If you want or need me today, I will either be asleep or hanging my head in the toilet. Â Someone come check to make certain I don’t fall in and drown.
Thanks for visiting me. Â I’ll catch you after my stomach lands.
It is possible to sleep while sitting up on the toilet.Â Just don’t roll over.
My train of thought has no track, and the engine is in need of detailing.
Dishes multiply in the kitchen sink when no one is watching them.
The new roll of toilet paper is always one inch further away than my arm is long.
Toothpaste and cortisone cream are not interchangeable.
The remote control to the ceiling fan will not operate the television.
Other symptoms you don’t want to hear.
I have spent most of the day asleep.
That’s what the lady said to me at Wal-Mart. I was standing in the back of one of those impossibly long lines cluthing Mucinex and toilet tissue to my chest. The store seemed unbearably hot. I was sweating, my knees were trembling and the back of my mouth was experiencing that saliva pooling sensation that preceeds heaving.
“Come with me,” she said. And she pulled me to an empty cash register and rang up my purchases. I don’t remember her name, but I know I love her.
I went into my classroom this morning. I had some stuff I thought positively needed to be done. I was there for two and a half hours basically moving paper around on my desk and hoping it would sort itself into sense. It didn’t. The only thing I accomplished was assigning seating for my reading groups. A task that should have taken all of twenty minutes.
Then I went to Wal-Mart. Then I came home and rested for two hours. The nausea passed soon after I stepped into my blessedly cool house. I just had a bite to eat. I’m starting to feel human again.
I have to make it through tomorrow. I am not leaving my first day with a new reading class to a sub! Nope. I’m going to school in the morning. I’m standing at my door and I am hugging and kissing every kid — a.k.a. germ factory — that walks by.