Friday, June 06, 2008

I'm awfully busy for someone who is AT DEATH'S DOOR

I swear, I've been watching too many episodes of House, M.D. Swollen glands! Tonsillitis, but not a cold! No wait--my nose is funning like a faucet--must be a cold! Alleve! No, Tylenol! No, you dummy, take Advil! And your antiobiotics, and DO NOT forget the salt water gargle.

That last part? Not likely. Because on top of watching so much House, M.D. that before Monday rolls around I fully expect to experience three wrong diagnoses, a trip into the MRI machine, a seizure, and intubation, I just read an article about this radio personality here in Chicago who had a sore throat and IT ALMOST KILLED HIM, but thanks to Northwestern/Evanston hospital, (where apparently Gregory House is on staff) they figured it all out before the necrosis ate his vocal chords.


Commerical break.

OK, so I am trying to take care of myself and I'm packing for the weekend and it's the last day of school, yay, and we all got haircuts and blow outs today because I need to look purty tonight because I'm going to a black tie gala, yes, again, and I suspect that my little black dress is wadded up on the floor of my closet and will need to be spot-cleaned and steamed and the air conditioner guys haven't shown up YET and it will be 90 degrees this weekend and on Saturday my daughter is running a 5K and I'll be seeing Jen Lancaster at the Printer's Row Book Fair and I have to leave in an hour and I'm not even packed--what the hell am I doing BLOGGING?

But I'll tell you one thing. When you're looking for a new doctor, and you have an infection in your throat, and you read some promotional material from a hospital that talks about someone who was almost killed by a throat infection, who ya gonna call? THROATBUSTERS. Also known as Northwestern/Evanston hospital.

So that simplifies things somewhat.


  1. Whiskey, lemon juice and honey. Rinse, was, repeat.

  2. What RW said, except add more repeats.

    Have fun tonight!

  3. I thought House worked in Princeton.

    Double up on the whiskey.

  4. Face it, Poppy, you're going to die. Our survival rate individually is 0%. Take it like a man, woman.

    I second the first comment.


Gentle Readers:

For the time being, I've turned off comment moderation. Please don't spam; it's not nice.

xxx, Poppy.