the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

not just something you get when you fall in a frozen lake.

Before I get into that: I just went upstairs to get a glass of wine*, and The Little Muffin** was up and watching TV. It looks like the show "Jackass"--which I've heard enough about to never bother actually watching--but for rednecks. He says it's a great show, and definitely worth watching; they've broken several world records. I said some world records don't need to be broken, and they're usually the ones that begin with, "Hey y'all! Watch 'is!"

* A desperate attempt, at this point, to end the pain. More in a minute.

* Otherwise known as TLM or Trevor, he is the 22-year-old son of Lisa, my esteemed hostess during the school week. The other man of the house is Mr. Jones, aka "Old Dirty Bastard" (or ODB ).

He, sadly, is not convinced. I left him there absorbed in the array of monster trucks, smashed up motor homes (?), and random people with casts in interesting places,* and descended to my cozy little room in the basement to chat with you, dear fans. You see what I sacrifice for you?

* Ambiguity intentional.

On with my tale, in my usual* manner. Saturday evening, I attended the Furball with two friends. I have probably mentioned the Furball before. We do this every year at this time. It's a fundraiser for the Cheyenne (Wyoming) animal shelter. It's a fairly high priced formal event (unless you prefer to come casual, but it's still pricey) with silent auctions, a nice dinner, and a public auction toward the end for the really snazzy stuff.

* Meandering, with apparently pointless anecdotes included for my entertainment (and possibly a record, in the event I require one) with no consideration for your entertainment or even interest. But once you concede that writing is just a socially acceptable form of intellectual masturbation, surely you won't begrudge me these small pleasures. You may even find it in your heart to appreciate my embracing the true nature of my intermittent activities here.

We planned to drive there, then take a cab home. We picked up some wine en route, as the place that sponsors this shindig charges incredible amounts per glass/bottle. It only took me three years to figure out that instead of paying $30 for a $6 bottle of wine (retail), I could go get a $20 bottle (which I rarely stiff for otherwise), bring it myself, and still "save" money.

So we went and enjoyed ourselves. I had the vegetarian dinner, which wasn't much (sadly), so I otherwise filled up on bread (like you do when you're a kid). I had all the wine I wanted, since I wasn't driving. I had enough wine to share liberally with two or three other people. I drank some water as I went, and picked up a quart of Gatorade on the way home, and drank it. I felt fine.* We sat down to chat for a while before going to bed, and I had another beer, but poured half down the sink and drank some water. I'd had enough.

* Which, I suppose, is the point. No?

Oh. By the way...I got some good loot at the auction this year. I got a couple of cool baskets of bath products and such, a signed and numbered print by an artist I rather fancy, a beveled hallway mirror, an antique diamond and ruby ring (!), and a brand new NordicTrac treadmill. I think the ring was the best find, but the treadmill, by far, was the best deal. It retails for $1000; I paid $275. The ring was estimated at about $1200; I paid $900. I can't wait to see what it looks like when it's cleaned.

So I wake up the next morning, and I have the, um, flux. Something--and I don't know what--hits me like caster oil on steroids. I'm mildly nauseated, but it isn't bad. Otherwise, I'm achy. No headache at all.

I'm told I have a hangover. I said, "Ok. I'd forgotten what they felt like. This sucks."

By that evening, when my temperature had gone above 100, I began to believe we'd been a bit hasty with my diagnosis. When I woke with severe muscle aches and a low body temperature in the middle of the night, I started fishing around for other explanations. I lit upon the possibility of food poisoning.

This was contested, of course, by the "nope it's a hangover" camp, even into the next day, because "my hangover lasted two days and it was just like that."

Tuesday evening, my temperature measured 96.0 degrees--after I had walked quite a distance through a hot afternoon to fetch my thermometer which I'd left in my locker in the library. It* had dropped below 96, which explains how I was feeling when I thought maybe it would be a good idea to check my body temp.

* My temperature--not the library.

When it measured 96.0 again today, I went to the clinic. I went when I did--halfway through class--not because I was concerned about what this might mean so much as the muscle aches were so great I could not sit still and I could not think. After walking across campus in the heat of the day to the clinic, they measured my temp at 97.2. Yep. It isn't my thermometer. Something is wrong.

And it's weird. Don't you think?

I have an appointment to see a proper doc/nurse/something medical tomorrow morning at 10:15 to be checked out all proper-like. So....

What the devil can it be NOW?

*sigh*

Here are the guesses (place your bets):

1. Peri-menopause

2. You're still hung over, you idiot.

3. Your body hates you.

4. Lupus.

5. Other. (Please enter your guess.)

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