Wait. Do you hear that buzzing?
Last night was crazy.
Use this post as a cautionary tale of what not to do when you're home sick:
In my previous post, I mentioned that I've been laid up with an acute case of The Phlegm. The Phlegm prevented me from moving, talking and hearing anything of any kind. For the first two days, I couldn't read, as my face felt like it was submerged in a vat of red Jell-O (why red I have no idea; just go with me, here). I couldn't register in my brain any words on any page. So I slept.
And then, once I slept ... I could read. But it was not so much good.
See, I went to one of my favorite sites, Apartment Therapy. Home design websites and catalogs have become porn for me. I sit and fantasize about what my apartment will look like with just a few subtle tweaks, a slipcover here, a paint job (dirty!) there, a white ceiling fan for aesthetics AND utility. And then I turn to Josh and say, "Honey? Don't you think we could try a little ... sage green in the living room? Do you think you'd feel comfortable trying that?" And Josh is all, "Aw, honey, whaddya have to go read that stuff for? Things are fine the way they are." And then I have to show him pictures to prove that my suggestions aren't all that bad, that he wouldn't have to step too far outside his comfort zone, and when he agrees, it feels like things are going to get a little better. So you see, now. I feel like I've written about this before, but as people are addicted to their porn, I am addicted to my Apartment Therapy.
Apparently, Apartment Therapy has been chronicling the travails of a reader who is in deep with a bedbug problem. And also apparently, there is a gargantuan bedbug infestation spreading across the East Coast. I keep hearing more and more about people battling bedbugs (which are neither a reflection of a person's cleanliness nor of their neighborhood), and the situation is, in a word, horrifying. Bedbugs can go up to 18 months without a meal and not die! They feed on human flesh! They never. ever. go. away! We live in a brick building and we have a garden, so we tend to get bugs in the summer (millipedes, mostly, but they don't hurt humans so we're not that bothered by them, except that they're huge, fast suckers so they're hard to catch; also, gross). As far as I know, we don't have bedbugs (thank GOD), but naturally, I started reading up on the subject to arm myself with knowledge, which, in a case like this, is second only to arming oneself with Raid. Check out Bedbugger for an informative — and alarming — read.
And then the itching started.
First it was my chin. I was long past reading about bedbugs at this point, but I kept feeling random tickle spots on my chin. And then my right eyebrow. I started swatting my head. And then I started scratching my hip. Josh looked at me as if he thought I was going to start having conversations with garbage cans and name my feet Merle and Jimmy.
I figured that since I'd been stuck in the apartment, save for going to the doctor's office, since Wednesday night, two things were happening: a) I was losing my mind, and b) my personal grooming ritual had all but been abandoned and my skin was getting dry. I still felt itchy, but I understood it was psychosomatic and let it slide.
Around 2:30 a.m., I went to bed. This is the gist of what the rest of the evening was like:
2:36 — scratch ankle with opposite foot's toes
2:39 — swat ear
2:42 — brush pillowcase with hand; flip pillow over
2:45 — hide under covers
2:48 — flinch when hair grazes eyebrow
2:51 — sit up straight, cough uncontrollably
2:54 — blow nose
2:57 — scratch ankle again
3 a.m. — swear I can feel something crawling in my ear
And so on and so forth until about 10 a.m., when I finally fell into a deep, deep sleep.
The whole thing reminded me of the time I saw Arachnophobia at the Americana West theater in West Bloomfield, Michigan, with Randy Fayne and Josh Barnett when I was in high school. At the climax of the film, just as John Goodman was about to pounce on that ginormous, hairy spider during a moment of extreme quiet and tension, Randy Fayne tickled the length of my arm with his fingernails. I jumped about three feet out of my seat. Last night was like that. Bugs don't have to be in the room for you to feel them. All you have to have is the thought of them in your head, and they might as well be crawling up your leg.
Needless to say, I've spent the majority of the day doing laundry. Getting over The Phlegm is always a good time to clean anyway, just to get the filmy essence of illness out of the house. But I also think it's the only way to exterminate our phantom bugs. Eew.
One thing I did read that I enjoyed immensely and that didn't make me itch at all is my friend Mollie's blog, Restricted View. I know some of you have found my blog through hers, so welcome, and yay! Mollie writes mostly about theater, but she also writes about random sightings on the subway and beyond, things she reads and watches, and other various incidences of awesomeness. Her writing is brilliant, and she's strongly opinionated in the very best way: She writes with conviction, eloquence and humor, expressing her opinions in a clear, profound, fearless way. Reading her blog makes me want to dive into an interest so I know everything about it, the way she knows everything about theater, but I can't see parlaying my knowledge about Duran Duran in such an effective way as she does with the stage. Anyway.
Check out her blog, for sure. I don't know nearly as much about theater as she does, of course, and I often have trouble with musicals because I'm a crier and find that I'm so easily manipulated by them that I can't enjoy them because I'm so upset, but I love her blog because it's just really good writing from a really exceptional person, and her take on what she sees is always worth reading, even if it's not something I'd see myself. And she's lately been achieving excellent notoriety since writing a critique of a piece John Colapinto wrote in The New Yorker about Paul McCartney, that Colapinto took so much issue with that he basically posted his irate self in her comments section and weakly lambasted her, but all it did was alienate his own readers and writers in general. An embarrassing display of pure unprofessionalism and immaturity from someone who, by all pretenses, should be able to handle criticism. Awesome in every way. Check it out.
Use this post as a cautionary tale of what not to do when you're home sick:
In my previous post, I mentioned that I've been laid up with an acute case of The Phlegm. The Phlegm prevented me from moving, talking and hearing anything of any kind. For the first two days, I couldn't read, as my face felt like it was submerged in a vat of red Jell-O (why red I have no idea; just go with me, here). I couldn't register in my brain any words on any page. So I slept.
And then, once I slept ... I could read. But it was not so much good.
See, I went to one of my favorite sites, Apartment Therapy. Home design websites and catalogs have become porn for me. I sit and fantasize about what my apartment will look like with just a few subtle tweaks, a slipcover here, a paint job (dirty!) there, a white ceiling fan for aesthetics AND utility. And then I turn to Josh and say, "Honey? Don't you think we could try a little ... sage green in the living room? Do you think you'd feel comfortable trying that?" And Josh is all, "Aw, honey, whaddya have to go read that stuff for? Things are fine the way they are." And then I have to show him pictures to prove that my suggestions aren't all that bad, that he wouldn't have to step too far outside his comfort zone, and when he agrees, it feels like things are going to get a little better. So you see, now. I feel like I've written about this before, but as people are addicted to their porn, I am addicted to my Apartment Therapy.
Apparently, Apartment Therapy has been chronicling the travails of a reader who is in deep with a bedbug problem. And also apparently, there is a gargantuan bedbug infestation spreading across the East Coast. I keep hearing more and more about people battling bedbugs (which are neither a reflection of a person's cleanliness nor of their neighborhood), and the situation is, in a word, horrifying. Bedbugs can go up to 18 months without a meal and not die! They feed on human flesh! They never. ever. go. away! We live in a brick building and we have a garden, so we tend to get bugs in the summer (millipedes, mostly, but they don't hurt humans so we're not that bothered by them, except that they're huge, fast suckers so they're hard to catch; also, gross). As far as I know, we don't have bedbugs (thank GOD), but naturally, I started reading up on the subject to arm myself with knowledge, which, in a case like this, is second only to arming oneself with Raid. Check out Bedbugger for an informative — and alarming — read.
And then the itching started.
First it was my chin. I was long past reading about bedbugs at this point, but I kept feeling random tickle spots on my chin. And then my right eyebrow. I started swatting my head. And then I started scratching my hip. Josh looked at me as if he thought I was going to start having conversations with garbage cans and name my feet Merle and Jimmy.
I figured that since I'd been stuck in the apartment, save for going to the doctor's office, since Wednesday night, two things were happening: a) I was losing my mind, and b) my personal grooming ritual had all but been abandoned and my skin was getting dry. I still felt itchy, but I understood it was psychosomatic and let it slide.
Around 2:30 a.m., I went to bed. This is the gist of what the rest of the evening was like:
2:36 — scratch ankle with opposite foot's toes
2:39 — swat ear
2:42 — brush pillowcase with hand; flip pillow over
2:45 — hide under covers
2:48 — flinch when hair grazes eyebrow
2:51 — sit up straight, cough uncontrollably
2:54 — blow nose
2:57 — scratch ankle again
3 a.m. — swear I can feel something crawling in my ear
And so on and so forth until about 10 a.m., when I finally fell into a deep, deep sleep.
The whole thing reminded me of the time I saw Arachnophobia at the Americana West theater in West Bloomfield, Michigan, with Randy Fayne and Josh Barnett when I was in high school. At the climax of the film, just as John Goodman was about to pounce on that ginormous, hairy spider during a moment of extreme quiet and tension, Randy Fayne tickled the length of my arm with his fingernails. I jumped about three feet out of my seat. Last night was like that. Bugs don't have to be in the room for you to feel them. All you have to have is the thought of them in your head, and they might as well be crawling up your leg.
Needless to say, I've spent the majority of the day doing laundry. Getting over The Phlegm is always a good time to clean anyway, just to get the filmy essence of illness out of the house. But I also think it's the only way to exterminate our phantom bugs. Eew.
One thing I did read that I enjoyed immensely and that didn't make me itch at all is my friend Mollie's blog, Restricted View. I know some of you have found my blog through hers, so welcome, and yay! Mollie writes mostly about theater, but she also writes about random sightings on the subway and beyond, things she reads and watches, and other various incidences of awesomeness. Her writing is brilliant, and she's strongly opinionated in the very best way: She writes with conviction, eloquence and humor, expressing her opinions in a clear, profound, fearless way. Reading her blog makes me want to dive into an interest so I know everything about it, the way she knows everything about theater, but I can't see parlaying my knowledge about Duran Duran in such an effective way as she does with the stage. Anyway.
Check out her blog, for sure. I don't know nearly as much about theater as she does, of course, and I often have trouble with musicals because I'm a crier and find that I'm so easily manipulated by them that I can't enjoy them because I'm so upset, but I love her blog because it's just really good writing from a really exceptional person, and her take on what she sees is always worth reading, even if it's not something I'd see myself. And she's lately been achieving excellent notoriety since writing a critique of a piece John Colapinto wrote in The New Yorker about Paul McCartney, that Colapinto took so much issue with that he basically posted his irate self in her comments section and weakly lambasted her, but all it did was alienate his own readers and writers in general. An embarrassing display of pure unprofessionalism and immaturity from someone who, by all pretenses, should be able to handle criticism. Awesome in every way. Check it out.
Labels: friends, health, philosophical whatnots, pop culture, TMI
posted by Marla at 8:22 PM
3 Comments:
First of all: thank you so much for the far-too-generous praise! And for reading and commenting. It's very nice to know I'm not just talking to myself.
Second, I went through exactly the same thing when I thought I had bedbugs several weeks ago. After a couple nights I was too tired to stay awake and worry. If you ever do get cursed with visitors, you'll be glad you bookmarked Bedbugger and did the research, so you can waste no time bagging your mattress and such... but I certainly hope you don't! And try to forget about it in the meantime. That way madness lies.
My pleasure! And you're talking to many, many people, so you should have no worries on that front. I bet your audience is a large, passionate, dedicated bunch. So I should thank YOU for linking to me, because some of them are visiting here and that makes me feel all kinds of huzzah.
Hello, Mollie's readers!
I read more Bedbugger last night until I realized I was driving myself insane. There are now few things I fear more than a bedbug infestation. And even though I thought that doing laundry would help, I still felt all itchy last night even though there were no bugs in sight, nothing on the bed other than me, hubs and Calvin Klein's Anemone Collection. I don't know how you got through that scare — it would drive me mad. You must be SO relieved you don't have them.
Ugh. It was like that scene in the second Harry Potter movie when Harry and Ron go into the forest to talk to the giant spider and they look up and all the spider offspring are propelling themselves downward from the roof of the cave. If bedbugs spun webs, I'd move and go live in an open field somewhere.
It was one of my more difficult weeks, I have to admit. Worrying that I had cancer sucked, but at least I knew the chemo would probably work. And I could get some sleep along the way.
In addition to washing and bagging everything and scrubbing my whole apartment, I looked for bugs in every nook and cranny and preserved whatever I found in packing tape. I ended up with a grisly collection of tiny beetles and things -- even the exterminator didn't know what some of them were. At the time I was just thrilled to hear they weren't bedbugs, but now, weeks later, I'm still in the habit of looking for bugs everywhere I go, and I wish I weren't. Yick.
The upside was that I ended up throwing out a lot of things (some of which shrank in the wash), which will save me some time and suffering when I need to consolidate my belongings and move in with my soon-to-be husband. You can't be sentimental when you're fighting bedbugs, even imaginary ones.
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