The Land of Counterpane

The Land of Counterpane 

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
 Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
-Robert Louis Stevenson

It was a great weekend, filled with friends, games, Broadway musicals, tangerine cake, and too many miles of pavement. In fact, it may have been too much fun. For roughly the last 24 hours, Andy has been relegated to the land of counterpane with a nasty stomach bug, while I serve as his questionably competent nursemaid, dispensing freely of Jell-O, Nalagenes full of water, and Robert Louis Stevenson quotes. (Is there anything more soothingly than Jell-O and Robert Louis Stevenson?) In the end, not really the start to the work week we'd imagined, but keep calm and carry on, eh?

 

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News from the Infirmary

Source

The cabin has been one house of illness lately. A nasty cold has been spreading through the entire community like wildfire, so when Andy came home with the sniffles a week and a half ago, I knew it was only a matter of time before the cabin had taken on a decided "infirmary" feel. Sure enough, Andy's been out with a nasty, yucky sinus cold for going on 11 days now and I've been sniffling (and sneezing) my way through the past six days. It's a doozy, this cold, and we're hardly its only victims.

So there's no real news to report from this neck of the woods, no big outdoor adventures to relate from the last two batches of days off.

But here are some fun stats from the House of Illness!

Work days missed = 0
Boxes of Nyquil depleted = .5
Kleenex Boxes used  = 2 and counting 
Chicken soup consumed = 1 batch
Boxes of tea depleted = 2

In other news, winter's decided to go prove something and be all wintery again. Actually, we're meant to be getting the blizzards of all blizzards right now, but so far, not even a snowflake. Guess it all tracked south. Bummer . . . .  For the time being, I'll just enjoy the fresh 5" that came down on Sunday.

Honestly, it can be spring any day now. ANY DAY. *sigh*

In a moment of feverish inspiration (somewhat aided by a feeling of broke-ity, broke, broke-ness), I sent out a batch of queries on Saturday and within 48 hours I'd  been rewarded for my efforts by not one, but two paying gigs out of the deal. I know, right! I'm excited, but a little stressed out by it all. I'm hoping this cold lets up soon, because phone interviews + being all stuffed up = ridiculousness.

I think I'll spend the rest of my evening once I've finished this super interesting and informative post getting my mileage chart for 2011 all done. I've been putting off making the chart for a good two months now, but I think it would be spiffy to file my taxes in the near future so the chart must be done.

Anyone do anything exciting for Leap Year? I spent my extra day doing laundry, grocery shopping, and finally watching The Help (good, but the book is much better). So yeah, I spent my extra day exactly like any other day. Lame.

And that's the news from the infirmary. I hope everyone else is managing to keep the sniffles at bay!

 

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Travel Thursdays: The Food Poisoning Edition

I spend a fair amount of time here at Of Woods and Words dreaming about travel. While I was quite a globe-trotter back in my early 20s, now having reached the ripe old age of 26, my travels have taken on a shorter, more localized flavor. After spending a good portion of my day off yesterday playing in QuickBooks, it's become apparent that unless I give up on, say, health insurance, that trip to Antarctica is still a good five years off.


But when Mama Kat posted a writing prompt on food poisoning, I knew it was time to introduce "Travel Thursdays," a weekly feature on Of Woods and Words devoted to travel tales, tips and "to-see" lists. I can think of no better excuse to share my food poisoning story and start talking travel on a regular basis.

I've spent nearly seven years trying to reclaim Paris. I've watched nearly every Parisian flick Netflix has ever recommended. I've purchased Paris wall calendars. Last Christmas, I sent out Madeleine cards. But, although I'd once planned to minor in French,  to this day, when I think of Paris, I feel tired and slightly nauseous.

During my semester in Ireland, I was part of a group of six girls who decided to spend a long weekend in Paris. As a 19-year-old whose only prior travel-abroad experience had been spending 12 days in London, England, the thought of jetting off to the most romantic city in the world for a weekend seemed positively surreal. The Eiffel Tower, boulevards, croissants, the Seine; it was enough to make me squeal and want to don a beret and jaunty striped shirt. But my stereotypical daydreams of sipping coffees outside a cafe or strolling through the flower garden behind Notre Dame while nibbling a crepe were by far the most romantic aspects of the entire trip.

Too poor to afford a night in the hostel, we spent the night before our flights sleeping in the Dublin airport. It wasn't until we arrived in Paris the next afternoon that we realized not one of the six girls on the trip had thought to throw in a map. Cue sleep deprived wandering through the streets searching for our hostel. As we became increasingly frustrated with Parisian street signage, it started to snow.

By the time we'd found the hostel, we were tired, cold, cranky and hungry. One of the other girls, Melissa, and I ran to the bakery across the street to pick up a late lunch. As I munched down on my baguette sandwich, I thought the mayonnaise perhaps tasted a little extra tangy. Never mind that, I thought, that was probably what Parisian mayonnaise tasted like. I ate the whole thing.

We spent a lovely evening in the Montmartre section, climbing the gazillion steps to the Sacre Couer, visiting the windmills, and taking in stunning nighttime views of Paris's lights. Under the glowing streetlights, we nibbled Nutella crepes and threw spare Euros into the street musicians' open cases.

But I woke with a start in the middle of the night. I didn't feel so good. A vicious growl from my stomach got me out of bed and as I knelt in front of the room's toilet, it became clear that I really, really didn't feel so good. 

The next morning, it became apparent that Melissa and I were the only ones in our group in this predicament. Achy, retching, dehydrated  and shaky, we were also the only baguette eaters in the gang. It seemed that funny tasting mayonnaise was the most likely culprit.

At the Louvre, I wandered aimlessly through the sculptures, feeling as heavy, lifeless and grey as the sculptures themselves. I tried to act disappointed that the bell tower was closed at Notre Dame, but with my shaky legs, I couldn't imagine climbing countless steps just for some vistas and gargoyles. In the Musee D'Orsay, I sprinted up at long escalator to the sixth floor bathroom to attempt to discreetly barf into a toilet.

For the most part I rallied. After sleeping for approximately 16 hours that night, I spent our final day in Paris touring Versailles and the Opera house.  But truth be told, I was still feeling pretty dodgy as we sat in the Dublin train station wiating to make our final leg of the journey home. As we waited, I kept making some pretty uncomfortable sprints to the public toilet. And let me tell you, when the public toilet is one of those European numbers with a pay turnstile that you have to insert coins into to access the bathroom, that is not a great situation to be in.

Even my pictures from that weekend are blurry.

Oh Paris. Je t'aime? I think not. Je puke.

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I Am Not The Doctor

"You see it's too much to ask for and I am not the doctor." -Alanis Morissette

You've probably figured this out already, but just in case there's any confusion about this fact, let me clarify: I am not a doctor.

Shocking, I know.

The college I attended is well known for being a nursing school -- so I went ahead and got a liberal arts degree from them . . . see above comment about not being a doctor -- and when people ask what college I attended, but don't bother following up to ask about my degree or career, they sometimes assume I'm a nurse.

Okay, stop laughing.

(Oh, and for the record, Alpha Chi actually was the name of the dorm hall I lived in during college. While Alpha Chi once was a sorority at my school, the sorority ended long before my time when someone died, but the name lived on. Sorry, no sorority sister stories here!) 

While I have a couple brilliant friends who just graduated with their M.D.s (Congrats Sandi and Donna!), I am not a doctor, or a nurse, for a myriad of reasons. Namely, while I consider myself a patient, understanding person, I don't have a whole lot of empathy for those feeling a little under the weather. In fact, on Friday I was accused of "not having a sympathetic bone in my body." Harsh, but probably true.

Andy's not been feeling well lately and every time I pass the bedroom door and spy him lying, pale-faced under the crumpled comforter, it takes me clenching every nerve in my body not to bellow into the room, "SUCK IT UP!"

While Andy would most likely fluff up my pillows, bring me a cool washcloth to lay across my feverish forehead and make some homemade chicken broth to spoon into my mouth if I were ill, I just usually toss a glass of flat 7-Up at the ill person and ask repeatedly if they're feeling any better yet.

I have vivid memories of my father lying on his back on the living room floor when I was little, suffering his way through the flu without any painkillers. I come from a family that, unless you count a genetic disposition for high cholesterol, doesn't get sick too often. A head cold is usually about as ill as we get and that's something you can just power through as long as you have enough Kleenex at hand. We deal it by not dealing it. Whenever someone consistently complains of headaches or backaches or heartaches, or any aches, I usually start to think the person's a hypochondriac.

Sometimes my "we all deal with crappy stuff . . . get over it!" attitude just isn't what an ailing person wants to hear. And sometimes, yes, I wish I had a little more of a "Chicken Soup" outlook on life.

But I am not the doctor.

Still, feel better Andy.

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