17 August 2000 ~ Oh, you ARE sick...

Well, I am pissed off.

It all started a couple of weeks ago when I began feeling sort of ill. Lately, it's progressed to shortness of breath and tightness in my chest, which is both weird and extremely unpleasant. The past two days, I've been really scared, to tell the truth.

So, tonight, I told my mom I haven't been feeling my best, and she told me to take a hot bath, drink some tea, and if it got worse or I got a fever, let her know.

I came into my apartment a few minutes ago and felt like crying. That's usually the very first sign of a fever, at least for me. I start getting really whiny and feel like crying for absolutely no reason. I want to wander around the house going, "Mama, I'm HOT!" in a four-year-old's whine. But alas, no mom to take care of such things when you're living on your own. So I set about taking care of myself.

First order of business, drink tea. I don't know WHAT it is about my tea, but I swear on a box of Celestial Seasonings that my tea heals. I have a supersecret tea recipe. Whenever anybody around me feels yucky and whines at me, I make them tea. And they feel better. I cannot explain, but I'm not going to question it. So I had some tea.

Second order of business, get comfortable and go to the bathroom. I threw my sweater on the floor, sprawled out in front of the Democratic Convention, and, because that was making me even sicker, as politics do, I went to the bathroom, and sat down in front of the computer.

Third, take two Tylenols. I only took the Tylenols because it's that time of the month ("The redcoats are coming!" --Nathan) and I don't want to get cramps and further my misery.

Fourth, take my temperature.

I broke my last two thermometers. One of them permanently read 108, and the other just ceased to have a little red line going up the middle. So, no thermometer for Helena. All I had was... ...pause while Helena searches her house for something comparable... ...steak knife? no... lighter? no... ridiculously large collection of pens? ...no... washcloth? no... Halfway through my ransack of the kitchen, I discovered my espresso-drink thermometer...

I stuck it in my mouth for five minutes. Under my tongue, just like my mom would have told me. Don't ask me why it's got to go UNDER your tongue. Seems a little excessive; like just one more thing to make you miserable and gaggy when you feel sick. But I stuck the espresso thermometer under my tongue and waited...

Don't ask me WHY I have an espresso thermometer. I don't even have an espresso maker, although the way I brew my coffee (read: tar), you'd never guess... I suppose my next major purchase will be an espresso machine so I can work my way up to third-best espresso-drink-maker in the world, instead of fourth. I'll have to buy some really pretentious one, with little chrome angels sitting on the top and little colored tiles all over the sides. If I had an espresso machine, I would name it Dale and take pictures of it and hang them all over my walls. It would be my baby. I'd get tons of accessories and keep them all in a Donna Karan diaper bag. There would be snooty little embroidered towels with a simple "D" in the corners, and little purple espresso cups with little art-deco grape-thingies painted on the sides. Dale would be my best friend in the world. I would talk to him.

Anyway, my five minutes was up.

You ever notice you think REALLY stupid things to keep your mind from thinking about gagging on a thermometer?

One-hundred-and-three. No WAY do I have a fever of 103 degrees. Granted, I feel warm, a little whiny, and kind of tired, but I'm NOT 103.

So this brings me back to my original statement. I am pissed off. My espresso thermometer isn't accurate.

I called my mom.

"Mooooooom... I don't FEEL good..."

"Do you have a fever?"

"I don't know. My espresso thermometer says I'm 103."

"Your ESPRESSO thermometer?"

"Yeah... I think it's broken. I'm SO pissed off. I LIKED that one!"

She made some comment about me being sick in the head and told me to go to a walk-in clinic tomorrow after work. I'm glad I didn't mention any of the stuff about Dale the espresso maker and his Donna Karan diaper bag.

Love,
~Helena*

"Oh, you ARE sick..." --Eraserhead