 36-year-old women who recently had a stress fracture and some gross rashes.

To the uninitiated, shingles is a rash that’s crazily only on one side of your body. And, it’s in a line. And it itches like poison ivy but, because shingles is a crazy bitch, also hurts. Hurts like you are being stabbed with multiple pencils.

Today, I actually wondered if I could just cut the rash off of my body, because that surely wouldn’t be this crappy.

But the crappiest part of all? I can’t be around pregnant people until this shit goes away. Which, even with drugs and such, could be weeks.

There are 2 women at work who are pregnant.

I can’t go to work.

I called my boss, practically delirious. “I don’t know what to do! I’m so gross! And I would die if something happened because I was all around the pregnant ladies! I’m so gross!”

Like having chicken pox at age 4 made me gross and not just, you know, like the rest of the adult population.

So, I’m working from home until, like, further notice.

Alone.

I practically attacked My Guy when he got home from work today, and it’s only been 1 day. “How are you doing? How was work? What did you have for lunch?” Between that and my recent rash of oozing rashes? I am totally Dream Spouse.

Ick.

There are just some times when you are out of sorts, you know? And now would definitely be one of those times.

The fine art of the written word, Part 2. Now with less cussing and fewer bitches!

Thanks for rallying ‘round the little mental breakdown in my last post. I so appreciate the kind words, and the offers of offing the editor who doesn’t know what a hyperlink is.

Today is a good day. I got a nice e-mail from a coworker. I got a raise – because people appreciate proper tone, style guide implementation and hyperlinks, dammit. And I got the most awesome e-mail from my most awesome dad:

Subject: Cute and fun girls

Just read your blog. You are a cute and fun girl.

Dad
Thank God for kind, fun, brilliant parents who have a high tolerance for dropping the f-bomb.

The fine art of the written word. Also? Cussing. And some bitches.

I might be a bit hypersentive to criticism at the moment.

Over the last few months, I've started blogging for Corporate Behemoth. Not about dogs and getting married and dog poo and living with a boy and dog pee, but about Corporate Behemoth-type stuff. It's been an adjustment.

At first, the marketing lady was all, "You're Cha Cha. You're senior editorial manager. Do whatever you want. Thanks for blogging!" And that was cool.

And then the marketing lady left, and the new marketing lady was all, "You're Cha Cha. You're senior editorial manager. Have your blog reviewed and approved by these 17 people before you post. Thanks for blogging!" And that's ... different.

Considering that most of what I write here is completely made up as I go along and (surprise, I know) gets very little forethought? This whole Corporate Behemoth blogging plan is a bit of a shock.

But I'm down. I'm a team player. I work really, really hard not to drop the f-bomb in my corporate posts. And I've been successful.

So far.

One of the 96 people who have to approve my blog is a contractor who writes press releases.

I'm sure she's really good at what she does and is a lovely person.

But first, she edited my stuff for tone. Dude. It was my directive to write in my personal voice. As long as I don't drop the f-bomb, get off my back.

Then? Then, she quite helpfully removed all the "underlines" in my post.

I had to explain to her that they weren't underlines ... they were hyperlinks. As are commonly found on the Internet.

Sigh.

In other news, I was at a party this weekend, talking to two of my very best friends in the whole world. And a mutual acquaintance came up to our little group, and addressed only one of us.

"You HAVE to come out with us after the party!" the evil woman said to my one friend - and only to my one friend. Completely ignoring me and friend numero dos. "All of the cute and fun girls will be there!"

So, I guess I'm not a cute and fun girl. I'm a woman, and a writer. And we're better. We're smarter. And funnier. And we can insult you with words you don't understand and you won't even know it.

But let me put this in words you will understand: Don't fuck with my tone, and don't fuck with my hyperlinks. I have shit to say and I'm going to say it the way I need to say it. So back the fuck off.

Also? I would be delighted to tell you where you may place your cute-and-fun-girl afterparty.

Fun with words.

tinklepotty walkabout (n.)

Origin: American Midwest c. 2010; combination of words meaning "urination" and "nomadic excursion;" attributed to the family of urination-location visionary Lil' Frankfurter
1. activity undertaken by miniature dachshund Lil' Frankfurter at approximately 8:45 every evening; characterized by jumping off the couch and nonchalantly wandering the house in search of a place to urinate; often immediately followed by his human mother herding him away from fabrics and furniture and toward the outdoors, the traditional location for dog urination

2. squeal-like exclamation made by Lil' Frankfurter's mother while rushing him to the door to facilitate urination outside