I'm a Hot, Hot Mess

Let me hasten to assure you, I'm not a hot mess in that sorta sexy way suggested by Matchbox 20 in "She's So Mean."

Umm, yeah, after watching that video (which you can see by clicking on the link above), I can say with 100% certainty that I DEFINITELY don't mean hot mess in that way. No, sadly, I mean hot mess as in something more like this:

In case you've never seen this godawful picture, it's Nick Nolte after what I presume to be some kind of debauchery. 

Nick looks just about how I feel right now. Okay, I'll be honest, I kind of look like that right now too (minus the tacky shirt; mine is much cuter). This is somewhat alarming. Why? Apart from the hugely disturbing fact that I even slightly resemble Nick Nolte and whatever he's done to his hair,  BECAUSE IT'S APRIL! And not even the end of April!

I had a to-do list today, which included a trip to Lowe's to pick up some boring items like a light bulb and a new spray-attachment thingy for our hose. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. But as I pulled into the parking lot I spied them: rows and rows of flowers and hanging baskets. Hooray! My husband and I had done some mowing, weeding, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...oh, sorry, and other dull, yard-related stuff yesterday. Today, upon seeing the flowers, I figured it was time to reward our hard work by getting some hanging baskets. And maybe a pot of flowers for the front steps. Also, perhaps just a wee plant or two for the garden beds.

I hurriedly found the boring items on my list and trotted outside to investigate the flowers. I kept grabbing heavy pots that were spilling over with beautiful flowers, cramming them in my cart, and then spying something even better one row over. So I'd remove Now-Not-So-Great Pot 1 and replace it with Ah-That's-Much-Better Pot 2. After about half an hour of this nonsense, I had annoyed even myself (often there's another beleaguered party with me who is sighing and sneaking looks at his watch). Plus, I was hot. And sweaty. And irritated. What the hell? It felt pleasant out when I was walking to and from the car. The temperature was in the low- to mid-70s. Perfectly delightful. But all of my heaving items on and off shelves and pushing a heavy cart had taken its toll. I made my way to the checkout counter sweatily and sullenly, wondering what on earth it's going to be like come July and August, when sometimes just getting to and from the car is enervating.

Speaking of the car, it, naturally, was broiling inside. I can't believe it's already time to use the sun shield! I guess it's also time to haul out my cooling neck wraps and, if I must, my super-attractive cooling vest. Oh, warm weather. I love you for making beautiful things grow, but I am less fond of you for how you make my MS so much worse.

What are your strategies for dealing with the heat?

A Bad Trip, Man

I'm going to take you on a little trip. A little trip somewhere bad. For those of you trying to guess, no, it's not Chuck-E-Cheese, the grocery store on a Sunday morning, or the women's bathroom at my former workplace. Please see below for proof that the aforementioned women's bathroom was, indeed, a disaster and likely biohazard:

I'd expect this in a men's bathroom, but ladies, come on! 

Instead, I'm taking you INSIDE MY BRAIN. I was inspired to write this after reading a column in the New York Times by Woody Allen, which was referred to by Gene Weingarten in the Washington Post. I'm assuming most of you know who Woody Allen is. (Oh, dear, this reminds me of something I had blocked: a coworker once told me I reminded him of Woody Allen. I think it was Mr. Allen's mannerisms; God help me it if was his looks. I chose not to seek clarification.) Gene Weingarten, for those of you who don't know, is a writer -- a very funny writer -- who happens to be a hypochondriac.

Reading about hypochondriacs this morning made me realize I have a special little section of whack-o in my brain that's different from what Mr. Allen described. He mentioned racing to the doctor at the first sign of something amiss. I have the exact opposite reaction: studiously avoiding the doctor until either (a) something becomes physically unbearable or (b) I am worrying about it so much that I'm a hot mess, as the young whippersnappers say these days. At least, they were saying it the last time I checked. Word!

That I have freakish levels of doctor-related fears is a given. But I'm curious about you. Some of you have said you relate to my panic at noting a new symptom. When you experience something weird, do you go to the doctor right away? Or do you stew, bury your head in the sand, and worry like I do? I hope not, as it's an incredibly unproductive way to respond, especially when you have MS and a new symptom practically every other day. But since this blog has introduced me to so many people in my boat, I'm very interested in learning how you, my new friends, cope.

To your physical and mental health!
Ms. CrankyPants