 Storming
Out
Yesterday I met two very engaging men with even
less sense of geometry than I have. This is only loosely related
to the hangover I have today.
I got pretty pissed off at an exchange in which
the husband and I engaged, and finally just left the house. Dodged
out into the rain and decided to offload my mattress, the one I scavenged
last week and offered him, should he want to sleep on something more cushiony
than the floor. Since he didn't want it, I figured I should toss
it into storage for the future. Now seemed a damned good time to
go do that, since he was getting peeved I hadn't gotten rid of it yet,
and I was peeved at him. Understatement.
When I arrived, there was a moving van with piles
of those rugs and quilts and burlap bits they use all folded and stacked
outside. The elevator was some time coming, but listening to the
wide array of bumps, scrapes, and rustles up above helped to kill the time.
Finally the car came down and I hefted the floppy old striped, stained
but not stinky mattress into it. As the doors opened onto the second
floor, there was a scene of boxes and bikes and things, and in the middle
of it, two very nice guys in intent discussion. One of them helped
me drag my mattress all the way down to my unit, then hurried back to his
own business after I thanked him and turned my attention to stuffing the
mattress in.
That done, I went back down the hall to see what
they were up to. They were maneuvering a box spring into a storage
unit, trying to ensure space for a motorcycle, some bikes and a box marked
"glass". I stayed and watched, offering suggestions, shoving the
box spring and the carton around. Made noises of approval at the
fact that motorcycle rear lights come on bendy rubber stalks. Thank
goodness. I took my leave.
It occurred to me on the way to the drugstore that
maybe the reason Jessika thinks I'm strange might have something to do
with my amazement upon hearing that CVS offers tussin without guinefasin
in it. It's been a hard thing to find at the commissary and at the
grocery store. The only DXM I could find untainted so far was the
pediatric kind, too weak to do much good.
The CVS in my neighborhood turned out just slightly
more promising. The only thing they had along that vein was Vicks44,
which I later found to be virtually undrinkable. The whole point
of drinking tussin without guinefasin is to avoid nausea. Vicks 44
has something else in it that is nauseating, something in the inactive
ingredients. Prolly all the eucalyptus or menthol in it.
After I got home and cooked supper to the tune of
the post-fight show, with the full wrap-up and commentary, thinking how
much I really hate this guy, I grabbed the tequila, margarita mix and salt
and headed on upstairs. I drank myself silly until everyone was asleep
then tried to down the Vicks. Only got about three ounces down.
Tried to round it out with he CVS Tussin DM I'd bought, but gagged so much
I knew it was hopeless. Stayed up for over an hour to see if I'd
get any effect at all, and when it seemed I hadn't, went on to bed.
Morning shone on a hung-over and tussin-grooved
chick. For me it was bizarre, to have a headache and still have the
part fluid, part strobed, deeply philosophical texture to life going on
simultaneously.
I didn't really do much today, just worked on a
few things for my client and then helped an Army friend get her dress uniform
set up, badges and ribbons and stuff, all in need of straightening and
measuring.
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