Sick...

...but not really sick.  Just the aches and pains of being 34.

One incident I remember clearly occurred the summer of 2006.  We were living together, this was before we weren't living together, which was before we were married and then living together again.

Confused?

I'll draw a timeline:

Does that help?  "Marrierl" is actually supposed to be "Married."  It's not easy to write with a mouse.

Anyway, within the three months we lived together, as shown above, we made two trips the emergency room.  I don't remember the first, because it wasn't as eventful as the second.

The morning of my birthday (July 16th, in case you would like to send flowers/candy/shoes size 8), I woke up very early to Corey crawling on the floor toward the bathroom.  For some reason he couldn't get up.  He was disoriented and dizzy and very badly needed to get to the toilet to vomit.

Being oh-so-sympathetic in his time of need, I reluctantly called 9-1-1.

"911, what's your emergency."

"Um, my boyfriend...uh, can't get up."

"Ma'am is he bleeding."

"No."

"Is he passing out."

"No."

"What is wrong with your boyfriend."

"Well....he says he's dizzy."

"Dizzy?"

"Yeah, and nauseous."

"....ok."

"So....."

"......"

".....can we have an ambulance?"

"I'll send one right out."

Great.  I felt stupid. 

"Jeez, Corey if you coulda just bonked your head on the bathtub or something..."

Eventually the ambulance came, no sirens, and the EMS crew came upstairs.  I led them to Corey who had made his way to the toilet.  We found him clinging to life and porcelain.

After a few minutes Corey decides he does not need to be carried out, but still would like ambulance transport.  So they all walk down the stairs and hop into the ambulance.  I followed in his car.

I can only imagine what happened in that ambulance.

"What's that switch for?"

"Can I push that button?"

"Are you gunna turn on the siren??"

"Can we stop for ice cream?"

We spent the next eight hours in the emergency room to find out Corey suffers from vertigo.

Ver-ti-go.

Misadventures

Yes.  We chased all emergency vehicles.  And it definitely was as silly as it sounds.

Especially when this happened:

"...so when I got to the office she was..."

Sirens in the distance.

"Shhhhhh.  Wait a second.  Do you hear that."

"No."

Looks through blinds in the living room.  Looks through blinds in the bedroom.

"We've got a situation."

"Oh here we go...."

"Bpppssshhhh.  Dispatch oh-two-four we've got a (mumbles "police talk") on Main.  Oh-niner responding.  Over.  Bppppssssshhhh."

"Don't tell me..."

"Get your shoes on.  We gotta go."

"But...It's 10:30!"

"Let's move!  We've got a situation!"

And off we went.  My job was to watch for flashing lights while Corey drove and "radioed dispatch."  We'd drive all over Saratoga looking for the fire, car accident, or double homicide but would always eventually find burnt cookies or a cat stuck in a tree.  Then we would drive by slowly.  Corey would make sure no one needed assistance before heading back home.

Of course he would need to report back to dispatch.

"All clear."

I'd like to say this happened only once, because of course that would make us seem less, oh I don't know, crazy, but this was a regular outing for a very long time.

And then Corey got sick...

So, today's Friday

But I digress.

So Corey and I are an item.  Or at least on our way to being an item.  Several weeks into knowing each other I still believe he spells his name with an i-e at the end (because he told me so) and that he had never heard of Dunkin' Donuts (also told me so).

I was educated on everything horse racing, shown the finer side of Saratoga, and experienced PJ's BBQ which is by far the best place to get a sloppy joe this side of the Pacific, I'm just sayin'.

I muster the courage to broach the subject of "going steady" and the conversation that followed had all the pieces of a formal interview.

"Yes, I do like you."

"...only you."

"Um, I guess I could provide a urine sample for analysis."

That was a joke.  I didn't really pee in a cup right there in my driveway, but we did eventually agree on the terms and conditions of the newly formed relationship, heretofore.

I spent the next few months learning that my new boyfriend was a horse racing fanatic.

"Who won Horse of the Year 1987?"

"Why Ferdinand, of course.  He won only 4 of 10 races during the year and raced exclusively in California, but finished strongly in a season in which no horse clearly earned the award.  Duh."

"I handicapped today's card and if Panty Raid can beat out Lawyer Ron, who is the obvious closer, in the third race I just might win my exacta."

"Everyone knows a 2 year old turf horse off a six month lay up is going to run third."

Closing day of the Saratoga meet was hard on him that summer, as it always is, I was told.  We drove around somberly playing Enya's* "One by One" while he saluted to the front of the track, the Reading Room, Siro's, the guy who parked his car, the side of the track, Mexican Connection, the lady that sold the hats, the lemonade stand, the first turn, and the little girl who sold brownies on her front porch.
He eventually recovered and went back to his second favorite activity:  chasing emergency vehicles....

*2005 was the summer of Enya.  "I swear that CD isn't mine.  It's....my mom's!"  We listened to it.  We sang to it.  He still has it.

A glimpse of the past

You know how we met.  Late night, orange soda establishment, single girls watching single guys.  I liked Corey's face; it distracted me from the plain t-shirt I learned later on that he wears frequently to bed.

My friend Lori: "Hey, what's your name?"

"Cory." (this is how I pictured his name spelled that night)

"Cory, this is my friend Stacie."  (i already knew my name was spelled this way)

"Hey.  We're going to Hattie's."

"..... ?"

And just like that he and his entourage were off.  And I was confused.

Was there no connection?

Was there no spark?

Is my hair too frizzy??

Did I unplug the curling iron???

As a self-professed fool for getting the last word in, I followed.  I followed a stranger.  To a soda establishment.  By myself.  In the dark.  This is a set-up for several gruesome scenarios, the least likely a wedding and a dog...yet here we are!  But I digress.

So, I tracked him down at Hattie's.  We talked for hours about nothing while I dragged him all over Saratoga.  We wandered from one establishment to the next.  He even followed me to a certain place I now know he hates where you can drink orange soda and dance on top of tables.  Clas-sy.  However, we did neither....because I'm not a big fan of soda and there was no room on the tables.  But I digress.

At the end of the night he made me take his number too, I guess I can't hide my flaming feminism  (shrugs shoulders), and we each drove our separate ways.

What happened the next few months was nothing short of pure entertainment...

Wanted: Kitty Katt

I'm going to come right out and say it:  I need a kritter. 

A fuzzy little kritter that eats, drinks, and is excessively neurotic, like me.

Something I can chase around the table, bark at, maybe even snuggle with when no one's looking.

Just not a hamster or gerbil.  They look like furry turd chunks.

Or a guinea pig.  Too hairy, too paranoid.

I do like chinchillas, or as I call them: balls.

And I like squirrels, especially for dinner with a marmalade glaze and side salad.

But please no mice, rats, or raccoons.  Cute, scary, cute (respectively), but nasty scavengers.

I would prefer a meerkat, because they're fidgety like me and can sing.

But I could settle for a regular cat that sleeps all day and claws at my face.

Thank you,

Oliver

A quick note

To my concerned neighbors,

No, Corey and I are not holding a sickly 85 year old man against his will in our apartment.

That coughing you hear at 7:00 in the morning, followed by hacking and then spitting is Corey.  The gagging, however, is me.  He shows me the spit.

You can imagine how hard it is to relieve throat ticklies at his age, 37.  So I try my darndest not to cringe in front of him when his hacking fits take hold of him.  I wouldn't want to embarrass the dear.

The slow, cautious shuffle steps are his also.  Contorting your face and body to cough up a dog fuzz is exhausting.  Again, he is almost middle aged, and his physical abilities are greatly diminished.  So, after one of his fits there is not an ounce of energy to pick up his tired legs.  Poor soul.

And if there is ever an extended period of time where you hear absolutely nothing coming from upstairs, don't panic.  Corey is curled up on the bed with the heating pad, a cold compress, a box of tissues and hot chocolate.

What you really need to be concerned with is an excessive amount of movement.  While annoying, I'm sure, it probably also means someone has taken over the apartment.  In this case, call the police and secure your valuables.

Thank you,

Stacie

Drunk at work

It's irresponsible, I know.

I am not setting a very good example for the younger folks.

Yeah, I should probably be fired for this.

But I swear I had no idea that truffle had booze in it.