Beauty is pain

And frankly, I think it's a bit overrated for the most part. But for the beauty I have gained with my new tattoo, I'll gladly take the pain that went along with it and the pain that continues through the healing process.

After being frustrated most of the morning and early afternoon with long lines at various places I needed to go to run my errands, at 2 p.m. I sat down in my tattoo artist's chair, and she worked her magic on me. Four hours later as the sun was beginning to go down, we were finished, at least for now, and I have never been happier.

She took the design that I had given her and added some of her own personal touches to it as well as cleaning up the lines here and there. For example, the flat, side-on rose that was in one portion of the picture was now much more lush and a whole lot more three-dimensional as well as facing nearly head-on. Seeing as how I chose her for her abilities with roses, I was pretty tickled about it.

The stencil was as big as I thought it was going to be, but when it actually went on my back, hoo nelly, was it a whole lot bigger than I thought. But I was so in love with the design, it didn't really matter to me at all. And by the time she got done drawing on me after applying the stencil to make it flow better with the curves of my body, I had a drawing that went across the back of my shoulders from one bra strap to just under the other, venturing up on my neck on one side, and peeking over my shoulder on the other. Damn. So much for a small design on the back of my neck, eh?

She started outlining, and it was a bit more of a shock than I had anticipated. Time definitely soothes over previous pains, and it certainly did in this instance. Either that or there are a whole lot more "ow" places where this tattoo went than did the one around my ankle. The side of my neck, my spine and the top of my shoulder blade were the worst spots. Thankfully, I was able to stay completely still for her and made it easy for her to get her work done as quickly as possible without rushing things.

We took a break once the outlining was done. The Husband showed up at around this point and while he was a bit shocked at the sheer size of the piece, he totally loved what was being done. He skedaddled to take the girls home and get chores started and my artist went about the business of coloring me in.

Unfortunately, my skin was far too irritated at this point to take the green ink properly, so we decided to stop that color and instead do it when I go back in for touch-ups in about a month. But the rest of the colors took beautifully - blue, pink, orange, white and rose. I was bandaged up, got my care instructions, paid and tipped her and headed out the door.

The tattoo started its peeling phase yesterday, and is doing quite well with the moisturizing regime I am using and it seems that I am healing very quickly. It still feels like a sunburn and some areas are a bit red, but my ankle tattoo did the same thing so I'm not worried. I'll put a little bit of cortisone cream on it tonight to help it in that direction, but otherwise all is going well.

The Husband liked the artwork so much that he made an appointment for this Friday to get a wolf tattoo done by my artist. He wasn't anticipating getting another tattoo ever, but seeing the work she did and me having in hand the perfect piece of artwork for him made him decide otherwise. And who knows, I may get the same tattoo as he does on Friday as well - the piece is two wolves snuggling together and is a perfect celebration of our marriage. We'll see how it goes, though.

I'll post pictures of the completed tattoo once I get my touch-up done. It looks a bit funky with only some of the green in the leaves and you just don't get the full impact of what it is like otherwise. But it's beautiful, and I'm totally in love with it. I look at my right shoulder, see the tendrils that are now drawn there and think "Gosh! That's there permanantly. How cool!"

Thanks, Michelle. You do great work. I'll be seeing a whole heck of a lot more of you in the future. Here's to the start of a wonderful relationship!

Read this article. Now.

Yes, it's long and wordy, but it has a ton of common sense information about food and how screwed in the head we all are about it, why and what to do about it. It's located HERE. Good stuff, man. Good stuff.

Anniversary musings

Monday marked my seven-month anniversary of my DS surgery. I am down to 221 pounds from my all-time high of 315. Inching my way to the 100-pounds lost mark, which I will hopefully hit before month eight is over. Not too shabby if I toot my own horn for a bit.

On our speed trip to Carson City all my in-laws kept calling me "skinny," and while I don't exactly equate a size 18 ass as "skinny" I'll take it anyway. They're all so tickled pink and happy for me that I'm becoming the woman that I used to be when I first married their son/brother. It makes me feel good knowing that there are people out there that are rejoicing with me every pound I lose. I have a support system. They care about me and about my happiness. And they would care even if I gained back every single pound I have lost. And that makes a difference to me. It adds an extra twinkle to my eye, and a bit more bounce and quickness to my step.

I have to wonder if knowing that I have this kind of support, as well as the support of all my closest friends, that is making a difference in the way I approach things, and the drive that I have to make this work.

I say this because I have an acquaintance. We used to work together many years ago. Both of us were on the larger side of things, she more than myself. We both got married, both had babies. Both of us shot up in weight, again her more than myself - probably by about 100 pounds.

She had RNY surgery about a year and a half ago. At first, she was stunningly successful. The pounds were dropping off, she looked good, all seemed well. Then the year marker hit. She is still in the mid-to-high 200s and all of a sudden the weight loss stops. Then she starts looking kind of sickly. Now, it's as if she has given up on her tool, because she's stuck where she's at.

She has a difficult life. Because of her husband's disability (legally blind and beginning stages of Parkinsons), she is essentially raising their daughter alone - a daughter who is well on the way to being an obese adult herself if things don't change. He's also not the most supportive person in the world, and I say that having known him and worked with him as well. She works at Wal-Mart, and has for so long that I don't know if she could market her accounting skills effectively anymore somewhere else. She probably feels trapped in many ways.

This girl doesn't have the same kind of support that I'm getting, and I have to wonder if "support" of the emotional kind is more important to our success as bariatric patients than we realize. I mean, I've seen this girl eat. She eats about the same way I do - toppings off the pizza, protein-rich meats, very little to no sugar (actually less than I do in this category). I just wonder if because she doesn't have a deeper support network than just on the food and vitamin front, that she is being partially thwarted in her quest to become fully "normal." Then again, who knows - she may be binge eating out of the public eye. I hope not, but that could be the case.

The whole situation makes me sad, because she deserves so much more. And I know that she is one of the people that our pastor speaks about when he says that he sees far too many people who have a gastric bypass of any sort "fail." He's also the type who always tries to counsel people out of taking this step because he's "seen too many people die from it." This makes him always ask me in a very concerned way, "How are you doing?" As if he expects me to start wailing and bemoaning what's going on with me. Hon, I'm in the honeymoon stage. All is as right as rain with me. Ask me the question in about another year or so, and you'll get a better picture of what life with a DS is like for me, okay?

Anyway, to celebrate my successes at losing this much weight, I've decided to get a tattoo. Heck, who am I kidding. I'm just using my weight loss as an excuse to get some ink. So Friday at 2 p.m. the needle will be hitting my skin for the first time in a long time, and I can't wait for it. I've decided to go with this design (obviously the tattooist will clean it up a bit) on the back of my neck, starting just behind my left ear and ending up tickling my right shoulder blade. You'll have to imagine the color, but it will be greens, reds, blues, purples, etc. Pretty and feminine. Very me. I'm so excited.

Weekend Roundup

Otherwise known as the weekend of speed trips hither and yon. Mostly yon.

Saturday, we were scheduled to meet The Husband's parents in Bishop for lunch. It's halfway between where we are and Carson City where they live, and we haven't seen them since Thanksgiving. And since my father-in-law is in the middle of a struggle with cancer, all the more important to see them since we don't know how much longer he has. Then Sunday we were going to make an impromptu trip to Stateline overnight for a bit of fun with the girlies at Buffalo Bills, some gambling for us adults, and just a small breather before the hell of overtime at work overtakes us.

Early Saturday morning we were awoken by a phone call from the in-laws. Dad just wasn't up to making even the short trip to Bishop. He was just so excited at the prospect, he forgot that his body is not equiped at this point to handle that long of a car ride. So that was canceled. But after we fully woke up, we decided that we were going to cancel the Stateline trip, and head up to Carson City and spend the night there instead. Phone calls were made, excitement abounded, and we headed on up for a quick speed trip.

The Husband's brother's wife is about ready to pop with their third child, and the hope was there that we would be in town long enough for the little one to oblige us with his/her presence, but of course that didn't come through. Babies are notorious for operating on THEIR schedule, not ours, but oh well. It would have been nice to observe someone else giving birth (they do a home water birth) for once, but I don't know that I would have been terribly comfortable with that. I mean, I watch The Discovery Channel and TLC, but that's about as close as I'm coming to someone else giving birth. It's just not my place, you know? But who knows. I might have shown up, seeing as how sister-in-law was excited that I might be there for it.

Anyway, it was a good thing we went up there. Dad is not doing so good, and from taking care of our friend Karl during his last six months, we can tell that there is really no turning back at this point. Obviously miracles can occur and I would be foolish to discount the possibility, but we're not holding our breath. The man has survived prostate cancer not once, but twice already, going more than 15 years since the first bout with it. But this third time, things spread into the bone, and while we had a period where we thought things were going great for a possible reversal, 2007 has not been the year for his PSA count.

Sunday, we returned home, a little bit sadder, but a whole lot gladder that we had made the effort. It's so important that The Husband get every little bit he can with his dad. This is so hard, and I don't know the words to say to help make it better. Then again, I probably can't make it better.

Monday is when I earned my title of Wife of the Year. The Husband has been riding a motorcycle to and from work - it's a Honda CBR 600. A crotch rocket, but at least he knows what he's doing on it. For about the last month and a half he has been talking about getting what is known as a sport touring bike, more specifically the Yamaha FJR 1300. It's a pretty thing, has hard saddle bags, a bigger windscreen for longer rides, is more comfy in a lot of ways. But he hadn't been able to check one out in person yet.

While we were in Carson City, he stopped by the local motorcycle shop. There, sitting on the showroom floor in all it's glory, was The Bike. The heavens opened up, shone their glory, and The Husband was in Love. It was all well and good until they checked and found out the bike couldn't enter California until it had more than 7,500 miles on it. Saved (?) by the DMV.

After talking about finances, and the purpose of things on our way back from Carson City, we decided to call around on Monday and see if anybody actually had the thing down here. Lo and behold, over the hills in Bakersfield, they had one. The only one within a 200 mile radius of us. So, we hooked up the trailer, and all trundled over the Tehachapis to get The Husband his Dream Bike. And here it is all in it's ruby red glory.

Very pretty. Cost a pretty penny too, but after we sell the CBR 600, not so much of a pretty penny. The Husband is beyond ecstatic, and I'm glad to have a happy husband. Makes the world go round.

And now, I'm freaking exhausted. So much for a weekend of rest, eh? At least it's only a three-day week for me because it's Flex Friday. Thank the Lord above for that! I need a nap.

Date with the Doc

The Husband and I made our way over the Sierras to Delano yesterday for my six-month check up.

Usually, I hate waiting in a doctor's office. Not so when I go see Dr. Keshishian. It's always nice, sitting in their waiting room, watching the people that come in and out. You can tell who is trying to make their decision about whether or not to get the DS - they keep to themselves, are a bit shy, and are clutching their new binder of information. There are those new post-ops who have come in to get those motherfucking drains out - they're easy to spot with the wierd bulges through loose t-shirts and their support person helping them out. Then there are the successful and the not-so successful post-ops rounding out the crowd for the most part - all willing to tell you their story and poke fun at the things we all deal with.

This time, The Husband and I met up with a couple from Bakersfield that we had first met back at my three-month checkup when the wife had come in for her teaching session. She was there for her one-week checkup and to get those damn drains out. She was looking and feeling so good and radiant, it was wonderful to see how well she was doing. Already down 15 pounds, both she and her husband were equally happy to see where my loss was at and wanted to talk about how my journey had been so far and what she had to expect.

We comisserated about getting all the water and protein in during those first few weeks, and how much the drains cramp your style and how much better she would feel after they were gone. Our husbands talked about the ways they helped us out and the changes they saw in us. I warned her about the "hunger monster" that for me rears its head in the wierdest places and how we deal with it. We exchanged tidbits about vitamins and supplements, and the kinds of foods that seem to work well and what doesn't work at all. They are such neat people, and I hope that we keep in touch with them as time goes on. It's really important to have a support network between those of us who have had the same surgery so that we can commisserate and bitch and help and encourage each other along the way.

The highlight of our chit-chat was when the other husband asked to see my license. I showed them the photo of the woman that appears on it, and I can actually say that I am proud of my license now because that woman doesn't exist anymore. That, and my weight is actually just a few pounds above where my license claims it is. Hee! Gotta get a kick out of that.

After waiting a while, we got in to see Dr. K. He's pleased with my loss, pleased with my labs, pleased that I don't have a hernia. Pleased that I don't have terrible diarrhea problems. Not so pleased about my hemorrhagic cyst but that it isn't uncommon and that I needed to keep on top of it with the GYN, to make sure my periods weren't going out of whack as well, and to keep his office apprised of the situation if I needed surgery for it.

Then he asked me about food and how that was going. Did I feel that there was anything that I couldn't eat? Did I feel there were foods that caused problems? Did I overstuff myself frequently?

I answered him honestly: That for the first time in my life, I recognized that the food portions we are being served in this country are truly obscene. That I can't stand overstuffing myself like I used to pre-surgery because of the way it feels and I have developed a way to figure out when I am approaching "full." That it is perfectly fine to go out and have a nice dinner and desert, but that we have to keep ourselves in check and take home that doggie bag of stuff for the next two or three dinners instead of trying to eat it all right then and there. That it is perfectly OKAY to not finish everything on your plate. That it's okay to throw away leftovers. That it's okay to be picky and demand and then eat only the best of something. That it's okay to put ME and my nutritional needs first.

He just smiled at me. "I think you get it now," he said.

"I finally feel normal again," I replied.

"You were normal before," he said. "You just didn't know it."

Is is possible to be in "physician love" with your surgeon? Because I am with this one. And so is The Husband.

Thank you, Dr. K, for believing so much in this surgery and for the support system you provide for us afterward. You didn't have to go into this speciality, but you did, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the chance your surgical skill has given me at this new life I have. Thank you.

I won't let you down.

And more importantly, I won't let ME down.

Three for Three! Whoo-hoo!

Since the temperatures decided to drop again last night, Clarice decided to do the same. This morning found three new little lambs wobbling around their mom. Damn, she did it again. Best producer ever. I may bitch about you, Clarice, but you are the ewe, baby!

Total sheep population at Sheeple Ranch: One dozen.

The shopping gods have smiled upon me

Every time I foray into the unknown world of shopping since having the DS, a new surprise lurks for me, somewhere along the way. It was no different on Saturday when we went down to the mall.

First on the agenda was lunch. Mmmm. Lunch. Famous Dave's you say? Why of course! Protien galore. Surprisingly (or not as it were) their "Meal for Two" fed our entire family of four with leftovers a-plenty. Damn the beef brisket is good there. And ribs! Mmmm! The Husband and I continue to marvel at the sheer amount of food these places put in front of people's faces to eat as a single "portion." More like a portion to feed three people! But I digress . . .

Anyway, after feeding the Beast it's protein, thereby making sure we weren't shopping hungry, we wandered into Lane Bryant for the big purchases of the day. Bras. Bras. Then some more bras if we felt like it.

I had measured around my ribcage a few nights previous and had been stunned to discover that the number there was now at 37. This meant that I should have a band size of 38. Thirty-eight. I don't know that I've been that number since, oh, junior high school.

But of course the Fat Sarah was taking over and saying, "Nah. You're just a 42. Maybe a 40. Anything lower than that you'll just be cutting yourself in two." Thankfully after the previous shopping for a new pair of jeans, I have learned not to listen to Fat Sarah, and instead listen to Tapemeasure Sarah - the one armed with the real circumferance of my upper torso. But even Tapemeasure Sarah wasn't so certain what to call the cup size because of the way the girls have been losing their substance. This meant an array of letters after the 38 went with me to the fitting room.

As expected, the 38s fit perfectly. But the cup size? Oh, the cup size. People, I am now a 38 TRIPLE D. There's a LOT of skin stuffed in these babies. But they look so good sitting properly and don't even look that gargantuan. It's amazing how a simple thing like a good bra will make you feel so much better about yourself. I can deal with the vag arms (see fourfour for definition), the bat wings, the droopy tummy. All as long as the girls are nice and happy and feel pretty and sexy.

When we got home, I emptied out my bra drawers. Yes, you read that right. Bra drawers. Hi, my name is Sarah, and I'm a bra whore. There were probably between 20-25 bras that I had to fight myself to remove from the drawers and put in the bag to go to either the trash (heavily worn bras) or to Goodwill (very lightly worn bras). I then put into the drawers my eight new bras plus the four from the previous shopping trip in December, and was able to close them without having to cram everything down. Wow, that's a change. The drawers actually shut properly. Hrm. Maybe I *am* really getting smaller.

This is a good thing. My brain is finally listening to the hard evidence in front of me. I'm listening to the reality of the tapemeasure instead of to Fat Sarah. It's not a complete vanquishing of the formerly fat me, but it's a small sort of enlightenment nonetheless. And all good in my book.

Halleluia!

Praise Jesus and pass the potatoes. Lambs are here! Spring has officially sprung at the Sheeple Ranch, no matter what that twit of a groundhog back East says.

Tuesday night after work found the youngest brooding ewe, Oreo, staring back at us in utter shock, a little replica of herself at her feet. She was cleaning the little dude (dudette? Haven't gotten close enough yet to this one to be sure), but was being helped out by her fellow mother-to-be, Chocolate Chip. Hrm. That's odd. Usually mama sheep don't like being crowded with their little ones. But I guess it's okay. Um, wait. Chip is nickering at the little one? Who's really the mama here? Okay. Oreo's the one with the messy backside. She's the mama. So what is up with Chip? And now Chip's letting the lamb nurse? Ooooh nelly. This could get interesting.

Chocolate Chip kept trying to herd the little one away from Oreo, even going so far as to try to head-butt Oreo away from her baby. Oreo, who has never been the most passionate of mamas wasn't putting up much of a fight. The lamb was nursing from both of them however. So long as the little one was being fed - by whom, I really don't give a rat's ass - I guess it's all good, right?

Since it was getting very dark, we all headed in for the night, trusting to nature to take care of itself. If the little one was getting the nurturing it needed from somewhere, all would be well. If not, well, that's why I keep a stash of powdered lamb formula and lamb nipples for bottle feeding, and in the morning we would begin the process.

Wednesday morning came, and an inspection of the pen showed the same situation, except for this time, Oreo was beginning to assert herself a bit more as the mothering instict took hold of her. She wasn't letting Chocolate Chip boss her around as much and was beginning to herd the little one with her, instead of letting Chip just take it away. But Chip was still copping the attitude of "it's MY baby, bitch!" Oh boy. Just what I need. A Sheep Opera. Hopefully, we won't have to be like Solomon and split a baby between two mothers.

So off to work I went, hoping against hope that Chip would drop her own baby today, seeing as how she was able to nurse a little one and that MUST mean that she's ready to pop.

Like clockwork, I got a call from The Husband at 4:30 Wednesday afternoon when he arrived home.

"Honey, it's TWINS!"

"Oh, so Clarice finally gave it up? Damn, she was getting fat."

"No, babe. Chocolate Chip!"

"What?!?!? Chip had twins? That's so cool!"

Our staid and stoic producer of singletons produced a perfectly matched pair of pitch black little boys. They're their daddy all over. Awwww.

You would think that with her hands (hooves?) full of two springy little boys, Chip would turn her affections away from Oreo's baby, right? Wrong. She still thinks that she is the mama, but it seems to be lessening the more demanding her two get. The weaker of the two boys keeps crying to get her attention, and she keeps having to reassure him that yes, she's there, and it keeps her mind off Oreo's little one.

Now, it's all up to Clarice. I swear she looks like the Hindenburg, she's so big. Her waddle is painful to watch, and you can see the lambs inside her moving around. Prick her with a pin, and I think she'd just explode everywhere. Maybe there'll be more babies when we come home today. That would make for a spectacular week.

Hooray for lambing season!

(P.S. In the first picture, those two glowing things showing over the back of Oreo aren't orbs or anything like that. They're Rambo's eyes getting caught by the glare of the camera flash. Smile, Daddy!)

Shop 'til you drop, baby!

Now that I have crawled back out from underneath my rocks (see: taxes, plague) I can actually start talking about Things Going On With Me. Because that's what blogging's all about, right? It's one of the most narcissistic things I've ever done, but it's also very cathartic as well. Therapy through the keyboard, as it were. And even better yet, nobody bitches at you for being all memeMeMeME! when you blog. Bonus!

Anyway, you may have noticed in my little weight-loss ticker up there that something has changed and something has not. The thing that changed was my goal weight. After much reflection (and the discovery of actual HIP BONES poking at my skin) I realized that based on my height and frame, 150 might be too much of a stretch for my body. But I didn't want to completely revise things and say that I was shooting for a weight of 180. So I figured that 160 was a good compromise. If I get there, Mahvelous! If I go below? Stupendous! But I'm not going to be silly and worry away at a number that I used to be when I was 16 anymore. Even though I'll be wildly ecstatic if I do get there.

The thing that hasn't changed is my weight. 226. Every day when I get on the scale, that's the number that shows up. Every. Day. It's not fluctuating up. It's not fluctuating back down. It's staying there. If I pig out one day on everything I'm not supposed to eat - 226. If I go on an all-liquid protein diet - 226. It's decidedly odd.

I'm not silly enough to shriek "STALL!" when obviously things other than my weight are moving. (See: discovery of poky hip bones) But it's wierd that there is absolutely no fluctuation going on at all from day-to-day. Usually when I stay at a single weight, I'm fluttering up a pound, down a pound, up two pounds, down a pound, down a pound, etc.

And like everybody else who has lost this kind of weight in this short of a time period, I'm playing the good old head games with myself when it comes to clothes. The other day I wanted to get a pair of jeans that fit better. I already have the one pair from Lane Bryant that fit perfectly, but I want to completely junk all the acres of size 26 jeans that I've got. So I need at least one more pair, preferably two to make this happen.

So I hit the clearance rack at our local Wal-Mart. The only pairs or jeans that I would even remotely consider buying are available in a size 18 and a 22. Of course my brain is telling me, "Get the 22. You're still a fatty. It may be a little bit loose on you, but you'll NEVER get into that 18. Who cares that you're wearing an 18 from Lane Bryant? Their jeans are a bit bigger than most. You've been fooling yourself. You're not THAT small. Twit!"

I was determined not to go to the changing room. I was in too much of a hurry. Despite this, I sat at that clearance rack for a good ten minutes having an internal argument over whether to get a size 18 or a 22. Vanity finally took over and I shoved the 18 into my basket and quickly hurried away. Back at home, I tried them on. Utter perfection! And again, these jeans aren't stretch jeans either. Completely mindblowing.

This weekend, we will be going back down to Lane Bryant so that I can get more bras that actually fit. I will be emptying my bra drawers of all the ones that don't fit and they will be shown the door. No more wearing poorly fitting bras! I am sick of it! Funny how it's easier for me to deal with what size bra I need to wear than the size of my ass.

I am also swimming in fabric samples. I'm not quite willing to go all the way to Los Angeles to spend a day shopping for the fabric for my wedding dress, so I'm having all sorts of swatches delivered to me. I thought I knew precisely what I wanted there for a while, as well as what kind of a dress I wanted. Things were falling into line.

But now The Husband has thrown me for a loop by being willing to forgo a monkey suit and instead dress as Wesley from The Princess Bride. Yes, we are complete dorks. We love this movie. I think we've seen it 100 times, easily. We have two DVD copies as well as a VHS copy. Script? Completely memorized. If there were Princess Bride conventions, I think we'd be there, attending with all the other 80s freaks. Anytime we're bored, this is the movie we pop in.

And since this sort of costuming is right up my alley, it's no problem at all pulling it off. It just means my style of dress just changed; that I now have to order the Amazon Drygoods and Pickling catalog to get the pattern for the right dress; which means that the style of corset I need has changed; and that means my color combinations have changed; and where in the HELL am I going to find the right kind of BOOTS for him to wear that won't break the bank; and now I just want to throw up my hands and scream. Less than 90 days to go. Breathe in. Breathe out.

It'll all get done. Or not. But by God I'll have fun doing it.

The Plague

It seems that whenever I actually have things to update my blog with, something comes along and smacks me down. This week? The plague. Seriously. Well, okay, maybe not so seriously, but it's a good enough description for me.

It seems that my body decided that this was the week that my antibody defenses needed to come crashing down for my once-a-year craptacular sickness. On the menu this time? Strep throat with a dash of sinus infection just to be on the safe side of things.

So I've spent the last three days in a haze of craptacularness, a trip to the doctor, oodles of pseudo-sleeping (which means I really didn't sleep at all just tried to and ended up cat-napping in 15-minutes increments over an 8-hour period), and sweet antibiotics to make everything all better. And tonight I'm going to take a nice sleeping pill so that I can actually, you know, REST and perhaps feel better by the time it comes to get back to work on Monday.

Thankfully, this fulfils my body's requisite sickness for the next year so all should be good to go in a few days. As much as I hate being sick, I'm very glad I do get sick so infrequently. It could be worse, as they say.

So I'm going back to bed now, and will hopefully wake up feeling less like someone has taken a bicycle pump to my head and a brillo pad to my throat and more like a normal human being. Eccanacia tea for everyone!