Oh, Those Trials and Tribulations

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What I really wanted was to put up a nice post about pomegranates. Especially after watching an interesting tidbit about them on The Naked Archaeologist the other day. I mean, who wants to listen to yet another round of dreary medical stuff when there are pomegranates laying thick on the ground, just waiting to be admired?

Or I could tell all y'all about the wonderful visit we had with the Excellent Nephew. He not only spent scads of his free time with his beat up ol' auntie and uncle, he had the good sense to book his return-to-New York flight right when it would be snowed out, thereby gaining us two more fun days together in warm sunny south Florida.

But nooooooooooooooooooooo.

Fun tales of pomegranates and the nephew? No indeed. Instead, here I am once again. Stuck in the time warp loop of hospit-hospit-hospit?!?-thisdoesn'tlooklikehomeanymore-hospit-hospit-hospitulll

argh!

So, okay. If life decided to smack me upside the head with more hospital drama, at least maybe I could be entertaining myself - and you all too - with...say, with a hair-raising adventure involving a huge car-and-truck pileup. While the cab of a big rig dangles precariously over the 60' high edge of that long concrete flyover ramp soaring from I-595 to I-95 northbound, its driver helplessly trapped in the truck's cab as it sways ominously in the air over the little trailer park far below. Ambulances scream away to the Level 1 Trauma Center with the first wave of the injured, all bloody and broken, second responders rushing the Jaws of Life to the scene to free those poor souls smashed into their squished little cars...

Naw.

No, not this time.

Less action, more melodrama? How about a good old-fashioned Victorian era wasting disease, attended by expensive patronizing docs busily pretending that there's No Such Thing as, oh, MS...as we see, gentlemen, at best this is a creation of the innocent imagination of that delicate fairer sex; she can now present an honorable enough cause to avert the animal advances of her husband, who of course cannot help his natural desires, although it might have been wiser of him to govern them, perhaps inspiring her to abdicate her sickbed and return at least to her household wifely duties, which rigors now must necessarily descend to her daughter at a young age...

then have the last laugh on them, proving my point by daintily passing on in that sickbed, pale and shadowed, scented by the flowers mounded everywhere around, a heart-wringing scene to all who come by to pay their respects...

An elegant enough picture if nothing else, eh?

But...no. Me? Now? Nope. Not a bit of it.

No, indeed. No auto crash heroics, no fainting couch theatrics.

Not even the smallest shred of dignity.

Because here I am, tucked firmly into a hospital isolation unit in a bed I haven't left since late last Saturday night, with the worst case of the stomach flu I ever heard of in my entire life.

Yeeeup. Been barfing and crapping my guts out non-stop in the most hideous, horrible, disgusting, stinky, gross, wretched way you could ever imagine, for days without end. People. The worst way you could ever imagine.

Actually, I do think I'll leave it up to your imagination. I really never did think I was cut out to be a crapblogger.

But if I were? I'd have Acidman's Golden Plunger Award away from him in One. Single. Post.
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