Who's the Bah Humbitch now?

Obligatory disclaimer: I am a lucky, lucky woman. I have a great family, a nice standard of living, haven't endured undue hardship or grief. I shouldn't complain.
This morning SUCKED!!!
I have this cough. This cough that visits at least once or twice every year, and I can't remember the last Christmas I wasn't making really unpleasant noises and worrying about waking up the house and being glad that I didn't actually have to be asleep before Santa would come, because sleep wasn't something that was going to happen (it's hard to sleep while your entire diaphragm is in revolt every seven to nine minutes and you're in constant fear of throwing up or becoming incontinent). Since I was little, every cold or flu I've ever gotten goes right for my lungs. I have inhalers now, as well as narcotic anti-cough pills that help a little, but it seems like it was too little too late, and my airways? They're reactive. Over-reactive. Hyper-reactive. Super-mega-fucking-turbo reactive. It's a drag.
So I get up this morning, even though Matt's taken the kids to school so I can sleep in in the interest of shaking this, because I realize I'm not going to sleep any more, and I suck on the inhaler. Which then gives me super-turbo-charged-junkie shakes, which makes it hard to brush my teeth or wrap Christmas presents or write Christmas cards (that would be filled with self-pitying bitter expletives anyway). I have a zit the size of Tasmania on that spot, you know the one between your chin and your cheek, where there's no bone and it's incredibly painful? And my hair has entered a whole new universe of suckage. I'm like nuclear waste in human form.
So I wander around trying to make myself wash something or wrap something or move something from where it is to where it should be and if we had plants they would be withering and dying as I walked past. And I'm getting frantic because I have the whole day off until the kids get home from school and I'm wasting it in jittery, acnified, frizzed-out unproductive misery, which just makes me more miserable.

photo credit
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So I stopped and thought, what should I do? Or maybe, maybe I shouldn't be thinking about what I should do, but about what I want to do. So I asked myself what I wanted to do. And my self said it wanted to curl up on the couch and watch TV for a bit without folding laundry or writing Christmas cards or writing a blog post at the same time. My self also indicated that something with a fairly high proportion of sugar in it might be good for a hellacious demon cough, or at least for Ventolin shakes. So I gave my self what it wanted, and it felt better. I think my inhaler should actually come with a 'take with astronomically high levels of high fructose corn syrup' label. Maybe I'll just make one myself.
A bit later my sister called, and I sorted through pictures for Christmas cards while we had a very satisfying whining-about-frivolous-things session. And she told me about a gift basket she and the other pharmacists at the cancer treatment centre at the hospital got from a department that's notorious for its complete lack of humour. It was a deli basket with crackers and cheese and the like. And an enormous shrink-wrapped dill called Big Papa's Portly Pickle.
The department? It was gynecology.
Then my Mom called and invited us over for borscht. Then the kids and I had a lovely walk home in the crisp cold darkness looking at Christmas lights (me) and dive-bombing snowbanks (them).
Then I wrote more Christmas cards while watching Terminator Salvation on my laptop -- very festive. Now I'm going to go suck on my inhaler again and take some Actifed because it just makes the whole going-to-bed experience so much more special.
So to all a good night (I can only hope visions of portly pickles will be dancing in our heads.)