Ghosts, Grammar, and Tic-Tacs

Wednesday I woke up with a raging sore throat. The Funasaurus was away on a business trip, and I spent the day moping around feeling very sorry for myself. I was supposed to meet a friend for a happy hour, but I was in no mood to go. (You know it's bad if wine does not sound appealing.) But since the gallons of tea and honey and extra strength Tylenol seemed to be doing no good, I forged ahead and got myself to the happy hour/wine tasting.

Where I had a great time. Riesling cures all. My friend J and I spent a while chatting about the superficial, “Oh how's work/job hunt”-type stuff, but as the pinot sunk in, the conversation veered towards scary movies. (Which neither of us like.) And then to the supernatural. (Which both of us kind of subscribe to. Even though I confessed I always moved the Ouija board thing-y. It never moved on its own. [In 7th grade the Ouija board told Karen that cute little Jason liked ME, not her . Ha ha. Although the joke was on me, seeing as how cute little Jason did not ever give either of us the time of day.]) We discussed ghosts and ghost sightings and what one should do should one see a ghost, or get trapped by a “presence.” And also, how we both secretly hoped telekinesis worked. Much like The Force. How nice would it be if someone asked you to please pass the salt at a dinner party, but your hands were full of getting a second helping of twice baked potatoes, and so you just willed the salt (and pepper! Emily Post would Frown Upon not passing them together) to float in their general direction, just with the power of your mind?

Fabulous. Also, you could pour wine for people, and then if you spilled, you could just blame it on your lack of extra sensory perception training. My bad, darling, just need a little more telekinesis practice!

Sufficiently plied with alcohol, I no longer felt the glass shards in my larynx. Just the sweet chill of something nether-worldy near my spine. (Either that, or the sweet Riesling, again.) But then I had to guzzle water to drive home, and whooo boy did the glass shards kick in with a vengeance, though the prickly hairs on the back of my neck did calm down, some.

I got home, and reverted to hot tea and honey. And tried not to panic every time the wind blew.

Around 11:00 p.m., one of our college buddies, Acorn, called to say he was in town for a couple of days. In fact, his plane had just landed. He was in town because he owns an apartment, here, which is currently just sitting vacant, and for whatever reason, the heating bill shot through the roof last month. Odd.

I overrode the stabbing pain in my throat to say, “Come over! I will feed you chocolate and provide you with blankets to use at your apartment!”Acorn obliged, and stopped by. We got to talking... more specifically, he talked. I muttered and nodded and gnawed on throat lozenges like they were candy. And then 11 became midnight, and the wind blew some more and I freaked out and tried to be all casual, “So, you should really just stay here, tonight. It's a long drive to your apartment. What if some hobos discovered it and are now living there, turning the heat up willy-nilly? You don't want to confront them at 1:00 in the morning, do you?”

Nary a care for the fact that it was late and I did not have the guest bedroom ready. Nor the fact that, erm, we actually used to date, and he was The Funasaurus' good friend, and that was quite the switcheroo I pulled several years later. Not to mention, The Funasaurus was so not there to give his stamp of approval.

But what if there were ghosts residing in our newly built track home with no basement or attic? What if our laundry room with large, eco-friendly washer and dryer and stanky litter box were appealing to a poltergeist? I needed company.

So Acorn spent the night, and I was able to mostly forget about any other-worldly visitors due to sandpaper in my nasal cavity.

The next day I decided I really ought to go see a doctor, before I spend the weekend socializing with people I'd rather not infect with hideous scratchy throat viruses. So I made an appointment, and went in all bleak and pathetic looking. The doctor took her sweet time getting to me, and then she stabbed me several times with that horrid throat culture swab (once for strand A of strep, once for all the other strands. Apparently you can test for strands B-Z in one swab. Strand A needs to get in on that action.)

Then she told me to keep drinking tea, and to take 3 Advil. So I asked, “Isn't the normal dosage two?” and she said, “That's more like trying to cure pain by taking Tic-Tacs. You need something stronger. Two pills won't do nothin'.”

Then I made a mental note to write to the dean of whatever damn medical school she went to to tell them that it is entirely inappropriate to give someone a doctorate before they have a decent command of basic English grammar.

But the Advil/Tic-Tacs are working. And The Funasaurus came home. And we had sushi for dinner last night with Acorn, so things are looking good for the weekend.

T.G.I.F.!