Do you ever find yourself amused (and amazed) by peoples' white trash antics?
Sure you do.
Southern Fried White Trash takes a humorous look at the unbelievable mindset of the national subculture (and Southern specialty) we affectionately refer to as "white trash."

Friday, February 4, 2011

Ever have days when your brain just can't catch up?

I awoke this morning feeling like a new woman. Found out yesterday that I have pneumonia. I didn’t really feel that bad; I was just tired, having a difficult time breathing, etc., etc.. These symptoms, as many others, can be attributed to age and inconsistent workouts. I therefore had put off going to the doctor until I had an entirely sleepless night on Wednesday. But now I have medicine, I already feel much better, and I’m hopeful that I can get back on track and catch up on work.

The problem, when you’re 50 and scatter-brained, is that a dearth of sleep is a killer. It takes days to catch up. Oh, you can get up at the right time in the morning, but your brain takes a while to get its groove back. Let me illustrate:

The first thing I do every morning is use eye drops, take a couple of hits on a saline nasal spray (when I’m sick – sorry TMI) and use my inhaler. Hope I’m not turning anyone on with those intimate details, but that’s my morning routine before I even get out of bed. I awoke feeling pretty good. Marc was already awake, so we stole some time to talk about the events of the past couple of days. He had been out of town several days this week.

I reached over to my nightstand, felt around for my eye drops and unscrewed the cap while he regaled me with tales of his trip to Savannah. Opening my big baby blues wide, I squirted a couple of drops into my right eye. The stinging and screaming began at about the same time, as of course I had doused my eyeball in saline nasal spray – salt water, for those of you who might still be half asleep. I was clutching at my eye and cursing (mildly, I promise), while Marc fetched the bottle I had hurled across the room once I had blinded myself.

I couldn’t see much, but I know I saw him stifling a laugh there in the dark. My eye still smarts.

He got me some coffee, consoled me, got my eye drops and even administered them while I whined and complained. Once my feathers were smoothed, I got in the shower and began to mentally organize my day. OK. Feeling better now. Feeling like I might actually be able to catch up. I put on my makeup, dried my hair, and my phone began ringing, the precursor to pretty much every workday, Feeling so good I was sure I could multitask, I got dressed and put the final touches on my hair while still talking on the phone. I was firing on all cylinders today, yessir!

I looked in the mirror and was immediately irritated with how bad my hair looked. A bad hair day already, and I haven’t even left the bathroom? Good grief. And oh sweet Lord, what’s that smell? I started coughing uncontrollably, my eyes watering again (the left more than the right; I think the salt dried up my cornea), and looked at the can of hairspray in my hand.

Make that Febreeze. The cans are the same color. My hair was completely flat, but it smelled very fresh. When the fumes cleared and my eyes stopped watering so badly, I stared into the mirror and just cracked up. My eyes were blood red, my hair was awful – wet, flat and sticky, and I had my husband’s sweatshirt – which I mistook for my sleepshirt in my blind panic - on backward.

Yep, bring on the day! Now where’s that manuscript…

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