There have been some adventures in Being Poorly since last we met. Allow me to usher you into my House Of Many Ills and entertain you with how obvious it is that I'm going to die before I'm 30 of some mysterious, flesh-eating strain of the hiccups.
First of all, and really more importantly than anything else that has ever happened because this is ongoing and I defy you to find me a schizophrenic who has this much happening in his head independent of his own psyche: my ear has been sparkling.
By that, I do not mean like Robert Pattinson of a midsummer afternoon or like the macaroni jewellery box that your niece made right after the class was done decorating their mother's day cards in glitter. (Obviously simultaneously I also don't mean like the inside of your niece's nose right after they were done decorating their cards and she had come up with gold.) I mean like champagne, mineral water, or that cider that newly expectant mothers are expected to think is as good as getting a real glass of alcohol to celebrate with. My right ear has been making non-stop sounds for a week now that give off the distinct impression that my cochlear bits have been doused in an extra-special dosage of fairy dust, and it's starting to affect my sanity. Naturally, I went to the doctor (because that's where I go when I feel even a little bit down; they know me there and I want to have a plaque installed over the doctor's bench commemorating it after myself.) and tried explaining the situation. I also asked my dad to hold his ear up to mine to see if he could hear it sparkle, but somehow he felt uncomfortable doing that in a public waiting room.
The doctor, I felt. was rather ambiguous in his diagnosis. Perhaps I have simply used up all of the diagnoses in the world, and there simply are none left so he had to give me the half-baked left-overs from the guy who came in before me. It was yadda yadda something inflamation yadda yadda, and a course of the same anti-inflammatory things I was prescribed for my weird jaw a while back. (By that I mean that my regular jaw was being weird; it's not that I have a spare that performs in odd ways.) Also, he gave me stuff for what I affectionately think of as my prodding problem (you lightly poke me and I go into screaming traction for ten minutes. Cannot scratch my back without a sedative and someone to hold my hand for emotional support.), so hopefully soonish I'll be able to pursue that career in Luchador wrestling.
All of this was followed by another appointment with a different doctor to see about removing my It. (My it is the benign tumour-type thing growing on my ribs. I do not exaggerate when I say I'm an actual hyperchondriac.) I've been to see a different surgeon about two months ago, but our medical aid is of the devil and thusly sent us in a run-around the likes of which only Charlie Chaplin could truly understand in terms of its tragi-comic genius. They don't seem to be in the habit of approving both a surgeon AND the surgery where he practices. But eventually after much slaving on my father's part, a surgeon (who is also a GP) was found and his surgery of choice was approved, and so we ventured down to... somewhere, I've actually forgotten the area's name again because apparently I live up to my own stereotype, but it's far and you have to pass through a toll road on the way.
I came wearing my own x-rays for convenience, having had an attack of the arts-'n-crafts the day before and doodling a rib cage onto a vest. We get there and it's a small centre with a bunch of practices. There's an entrance with a big board telling you which floor everything's on and an elevator off to the right. The board is telling us that the doctor is on the ground floor, but like some weird reimagining of an Escher painting or the embodiment of a Zen Koan, we were on the ground floor and it rather obviously consisted of nothing more than the aforementioned elevator and a flight of stairs going in either direction. We walked around the building, and found a pathologist, a some else-ologist and a pharmacy that was literally also a gun store. It was some time before we got far enough around the building to find the doctor's offices, and once inside it took me two minutes to spot as many examples of Comic Sans used in inappropriate ways.
He, like the surgeon who had come before him, poked around my ribs to confirm the It-ness of my It, and for good measure poked with equal aplomb on the other side of my person to make sure that it held a sufficient lack of It-ness to bolster the It-status of the actual It. My prodding problem at this time compelled me to pull some very serious faces at my dad over the doctor's shoulder. Also, my ear was sparkling at the time, so it was a good convergence of this month's specific Ills.
I'm scheduled to go in tomorrow to have the It-ectomy under general, so hooray me. The receptionist at the surgery (one of the scariest elevator rides of my life later) was rather accommodating and nice, trying to explain how I wasn't to eat six hours before the surgery and not to be afraid. It took all of the will power I had not to explain to her that I was a damned expert at this stuff by now and did she know that when surgeons make to-do lists for surgery complications and deaths go down by more than 50%? I don't think they'll let me keep this one like they let me keep my wisdom teeth and my gallstones, though.
Awesome news: Baby Sam has hit the one-year mark! That's right, the warranty has officially expired, Brenda is now free to tinker with the mechanics all she likes. (That metaphor ran out of steam at some point but I'm struggling to mark the exact point of expiration.)
It was a steamtrain-themed do, with the above train serving as a photo-booth. I went twice, naturally, being the photo-whore that I am. Brenda really outdid herself, it was beautiful, train things every where and little flags and a cake that looks like it could very well have been boarding from Platform 9 & 3/4. An all-round huzzah for my favourite baby, here's hoping that kid knows how awesome his mom really is.
Lastly as to happenings in the pie-world before I log off to watch some more New Girl, (I am fully intending to instate a Douchebag Jar for some of my more special friends, it's GENIUS) I am now shopping for a band.
By that I mean I'm looking for auditions so as to put the hum in some awesome band's whistle. (Ooh, I like it. Apparently I coin idioms now.) I've found something of a struggle in actually locating bands auditioning female vocalists in the area, but I did actually attempt one in Lanseria a week ago. It was six different kinds of fun (even though I believe I did very nearly go tits up falling over a guitar stand at one point, cementing the image of poise and grace that I was so desperately trying to exude) but being as it's a 45 minute drive out and back to the practising space, I'm thinking I need to focus my search more locally.
And with that, I believe I can justifiably say my bogging-hiatus is over again for now. I shall return to my adventuring, if only to have something to write to you good people about. And because I've been watching more Project Runway than any person has a singular right to, I now bid you not goodbye but Auf Wiedersehen.
Yes, I know. I'll put a Rand into the Douchebag Jar.