I pretty much informed my husband last night that he'd better get ready for me to turn into Jessica Fletcher when I turn, oh, about 60. I'm not sure how it's going to happen; however, I have faith that I will blossom into my old-lady craziness, like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. Some magical day.

I realize that this may not be the coolest thing to tell my convalescent husband, but I felt like I needed to be honest.

I also feel like I need to get back to being ridiculous again at some point, because all of this serious is cramping my style. He's tired of me, I'm tired of me. It has not been all that fun in my house. I did reach a couple of milestones yesterday and today, though, that I'm pretty proud of: Yesterday, I didn't cry. All day. Not once. First day I can say that about since the 14th, so I think that's pretty good. Today's milestone? I was able to eat an entire bowl of cereal and I didn't feel pukey, not even once.

That one's good, because my stomach has been on the spin cycle for the past 12 days. Probably not the best news for my fun "let's worry about every little thing" diet, but I'll get over it.

Maybe I'm becoming less neurotic today. We'll see.

So my goal for today is to not cry (again), to be able to eat lunch without feeling like it's going to come right back out, and to regain my sense of humor. It's still in there. I can feel it. I just had to put it away for a while.

Usually, if I make it a goal, I do it. I'm pretty sure that's what Jessica Fletcher does, too. I am going to be so much like her, it's not even funny. I think I'm going to start now, minus the whole "solving murders" part, because I don't think I could deal with dead bodies all cool and calm-like.

I think I would barf. Right there, on the body.

Oh, my goodness gracious. It's been a heck of a month. I think I have decided that, although my birthday does happen in here, along with Father's Day, I officially hate June.

I tend to blame the month itself for the horrible happenings. I don't feel that this is an irrational choice at all. I also hate April, because when I was younger, all of my dogs died in April and I had a couple of major illnesses that occurred in that month. So, yeah. April equals bad. Period, for now and forever. Here's why June has now joined April:

1. June is hot. Always. Also this year, for some reason, it's not cooling down as quickly at night, plus we now have a leather couch in our TV room, which also has the crappiest ventilation of any room in our house, so yeah. Sweaty time. Not a fan.

2. June is when people end up in the hospital. Or, at least me and now my husband. I'm home now, he's home now, but still. June is another sick month for us. Don't like it.

3. June is when everyone goes on vacation. This means less students and therefore less money, and also, usually, more time at the office, covering for people who are going off to have fun. Other people aren't allowed to have fun if I'm not having any. It is lame and totally inappropriate.

4. June contains my birthday. Therefore, every June I become magically older and wrinklier. Not enjoying that action so much. Also, it's just a lovely reminder of how fun birthdays used to be, before I grew up and became officially un-fun.

5. It is now June and I am in a horrible mood. There you go. It has to be the June's fault. It couldn't possibly be my attitude, because, as we all know, I am awesome and hilarious. Therefore, June.

There you go. I feel that this list is very scientific and should be considered completely factual. Not merely a list of my opinions, because I have totally researched things and stuff.

Things. And stuff.

It's official.

It's been a craptastic few days up in here. Seriously. I kind of want to just to not exist for a while.

So my husband, who never gets sick, is now very, very sick, and I feel like I am going to barf all of the time. Just all of the time. I think I am going to the bathroom almost as much as he is and, get this: I HAVE NO INTEREST IN FOOD.

None.

I forgot to eat for like half a day, until I realized that the dizziness and headache were probably due to the fact that I ate some salsa and chips right before the shizznit hit the fan and then nothing until way later. Too much later.

Which was probably fine, anyway, because it all comes right back out.

Nervous stomach sucks.

So what I hate the most, (besides the fact that my husband, who is probably the toughest guy I've ever met, and rolls around in the dirt and gets up on the roof and basically fixes everything on the planet, is now an uncomfortable ball of pain and fever) is going to the doctor and getting no relief for him. Just, "Well, let's try a new antibiotic and just wait it out."

Umm...yeah. Eff you. Wait it out? You try waking up drenched in your own sweat with a nagging headache and leg that feels like it's on fire, along with a constant fever. You just see how happy you are to wait that out.

And me? Well, I'm a big old crybaby mess, which just makes everything worse because he knows I'm a worrier and will just go cry in the bathroom about thirty times an hour.

My eyelids are so puffy I think people may start mistaking me for an iguana.

Which is ridiculous because I have to just take care of him. And I know doctors go to school and all and know what they're talking about, but this is my favorite person, here. And he's in pain.

So of course I'm writing about it because there's really nothing else to do. Just wait. And try not to Google his symptoms anymore, because that is just not doing anybody any good. Not at all.

I hate this week so much, and it's only Tuesday.

Yesterday was kind of an important day for my brain. It was the one-year anniversary of my whole mastoiditis ordeal.

Why on Earth would I remember that day, much less want to think about it? Well, because in true OCD fashion, as soon as they told me what was going on (which they didn't for like two days while I was rotting in the pediatrics ward of the hospital, isolated just in case it was something contagious and/or I became a flesh-eaing zombie), I googled the hell out of it and any related infections.

It was a good thing that I was already in the hospital, because holy crap. It sounded terrifying. Well, it really kind of was, mostly because of the pain and the hearing loss and the dizziness. That kind of stuff.

Anyhow, I also learned that recurrences happen most frequently within the first year. So yesterday was the one-year mark. With no recurrence of any kind of ear infection.

None. So I will, from now on, be less of a hypochondriac, especially where my ear is concerned. I think it's always going to be a little wonky, but that's a low price to pay for getting to have normal-range hearing and for not having to have had that spinal tap.

Haven't ever had one, but the nurses assured me that it was one hospital experience I should be really excited about skipping. Yikes.

I also had, for the first time since my hospitalization, a singing practice last week wherein my jaw didn't lock up once. NOT ONCE.

Kind of a big deal, since I've been working on that since last July.

So, at any rate, I'm pretty happy about being a year out. Maybe when I'm two years out, there will be even more progress, and that would be awesome. 

Even if not, it's still pretty awesome.

Cake.

Well, I've done it. I've started another blog. However, my other blog is supposed to be funny, unlike this one, which is the lunatical ravings of a madman. Madwoman. Whatever. I don't know what the correct thing is and I'm not going to offend myself.

Anyhow, I started it because it makes me giggle so much when people talk about their cats. This is something that I'm completely on the outside of, because as a person with the OCDs, there is no way I could ever have a cat. They scratch around in their little poop boxes and then hop up all dainty-like on the counters where your food is prepared. 

I'm serious. POOP GERMS EVERYWHERE THEY WALK. Not just regular poop germs, either, but CAT poop germs.

Yeah, I all-capped there. See that? That's how filthy they are.

I do think they're cute, but I'm also tremendously allergic to them, so when I even look at pictures of them, I feel a little scratchy. They pretty much kill me, in so many ways I can't even begin to describe it.

So, after a particularly long day of listening to crazy cat lady stories, told by a very sweet person who has, unfortunately, completely gone off the deep end, Jicama was born.

Who is Jicama? She is a cheeky cat who has many adventures. She is also whichever cat she feels like being. One day, she's a tabby. The next day, she could be a siamese or even one of those hairless ones.

You can't contain her. She is Jicama.

(The sad part is that, while I think it's hilarious, there are many, many people who would make a for-reals blog about their pet in the pet's voice. Ay caramba.)

At any rate, go. Go to Jicama. Embrace the lightness and sassiness that is her being.

And then think to yourself, "Wow. That lady has no life."

Jicama's work has been accomplished.

Well, it's almost that time again: Birthday Time. While I do enjoy me some good birthday festivities, I always find it a little difficult to say exactly what I want to do, and where I'd like to go. However, there is one thing that I do know for sure about birthdays, and it is this: Getting older sucks.

I keep telling myself that it's stupid to dread getting older because we all do it, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Seriously, though, why did no one inform me that I might as well have just not worried at all while I was a kid, because I had so many years ahead of me in which to worry about everything.

EVERYTHING.

So I've been working on myself for the last couple of years, trying to stop being such an anal-retentive worrywartish control freak, but really all that I've accomplished is to shift from worrying about one group of things to worrying about a different group of things.

I also drink more beer, but I think that's a plus, not a minus. At least, at this point.

Anyhow, the other day when I was at work, a patient came in from the assisted living facility. I spent the next fifteen minutes trying not to cry, because it made me so sad that her big day out was to go to the dentist, and someday that's going to be me. All alone, in my motorized scooter (screw wheelchairs, man...I want something with a motor), doing my hair to go get my teeth cleaned. All alone.

Maybe this is hormonal. I have no idea. All I know is that if I don't stop being freaked out about dying alone in a place where no one gives a crap about me, I will never have any fun at all.

And that is lame.

Also, I plan to start socking away money in a 401(K) so I can afford to live in a fancy place where no one gives a crap about me. At least the food will be better.

I realize that I'm married, but I've done the math (actually, there's a calculator online for this very thing), and there is a 69% chance that I will outlive him. Unless we Thelma and Louise it when we're about 90, which I think sounds pretty fun, except there's no way we'll be driving when we're 90.

This may be my most morbid blog post ever. It is also Monday, which may have something to do with my topic. Because yuck.

At any rate, I think my plans for the next year will just be to keep trying not to worry about every little thing. Especially aging, because we're all doing it, at exactly the same rate of speed, so there's not a whole lot that I can do to change the situation. Except I should probably use more moisturizer and drink more water. That seems to be the best solution.