I’m Totally RAD

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “Oh no she din’t!  She din’t just disappear for weeks with no word of warning and then just pop up in my reader unannounced like a zit on prom night!” That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you?  Hold off on your vitriol, Innernetz.  Save that for Roman Po-skank-ski. 

September has been one bitch of a month. Reactive Airway Disease (RAD), which is just a fancy way of saying, “we don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, here’s your mask, have a nice day,” and bronchitis have knocked me on my ass.  My doctor doesn’t have an explanation for the fatigue that makes every day feel as if I am walking through sand dunes with Rosie O’Donnell strapped to one leg, Kirstie Alley to the other, and a box of donuts hanging around my neck. 

The one bright spot in my month was my visit to the Mean Girl homestead.  We laughed, we drank, we shook some booty.  But it was over too soon.  My buzz hadn’t yet dissipated before I was on a cramped, crowded plane home, remembering why I hate people to fly.  First of all, it was the smallest fucking plane I’d ever seen.  Somewhere in the Midwest, a child was frantically searching for his Fisher Price L’il People People Movers Plane while I was trying to squeeze my ass into a seat the size of an oyster cracker. 

As I was putting in my earplugs and preparing for a nap, a woman sat next to me.  I was rude, Innernetz.  I did not make eye contact or even nod in her direction.  I knew better.  I seem to have a face that says, “Please!  Talk to me!  Tell me about your son’s ingrown toenail and your husband’s battle with psoriasis!  What?  Oh no, I’m not yawning.  I’m just trying to eat my brain so I don’t have to listen to you for another god damn minute!” Even on the best of days, I hate small talk and chit-chat.  Hate. It.  So, I put in my earplugs, fashioned a pillow out of my knock-off pashmina, closed my eyes, and — tap, tap, tap

I tried to ignore the fingernail poking into my shoulder.  Tap, tap, tap.  With a sigh that clearly indicated “This Better Be Good, Bitch” I opened my eyes.  “Yes?” I asked, in a voice that I have used to turn crying babies to stone and obnoxious men into bubbling pools of offal.

“You must be tired,” said the woman next to me, bobbing her head like a pump handle toward my makeshift pillow against the fuselage.  Oh em gee!  Thanks for waking me up to tell me!  I was just wondering why my eyes were closed. 

“I am.  Very tired.” I grunted.  I went to reinsert my earplugs when Pump Handle Pam decided it would be a good time to take off her migraine-inducing sweater of many colors, bump my hand, and send my earplugs falling to the floor where they disappeared with what was left of my patience and goodwill.  I didn’t rest my head against the fuselage so much as I banged it repeatedly in an attempt to knock myself out.  It didn’t work. 

And then, Samuel L. Jackson walked on the plane.  Well, not the REAL Samuel L.Jackson.  But he looked enough like him for me to wish there were snakes on the plane and I was sitting next to the emergency exit with a parachute.  Not Samuel L. Jackson took a seat at the front of the plane.  Behind him was a man wearing a toupee so pathetic it was crying and some sort of cologne that fragranced the air.  I think it was Eau de Budweiser.  He wobbled his way down the aisle before finally collapsing into the row in front of me.  He let out a loud buuuuuuurp!  Yep, definitely Eau de Budweiser.

The next few hours passed in a haze of misery. Pump Handle Pam nattered on about her son’s football drama.  Oh noes!1!  He was second string!  Tearful Toupee continued to depressurize, sending fumes of EdB through his blowhole like Flipper on a bender.  And to make this the Best! Flight! Ever! John Goodman joined Kirstie and Rosie in a battle royale for the donuts.  Because lethargy and muscle weakness wasn’t enough, the cough that had disappeared several days earlier returned with such vehemence that my body contorted as if undergoing an exorcism.  Watery eyes and a runny nose soon joined the mucous maracas rattling in my chest. 

I made it home, Innernetz.  Mr. Dingo took one look at me and put me to bed wrapped in blankets and woe.  When I finally dragged myself to the doctor’s office, I was told that my RAD and bronchitis had never completely disappeared; it had just been on hiatus.  And it was back.  So I’ve been hanging out on the couch watching bad TV with Dingo Girl, Not a Dingo, Rosie, Kirstie, and John.  I’ve been feeling much better the past few days.  Good thing, too.  John just told me that we’re out of donuts.

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