Right now I’m in from some kind of self-inflicted, being-stuck-syndrome. Thankfully, it only happens a few times a year. I am gasping for air and checking if I’m still alive every 10 seconds. It’s stifling my bones and putting my knickers in a twist.
So I am listening to Lady Gaga. To lift my spirits.
Somehow it’s not working, in all fairness to my myself. My music choice ranges from Bach’s cello suites to 30 Seconds to Mars’s Kings and Queens. So yes, Lady Gaga on Spotify when stressed is probably the worst thing you can submit your ears to.
Two reasons: seriously unprepared for Christmas and the breakdown of my broadband, television and home phone services since 7pm.
I’ve never been so unprepared for Christmas like this year. It’s as if we’re only September in my mind. The past twelve months came and went so quickly I was hardly able to fill in my journal every day before another one arrived.
Not that I mind too much, of course. Buying Christmas gifts. Putting the tree up. Drinking hot chocolate milk. Looking forward to seeing my family again… Aw yes, now that is Christmas.
But not really this year, not just yet.
I blame the weather.
Why? Ah, here is when the cat’s caught the bell, or was it when it comes out of a bag? Any kind of bag? Handbag? Douchebag? No?
Sorry, cat… no pun intended.
Imagine this. Ireland. December 16th. Monday morning (Shortest horror story ever: “Monday… The End”).
Sun shines brightly, a cool whiff of air. Nine days to Christmas.
It feels like an early autumn day.
Not winter!?! I understand the pressure Mother Nature is under, but she’s showing deliberate signs of bipolar behaviour.
Of shock I need to let one of my best friends, Mr Nescafe, impatiently stir a small teaspoon of Splenda sugar and low fat milk. Coffee… heavenly supporter of fatigue-filled, politically incorrect (PinC) female.
I will become more PinC as the day goes on, and as more caffeine enters my bloodstream. Christmas shopping and coffee: the death trap of anyone overly sensible to cheery Christmas carols in my local shopping center.
Their playlist? One song only: Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You. This is where my first touch of stuck-stuck-stuck-syndrome set in. I feel like I’m in a recurring dream with Mariah on a 24h loop. 365 days a year. 7th year in a row.
I want out!!!
When I realise that today’s Christmas shopping is only half done, more stuckish-syndromes kick me in the chest. Gasping for more air. And I’m flying out on Wednesday!
Half of presents bought. Washing to do. Ironing. Cleaning. Suitcase. Nails. Shower. Sleep. Where’s the butler when you so desperately need one?!
No wait… I hardly ever sleep before going to see my family. Excited lass, I am. Airplane. This is where it starts getting great.
If I were a pilot, I would do serious flying acrobatics. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. Nothing more exciting about flying than getting airborne and landing. Who needs XTC when you have airplanes?
Mum’s surgery on Friday. Hospitals. Yuk. “Yay!” for my mum’s sake.
Christmas. Woohoohoo! In my mum’s new town and apartment! Seaside. Storm. Waves. More hot chocolate.
Seeing family. Seeing more family.
Flying back butchered, hammered and outdone by MS fatigue. Immensely so.
First hospital appointment of the year on January 6th. Second appointment the day after. Like my Nana used to say: “If you do something, you have to do it well, otherwise there’s no point in even starting.” Classy lass, she was. No peer pressure at all. Following her wise words, I collect hospital appointments. A lot of them. Others collect a lot of buttons or cars, but I collect waiting rooms, lots of bugs I don’t even want to know about and I collect GP appointments. Minimum 35 or so per year. Peer pressure still getting to me.
But that’s the future. Unprepared, yes. Excited, yes. Already in need of steroids, absolutely. Wanting-to-get-out-syndrome. Me: a very female Robinson Crusoe. You: psychiatrist able to airlift me of the bloody deserted MS island I am stuck on.
But this is now: fiber power broadband, unlimited no less. Digital television, intelligent channels like National Geographic added, no less. Home phone, rarely used, still available, no less. Expensive, no less.
But. It’s. Still… not… friggin’… workin’! Find my cut-off hands, hurry quick! I cannot live without! “Purrlease,” says this politically incorrect kitty, “if my knickers get into any more twists, I’ll have to change my name to… what? Itchy Twisty Nicky Dear?”
PinC on the front line of war on digital terror with untwisted knickers, finds more to double-twist them back to the way they were.
Being-kinda-stuck-syndrome stretches from unpreparedness for Christmas to digitally challenged politically incorrect girl.
Not that I mind though. I love a bit of a challenge.
So much so, that I willed my media box forward, and all services have been restored. Thank you, UPC for being so kind!
Now please, let me get back to my Monday evening love: EastEnders.
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