Cold Showers

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My friend just moved into a new place, and with nothing better to do on a Friday between noon and 4pm, I sat at his home to wait for the gas company to come relieve him of the last five days of cold showers.  I can’t imagine five consecutive days of cold showers!  If it were me, I’d just get some dry shampoo to help contain the grease accumulating in my hair, and use some baby wipes to clean up till the hot water came.  Maybe even get one of those baby wipe warmers.  Babies are so lucky nowadays.  No shock of a cold wipe on the bottom.  Spoiled.  But look who’s talking.  I can probably count on one hand how many times I’ve had to take a cold shower at home, and it was never more than a day at a time.  Camp was a different story though.  I’ve taken many a cold shower at Camp.  Not to mention it was while standing on concrete with nothing but aluminum siding to separate me from the great outdoors.  Oh, and no roof.  Let me explain.

My beloved Camp La Verne now has updated shower facilities, but even up until my high school camping days, we had to shower outdoors with the pine trees and clouds looming overhead.  Our water was heated by a pufferbelly.  Basically, water was pumped into a large tank that was heated by a rusty, cylindrical wood burner.  Someone literally had to light a fire, and keep the fire going, in order for us to have hot water to shower with.  We could tell how much hot water was left by running our hands up the sides of the water tank.  The higher up we felt the warmth, the more hot water that remained.

The water was then drawn through the pipes attached in a square shape above our heads and along the side of our aluminum walls.  It was communal showering, so we all wore our swimsuits; except for the older adult counselors.  For some reason, those old women just loved to shower stark naked while we awkwardly adverted our eyes and cowered together under the furthest showerhead away from them.  I’m pretty sure that showering naked with minors is illegal nowadays, but times were simpler back then.

In any case, due to the small water tank, and the fact that us girls take forever to shower, cabins rotated each day for showering order.  On the day that my cabin was last, we were guaranteed to start off the shower warm, only to be suddenly hit with a blast of freezing ass cold mountain water that wouldn’t relent.  Once the hot water ran out of the tank, there was no more to be had.  If we still had suds in our hair, we had no choice but to let that cold water pelt our heads until we were fully rinsed.  And don’t forget that all this was going on while standing outdoors with the fresh mountain air whisping away any sort of steam we could have created.  We quickly learned that it was best to start our showers with shaving, since it is very much impossible to shave over goose bumps, then move to shampooing.  If we were lucky, we’d still have warm water to wash ourselves, but if not, at least we knew the earlier shampoo suds had rinsed down our bodies.

Unhygienic, yes, but it’s easier said than done to complete an entire shower routine in those chilly conditions.  Besides, as soon as we stepped into the adjoining dressing room, the bottoms of our feet were already covered with pine needles, and the trek back to our open-air cabins over the dusty dirt trails didn’t do much to keep our moist skin clean.  All that said though, I kinda miss those pufferbelly days.  On the occasions that the water stayed warm the entire time, it was actually quite the neat experience: showering while looking up at the clean, blue sky and hearing the birds chirp above.  As horrible as those cold showers were, I wouldn’t take those days back for anything.  Well, maybe the naked women part.

Imagine showering with this overhead.

Imagine showering with this overhead.

The Chosen One

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The longer I put off writing, the more anxious I became about starting over, and the more stressed I felt about having a good “returning post.”  But then I realized that the things I write in this blog are mostly for me.  I don’t have to hit a homer with every entry, and I don’t have to come up with a super witty post to make up for my absence.  You all read my blog because you like what I have to say, and what I have to say is never geared around what I think others will like to hear.  It’s always about whatever is on my mind at the time.  And right now, it’s Buffy.  (Even though the show ended 10 years ago, and the statute of limitations have probably passed, I still feel obliged to caution a spoiler alert.)

I first began watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer in high school, where I instantly related to awkwardly nerdy Willow, and secretly wished I could float pencils and help my best friend fight baddies.  I loved that Buffy and her friends graduated at the same time as me, and that I would be experiencing college with them.  Okay, I know that sounds a bit psychotic, but I really felt drawn to the characters, and not having the most social high school experience myself, I was basically living vicariously through them.  Suffice it to say, I was obsessed with the show, and was lucky enough to find a few friends in college who were just as obsessed as me.  Some of my favorite college memories are of the “Buffy nights” spent with friends.  Which may or may not have been made funner with bowls of vodka Jell-O.

In 2009, I finally followed my dream of being Vampire Willow for Halloween. Coincidentally, at the party I went to that year, I ran into a Buffy.

In 2009, I finally followed my dream of being Vampire Willow for Halloween. Coincidentally, at the party I went to that year, I ran into a Buffy.

In any case, I’ve recently needed a pick-me-up, so I turned to my favorite show of all time.  I quickly went through some of my favorite episodes, like “Triangle” from Season 5. (How can I not laugh over the bickering of a socially inept ex-demon and a sweet, quirky witch?) And of course, no happy Buffy watching could be without the musical episode from Season 6.  I seriously used to sing through the entire episode in my head while training for the marathon…and if I hadn’t reached the end of my run, I’d start “singing” it again.  Made the miles pass quickly.  Once I’d exhausted my favorites, I decided that it was finally time to re-watch Season 7: the final, and least-watched season for me.

Let me backtrack a bit.  For Seasons 1-6, I can honestly say that I’ve watched every single episode a minimum of 5 times.  Each episode was recorded to VHS while I watched it live so that they could be re-visited again and again throughout the week.  My memory has weakened with aging, but once upon a time, I was able to tell you the title, synopsis and season of any given episode.  I’d even throw in some quotes for good measure.  Maybe I used the word “obsessed” a bit too loosely earlier?  “Buffy Freak” would be a better description.  I could NOT re-watch any episodes of Season 7, however.  To this day, I’m not even sure I’ve seen every episode of that season (though, knowing me, I probably have).  I was SO infuriated with Joss Whedon after Season 6!  He destroyed my beloved Willow, and made the season so dark that I really didn’t want to come back.  I did, but not with the intensity I once had.  I watched the episodes when they aired…or even sometimes waited till the next day after setting it to record and finding something better to do with my Tuesday night.  Once the series was over, I purchased Season 7 to complete my collection, and let it collect dust on my shelf.

Time heals all wounds, right?  So this week, I’ve begun to watch Season 7 for the second time.  Without the pent up anger I used to have, I’m finding that I’m enjoying it quite a bit!  I’m laughing at all the Buffyisms, and continuing to yell out loud at Buffy’s stupid little sister, Dawn.  We’ll see how long this enjoyment lasts, as I still haven’t gotten to the part where Willow decides to forget about her dead girlfriend and hook up with a bitchy teenager.  I’m sure some of my old resentment will come trickling back at that time, but I’m determined to finish this season with an open mind.  I think Netflix knew that I was watching with trepidation, ‘cause two episodes in, they hit me with this:

“Sweetie, are you sure you don’t want to watch something else?”

“Sweetie, are you sure you don’t want to watch something else?”

And yes, Netflix, yes I am.  Fifteen years from when it first aired, and I’m still watching.  It will forever be my go-to happy place.

Have You Seen My Humor?

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I haven’t written in half a month, and I’m blaming it on my lost humor.  Generally, she’s kept on a leash: the leash with the harness that parents strap on their small children.  I know I can’t judge until I have a kid, but I just can’t see myself using a leash on my future child (humor yes, kid no).  That is, unless my child comes out as mischievous as Greg’s mom has led me to believe he was as a tot.  In that case, I’ll probably use a choke collar.  I kid.  Please don’t call child services on me.  In any case, my humor totally pulled a fast one on me, and traded out the harnessed leash for one of those spring back thin roped leashes that lets out yards upon yards of slack, so when you finally snap back into reality after staring at the shapes in the clouds, you notice that your humor has run halfway down the block, so you slide the switch into the immobile position and try to catch up.  Except that I lost myself in the clouds for a bit too long, and my humor was smart enough to find a leash that had miles of slack.  It’s taken me quite the while to catch up.  I have her within my sights, which is why I’m able to write a little today, but hopefully I’ll be reunited with her again soon.  So many blog-worthy events have been taking place this month: I turned 32, I judged the long jump and triple jump at a high school track meet (I’ve only ever been a long distance runner; no field event experience), I took a tour of the best baseball stadium in our country, and I even found my wedding gown.  I just didn’t have the strength to write about them without my humor.

Be back soon…

Say My Name

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I jumped up and dashed over to my cousin to sneak a peek at the 3D picture he took with his phone.  From behind me, I heard my grandmother call my name, “Erica!” It’s difficult to admit, but my immediate reaction was that of annoyance.  My grandma has no qualms interrupting someone giving a speech, let alone any of us holding a one-on-one conversation.  I assumed she just wanted to be let in on whatever I was huddled over, so I chose to ignore her and quickly finished my “oohing” and “aahing” before inquiring as to what she wanted.  However, my grandma is a stubborn woman, and within seconds, I heard her call me again, “Erica!”

That’s when it dawned on me.  My grandma was calling me by name with my back turned to her.  Amazing!  My grandma has Dementia caused by Alzheimer’s.  Earlier, I greeted her with a hug and kiss, and she reciprocated with a face of recognition.  However, as she welcomed Greg, her words betrayed her memory by saying to him, “I’m glad my daughter has you in her life.”  We didn’t correct her.

My grandmother has been suffering with this disease for years.  From the onset, we decided not to lie to her; and we still don’t, but we do find it is better for her happiness if we don’t correct her every time she is mistaken.  Doing so only seems to put her in a somber mood until we can distract her with something that brings her joy and makes her forget that she was upset.  Yet, while she is happy in the moment, we still retain the memory of her sadness.

One of the hardest times in living with my grandma’s dementia was during the death of my grandfather almost a year ago.  He was home on hospice care, and during his last moments, much of the family came to be by his side.  We had his favorite music from the 40’s softly playing, and when he passed, it was peaceful, but nonetheless, a very sad moment for us all.  It was heartbreaking to see my grandma weep over her husband’s body, and we all comforted her until she could break away and reluctantly accept his passing.  We sat silently sniffling, feeling as if the world should have paused, but the 40’s music and birds happily chirping outside were grounding us in reality.

My grandmother suddenly interrupted our subdued silence, “Russ…why won’t you answer me?”  With shock and horror, we realized that she had no memory of his passing.  With gentle reminders, we had to watch her re-live her initial grief over and over again.  It broke my heart unbearably so. Most days, she’ll still forget that her husband is gone, but she no longer grieves with the intensity of that first day.  Maybe a part of her remembers?  Just like a part of her can still remember me at times.  3D pictures could wait for moments like that.

“Yes, Grandma?”

 

I’m linking up over at Yeah Write.  Head on over to read entries from wonderful writers!

In Which I Rant About Spoilers

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I totally spoiled an event in Downton Abbey for my cousin the other night, and I felt horrible!  I felt so awful that I stressed about it all that night and the next day.  It was purely on accident, and as soon as I saw her face, I knew that she and I were not talking about the same scene; but by then, it was too late to take it back.  As bad as I felt, I understood, as I’m sure my cousin did, that these things happen sometimes while in conversation.  It’s not done maliciously, or on purpose, so while understandably upsetting, it’s a forgivable act.  What’s not forgivable, though, is posting spoilers all over social networking sites.

I utterly cannot wrap my head around why people feel the need to post their feelings and/or exactly what happened in a show that they just finished watching.  I really can’t.  I mean, I understand that shows are exciting and evoke emotions.  The feelings can be so strong that we feel compelled to share them.  However, I feel it is our moral responsibility to share those feelings with other humans who have already partaken in the show.  Maybe turn to a friend sitting on the couch next to you?  Or call up a buddy that you know just finished watching the same show.  I don’t comprehend why people feel the need to share it on sites such as Facebook.  For the most part, all it does is give away plots to friends that haven’t had the opportunity to watch it yet.  And if it does stir up a conversation with others who have watched it, it only serves to leave a more detailed public spoiler for those who haven’t.

Over the past two years, I have not been able to enjoy a single one of my shows without at least one aspect of it being spoiled to me by a Facebook friend.  I’ve seen posts as blatant as: “I’m so sad!  I’m going to miss [insert a character name here].”  Really?!  You’re going to straight out publish the climactic element of the show knowing full well that many people own DVRs and don’t watch television live anymore?!  Others try to be vague by saying something along the lines of, “Saddest episode of [my favorite show] ever,” or “I’m so shocked at what happened on [the biggest show currently on television].”  I appreciate their effort in trying not to give anything away, but in sharing their feelings, it’s pretty easy to decipher that someone is going to die, get caught, or have something major happen to them, when, without their status update, I would have just gone into the show not expecting any mind-blowing event.

Some of you might be thinking to yourself, “Well Erica, just don’t go on Facebook during the night and day after your favorite show airs if you know you can’t watch it at that time.”  The thing is, I learned that lesson a LONG time ago, and I purposely avoid the Internet, and especially Facebook, until I’ve watched my show.  Unfortunately, that’s not good enough anymore.  I have an iPhone that pushes notifications of Facebook status updates from my “close friends” onto the front screen of my phone.  One time, I turned on my phone, and right there across my screen was a Facebook notification with one of those vague spoilers about how sad my friend was at the end of a certain “The Walking Dead” episode.  So sad, in fact, that it almost brought my friend to tears.  Ugh!  For those of you unfamiliar with this show, it’s about survivors of the zombie apocalypse.  So if one of my friends is sad, it’s pretty evident that one of the characters is either going to die, turn into a zombie, or both during that episode.  It totally ruined the suspense of the show, knowing for sure that something incredibly sad was going to happen.  I might have been able to pass over this act with only a hint of annoyance, but what really miffed me was that the spoiler was from someone on the West coast, posting promptly after watching an East coast broadcast!  So not only did I know someone wasn’t surviving, I then had to wait hours before I was even able to watch it myself.

Again.  I must ask, “Why?”  I know I’m a bit of a freak when it comes to wanting to be surprised, but I truly feel that most people don’t want their shows completely ruined for them; at least not the major events (which are, of course, the only ones that are ever posted all over Facebook).  I’m up for a conversation on this, since I know a few of my readers are culprits, so comment away!  Maybe if I can hear some valid reasons as to why it’s done, I’ll calm down a bit.  All I know is, come Sunday evening, I’m turning my phone and computer off three hours before the season finale of The Walking Dead airs here in California, ‘cause I just might turn stabby if one of you fools lets me in on any inkling of the plot!

P.S. I still love you all.  Just maybe block me from your spoiler status updates next time, yeah?

Facials Aren’t For Wimps

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The other day, I went to my local day spa with my cousin to spend a gift card I received a year ago.  Spas give me mild anxiety because I never go and don’t know what to expect, so I waited until a time came that I could go with Marissa.  We decided on facials and a manicure.  I’d never had a facial before, and it was quite the experience!

 

Attendant: So, what’s going on with your face today?

Me: Um, I dunno.

Attendant: Well, why did you choose to get a facial this morning?

Me: Well, um, my fiancé gave me a gift card and the description in the brochure sounded nice.

Attendant: (laughing at me) Are you nervous?

Me: A little… (reality: so much so that my shoulders were tense) I’ve never had a facial before.

Attendant: That’s okay.  So tell me, do you have dry, normal, or oily skin?

Me: Uhh…

 

The rest of our conversation pretty much went like that until I was finally able to articulate to her that I knew nothing about my face and had no daily beauty regimen.  So while my face was being massaged with 50 different layers of lotion, I was being schooled on how dry my face was, and how the Clearasil that worked great for me during my teenage acne days was no longer useful in the present day, and was probably harming my skin, along with how I needed to be using sunscreen and a moisturizer everyday.  As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough, she turned on the bright light to examine my face in preparation for the extraction, and as she did, she commented on how quick my face was to redden.  Which, of course, only made my cheeks turns a deeper crimson.

I had no idea what an extraction entailed, but I imagined a small object, shaped like a pen would be placed over each individual pore to suck out the blackheads like a little facial vacuum.  I clearly overthought that, ‘cause she straight up just squeezed my nose like she was juicing every last bit of moisture out of me.  My closed eyelids were all that prevented tears from rolling down my face.  She probably got a good two inches of “wormy” blackheads out of each pore, and I’m pretty sure it’ll be weeks before they fill up again.

After my assault, she massaged another 25 layers of lotion into my skin.  I have to say, the massage was very relaxing, and as her fingers skillfully ran across the hairline along my forehead, and I began to melt into a blissful blob, I was suddenly startled into reality due to her giving a short violent tug on the roots of my hair!  Surprisingly, it actually felt amazing, and I was eager for her to do it again.  Growing up with thick, wavy hair down to my butt, I couldn’t have a tender head even if I wanted to!  However, I know girls who cringe with the slight touch of a hair follicle, so I felt it was very brazen of her to take the chance and pull on my hair like that!

My kinky massage was followed by a coconut, strawberry, rhubarb mask, whose yummy sounding scent was completely wasted on me, but put me into a nice, peaceful sleep regardless.  The facial was finished off with a gentle wipe off of the mask, then five more layers of lotion.  I walked out of the room feeling like my smile was stretching across my entire face.  Prior to that moment, I had no clue how tight my face usually is.  Now that I am aware of how a well hydrated face feels, I’m totally going out to buy some cheap, daily moisturizer.  But I’m gonna make sure it has sunblock mixed in, ‘cause who has time to put on both moisturizer and sunscreen when you can get two in one?

 

Linking up with Mod Mom Beyond IndieDom’s blog hop so that everyone’s Monday might be a little better.  Go over there and read other entries if you don’t like Mondays either!


Harlem Shake

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Sometime in February, our internet was hit with a viral video sensation called the Harlem Shake.  I believe it started with this video, but I could be wrong, ’cause I’m totally not hip to these things, nor do I really care.  For those of you unfamiliar with the Harlem Shake, it’s basically a 30 second video clip set to a short excerpt from the song, “Harlem Shake” by Baauer, in which one person, usually helmeted, starts dancing/moving amongst others who are seemingly oblivious to him, but 15 seconds in, when the music drops, the scene cuts to everyone crazily moving/dancing together in costume and with props.  Sounds incredibly dumb, huh?

However, when it first came out, I enjoyed watching the thirty second clips put on by famous people or random groups.  Not that I have a bad attention span, but the shortness of the clips made it so easy to watch, and even easier to watch a bunch in a row!  I have to say, I was originally amused.  I knew that this fad would get old quickly, and sure enough, by the time Winter Camp hit, and the kids attempted to perform one live at the talent show, I knew it was over for me.  From that moment on, whenever I’d see a new Harlem Shake video posted on my Facebook newsfeed, I’d roll my eyes and keep scrolling.  I got why it was so funny to my Facebook acquaintances: they made it with their buddies, and it was filmed in locations that meant something to them.  Since I couldn’t relate, I wasn’t interested and wished they would stop.

Flash forward to last weekend.  My brother (Robert), fiancé (Greg), cousin (Marissa), and cousin’s husband (Alejandro) spent four hours in a jacuzzi sharing some drinks and completely dehydrating ourselves into a happy stupor.  Marissa lives in the same apartment complex as her brother (Steven), and Greg needed some dry shorts to change into, so Steven gave us permission to dig around his room for a pair of shorts while he was out.  While in his room, we thought of taking a picture of ourselves wearing his clothes and posting it on Facebook.  That plan avalanched into the idea of instead filming a Harlem Shake video in his room, wearing his clothes and using his plethora of random things to *then* post on his Facebook.  So we did.

I totally understand if you hate me, but there are friends and family out there that I know will actually get a kick out of this, so I had to share it.  Come back next time for a non-Harlem Shake post.

Zombified

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When The Walking Dead’s zombie app came out, I was in the middle of planning and directing a youth camp, trying to nail down a wedding venue, and in denial that I was actually getting an ear infection while on antibiotics, so I was late to the game in creating my own fabulous zombie pictures despite having the app downloaded immediately to my phone.  I suddenly remembered the app one night when I was laying in bed after things had calmed down, so I quickly snapped a picture of myself and went to work.  Many of you know that I am obsessed with this zombie craze, and knowing that I will totally not be a survivor and turn into a zombie myself, I *had* to see what I could potentially look like.  It was fun placing different cloudy eyes and bloody mouths onto my face to create the perfect Zombie Erica.  I was pleased with how horrifying I came out:

zombie erica

Naturally, I wanted to make one of Greg too, so I pulled up a picture of him on my phone and started adding the same fun eyes and mouths to his face.  Many of the open mouthed options seemed too feminine or overwhelming for his face, so I opted for a closed mouth image that seemed to fit nicely.  After adding some color filters and feeling content, I saved Zombie Greg and scrolled back and forth through our two photos to admire my work.  That’s when I realized that while I looked gross and terrifying, Greg looked hauntingly handsome!!

beautiful zombie greg

 I couldn’t stop laughing over our pictures, and I can’t help but think how unfair it is that he will retain his good looks if he ever becomes a zombie, but I’ll look like crap!

 

Linking up at Yeah Write for Erica’s birthday!

http://yeahwrite.me/moonshine-99/

Girl Scout Cookies

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On my way home from work, I decided to make a quick stop at Vons for some orange juice. When I pulled into the parking lot, I could see them: Girl Scouts planted outside the sliding glass door with their delicious cookies.  My eyes quickly glanced at the second door in the hopes that I would find it unguarded.  No such luck.  This troop was good!

Not only was I trying to avoid the temptation of the cookies in order to keep my form for my Fall wedding (reminding myself that I already ate two boxes of Thin Mints and one box of Samoas ALL BY MYSELF), but I was also a little intimidated by those khaki clad Senior scouts.  For those not familiar with the names and levels, I’m talking about the high school girls.  It’s one thing to smile and decline cookies from the doe eyed, kindergarten aged, Daisies who just go through the motions and look cute.  It’s another to actually be “sold” cookies by girls who can present a decent argument as to why their sweet goodness is essential to buy.  I almost backed out of my parking spot and went home, but I was craving that orange juice, and I knew we were all out at home.

I walked up to the door, sunglasses on, and chin tilted down so that I wouldn’t have to face my attackers.  When I finally reached them, I wasn’t even asked to buy any at all!  One girl cheerfully chirped, “Hello!” to which I responded likewise, and continued walking in to do my shopping.  I couldn’t believe it, but figured maybe they were going to wait to get me on my way out of the store.  An ex-Girl Scout myself, I flashed back to women telling us, “I’ll buy a box on my way out.”  Although I didn’t offer, these girls were old enough to understand this logic, and probably decided to save their breath for my return.

After my orange juice purchase, I made sure to reapply my sunglasses and adopt my do-not-talk-to-me body language, as I made my way out the door.  I got all the way past their table before I heard a girl with a mouth full of, what I presumed to be, Girl Scout cookies, mumble to me, “Cookies?”  One of her friends laughed and scolded her, “No selling with your mouth full!”  I chuckled as I continued walking.  I remembered all too well, the days of selling cookies in front of stores with some of my best friends.

I was in the Girl Scouts from 1st-10th grade (Yes, I’m aware that I stayed in way beyond the point that my parents made me, and far into the dorky self-made decision of purposely staying involved), so I sold a lot of cookies in my time!  My troop became pro at selling in front of stores.  We doubled up on the doors, and had our sales pitch down, saying in sing-song unison: “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?”  If the person had the decency to reply to us, we either cheered and sold them cookies, or answered with a polite, yet semi passive aggressive, “Thank you anyway.”  And when adults completely ignored us and walked right in or out of the store without saying a word, we’d roll our eyes and talk smack about their rudeness.

As a way to stay warm, yet uniform within our troop during the oh so chilly days of selling cookies outdoors in Southern California, we ordered same-colored, button down windbreakers with our names embroidered on the front.  Every few years, we’d need to order new jackets as we outgrew our old ones, and when we reached our teenage years, our troop voted to do away with the bright red windbreakers with yellow lettering, and step up our cool factor by ordering black jackets with purple embroidering.  Besides the dorky uniform worn underneath, we did look pretty cool with them.  Apparently, we looked too cool though, because a competing troop saw us selling cookies with our awesome jackets and informed our troop leader that we looked like gangsters.  Cholas, maybe?  I did pluck my brows way too thin back in high school.  Anyway, we were too much thug for the Girl Scouts of America, and while we were allowed to keep our jackets, we could no longer wear them while selling cookies.

The other day at Vons, I noticed that the girls standing beside their towers of cookies weren’t wearing jackets either.  I bet they own black jackets too.  I get it now; I really do.  It was scary enough approaching them sans jackets.  I can’t imagine the fear that must be induced when pulling up to a store and finding a hardcore gang selling cookies.

 

I was looking for my chola eyebrowed high school ID card and came across this gem instead!

I was looking for my chola eyebrowed high school ID card and came across this gem instead!

Immune System Failure

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Yesterday, I slowly rolled over and squinted my eyes, struggling to read the time on the black peace sign clock hanging near the bedroom door.  I blinked a few more times before my eyes focused, then suddenly widened in shock.  It was close to 11:00 in the morning!  Just a few hours prior, I was awake and kissing Greg goodbye as he left for work.  At that time, I told myself I would go back to sleep for another 45 minutes; just enough to knock out the sniffles and feeling of weariness from spending a weekend of 16-hour days directing a youth camp in the mountains.

As I poured myself a cup of orange juice, popped my Amoxicillin prescribed to me last week for a lingering sore throat, and sat down to catch up on my social networking, I was unexpectedly hit with a bout of sneezing.  I deal with allergies on a daily basis, so I have the uncanny ability to distinguish the cause of various sneezes and runny noses.  The current sneeze that stopped short and left a dull pain in the back of my nose and throat did not feel the same as a sneeze due to allergies or a random dust microbe.

Soon, my poor sinuses began to drain at a rate and consistency not akin to the common allergies.  The paper bag sitting next to me that once held a restaurant’s delicious leftover dinner, was now serving as a trash bag, and became filled with used tissues within an hour.  The painful sneezing continued.

Around noon, I began feeling the slightest bit hungry, so I dragged my slippered feet across the living room and into the kitchen to reheat a slice of pepperoni stuffed crust pizza left over from the night before.  While sitting down to eat, simultaneously chewing and wiping the grease off my mouth with a rough paper towel, I felt the sharp pain of a newly formed cold sore on my upper lip that I hadn’t noticed before.  When I finished my pizza, I attended to my mouth sore, and then sat down on my couch to write.  That’s when I felt it.

A sudden ache began forming deep in the canal of my right ear.  I pressed my middle finger firmly against the outside of my ear, massaging the pain away and hoping it was a one-time deal.  Within minutes, the arrival of another ear sting caused my right eye to involuntarily squint closed, and I soon discovered that my initial pain was the first of a sporadic succession of ear throbs I would feel for the rest of the day.

Shaking my head and chuckling softly, I thought to myself, “Only I would get an ear infection while on antibiotics.”