I May Have Shingles - A Self Diagnosis *Update*

Today's post is dedicated to my friend Kevin Levling because today is his birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KEVIN!!

You know how sometimes you just wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if you have Shingles? (Come on, admit it, you've laid there wondering.) Well last night was one of those nights for me. So I finally got out of bed to find out.

I did this by turning on my computer and typing in "Shingles."  I now know everything there is to know about Shingles including it's orgin, date of birth and mother's maiden name. I also have a sneaking suspision that I will be having a full blown episode of it in the next few days. But in an effort to save money, I am refusing medical treatment until the actual rash appears and renders me helpless.

Our current medical insurance plan is about as useful as our Directv dish during a light rain (Searching for signal.... Searching for signal...blank screen....oblivion...) It's there but it doesn't really do anything. So no matter what, we end up selling kidneys and plasma and liver pieces to cover the difference that our helpless insurance refuses to pay.

Which brings me back to my impending doom. If I go to the doctor today (although I will not likely get in because they're always too busy to fit in medical emergencies like an outbreak of Shingles) she will look at me with a blank stare and ask me why I'm there. When I explain that my left shoulderblade and under-boob is itchy and sometimes feels funny like it's covered in Vicks Vapor Rub but has no visible signs of rash yet and I think it might be Shingles, she will give me an unimpressed look and send me home. But not before paying my billion dollar co-pay.

Then in three days, when the Shingles actually manifests itself and I am a red and pus covered rashy mess, I will have to go back and point to it and say SEE??!! And then I will have to not only pay another co-pay, I will probably be sent for "tests" just to make sure it's not really red magic marker.

The tests will not be covered by my pathetic insurance and when I've finally recovered from the Shingles I will be sent a bill asking for my first born son or daughter. This is why I haven't had them yet. As soon as I get pregnant, Capital Blue Cross is going to swoop down out of the sky and demand payment from the time Husband got a concussion from fixing clocks- but that's a whole other story, I won't get into it right now. So I'm avoiding having to forfeit my unborn future children. And I'll probably need to have a whole litter of them just to pay off the maternity bill.

So in the meantime, until my rash breaks out I'm considering doing a Marianna's Hoagie Sale Fundraiser to pay for my upcoming medical expenses. I mentioned it on Facebook and lots of my friends un-selfishly ordered a fake hoagie on my behalf, Italian being the most popular. I also plan on enjoying the Shingles to the fullest, since I will be considered a contagious menace to anyone who has never had chicken pox and I will have to seclude myself to prevent spreading the awfulness around, although the little anarchist in me wants to go skipping through public places in a spaghetti top shirt and bump into people on purpose. (KELLY CHRISTINE!)  I know, it's wrong.  Welcome to My Psychosis.


PS. Wrote this little diddy the other day:

Shingles (to the tune of “Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash)
by Kelly C. Baker

I know I’m gettin’ Shingles
They’re comin’ round the bend
I know I’m gettin’ Shingles
I – just don’t know when…

I know I’m gettin’ Shingles
Gonna itch and burn
Yeah it’s gonna be unpleasant,
It must be my turn.

My back’s already itchy
But still I have no rash
I reach around to scratch it,
Relief don’t last
I’m gonna get the Shingles
I know it ain’t no fun
Right now I’m not contagious
I can’t hurt no one.

But when that rash breaks out upon me
I’ll stay inside my box,
Cause then I’ll be contagious
If you ain’t had chickenpox.
But if you’ve done had it,
You can come visit me,
Yeah, if you come an visit,
Bring me some Ritchey’s Tea.

I Hate Spiders

I hate spiders. They are my least favorite of all creepy-crawlies that walk the earth. No matter how innocent they may actually be, in my mind's eye, they are menacing horrible fiends that want to crawl on my face while I'm sleeping.  (My mind's eye is a bit disturbed.)


I think it all started when I was a kid. Growing up in the woods, we were surrounded day and night by the worst of them all- the Daddy Long Leg. My chore was to take a broom and wipe the webs & daddy long leg nests off the balcony ceiling. (The mere memory of it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.) Seeing all those little spider egg sacks up there really freaked me out. And I was pretty sure that all the spiders I was wiping down would crawl down the broom and onto my arm while I had that broom pointed up in the air. There isn't enough money in the world to pay for the therapy I'd need to repair that psychosis.


Spiders, like dogs, have an uncanny knack for knowing who hates them and those are the people they are inevitably drawn to. I'm a spider magnet. Normally I only have human stalkers named Dave but in the animal kingdom it's the spiders.  At least the Dave's don't stalk me in the shower.  Spiders do. They have no sense of decency. 

There I am, washing my hair, minding my own business when what do I see on the ceiling? A spider. It sees that I've spotted it (or maybe it heard my banshee-like shriek.) It immediately scurries towards me. I freeze on the spot. It's blocking my exit. I know, a shower curtain has two sides but my spider fear is irrational. To me, my exit is blocked no matter where the spider is physically located.

I'm naked and defenseless. The shampoo needs rinsed out of my hair but I don't want to lose that spider. It could climb into my warm dry towel and hatch a million spider babies and they'll all stream down my head when I wrap the towel around it and crawl on my face. At the same time, I have no plan whatsoever to dispose of this spider, for I am a coward and there is nothing to squash it with except shampoo and body wash bottles and an old shard of Irish Spring.

Then the unthinkable happens. It drops from the ceiling like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. Now it is just inches away from me and all I can think to do is scream and cling to the shower curtain which isn't that sturdy and won't support me for long. Maybe it's my screaming, or maybe it's on a Hari Kari mission but the spider will always then plummet further down on his satin string of evil. At this point I have to choose between fight or flight, and knowing somewhere in the recesses of my tortured mind that flight will mean water to sop up off the bathroom floor later with the possibility of a spider ambush from the hidden folds of the shower curtain, I choose fight.

My idea of a Spider Shower Fight goes like this: I continue my ear piercing screaming while batting at the evil string protruding from the spider's butt. My hope is to use his web strand to knock him to the floor of the shower where he will be washed away down the drain forever and I won't have to touch him and he won't touch me. But that never happens.

Here is the reality of my Spider Shower Fight: I continue my ear piercing scream while batting at the evil string protruding from the spider's butt. As soon as my hand touches the string, the spider starts sucking itself back up- toward my hand. I scream louder and fling my hand madly, trying to get the little menace away from me. It ususally bounces off of me (again, more therapy needed) on it's way to the shower floor and then I realize that I still stand between it and the drain which is sort of clogged so there's a bit of a puddle. As the spider swirls around the water at my feet, it fights madly to gain purchase on whatever it can in order to live while I stomp in the water like the wildebeest of the wild Serengeti running away from a crocodile. I do this to keep it from finding me and trying to climb back up my leg to safety. I'm still screaming to raise the dead.

After the chaos dies down, I find myself still clutching the shower curtain and standing precariously on the edge of the tub peering down into the swirling water to watch the spider float down the drain and into oblivion. The shampoo is now dripping into my eyes but I'm loathe to climb back into the tub to continue my shower because what if that spider is aquatic and can swim upstream and back into the shower with me? The commotion in the shower was such that the cat has come in to investigate. (She can open the bathroom door, but she hasn't learned to shut it yet.) She brought along her poofy tail to indicate displeasure at having to come check on me. Her company gives me the confidence boost I need to climb back into the water.

Welcome to My Psychosis.

How To Move A Piano By Yourself - A 40 Step Strategy

Sometimes one finds herself alone and wanting to move furniture. Sometimes that furniture is easily moved. Other times it is something that weighs a million pounds. Like, say, a piano. Sometimes one asks her husband to move it for her but he ignores her request and goes back to fiddling around with his old pickup trucks, hoping she'll forget that she asked him. But she doesn't forget and instead plots ways to do it herself when he's at work.

So how does one move a piano by one's self? If you've ever wondered, here is the answer:

Step One: Clear all obstacles out of the way between the piano and it's destination. This may mean you'll have to climb behind where the piano is currently sitting to move a bookshelf. With books on it.  That's ok. Start with moving the books. Contort your body in any way possible to get the shelf cleared off. Then move the bookshelf. If you're thinking the bookshelf weighs too much, just wait till you try to heave that piano. Suddenly the bookshelf will be a lot lighter.

Step Two: Try to move the piano back against the wall where the bookshelf used to be.

Step Three: Realize that the piano weighs a million pounds and you can't budge it, not even a little bit.

Step Four: Get on your hands and knees to see if there are any wheels left on the bottom of the piano.

Step Five: Realize that there are only two wheels remaining. Calculate the probability of gouging the hard wood floors if you ever do succeed in sliding this monster back approximately 4 feet to get to the wall.

Step Six: Drink a Coke and ponder the situation.

Step Seven: Go back and face your demons.

Step Eight: Determine that a nice little square of carpet, placed carpet side to the hardwood floor, would make a nice sliding coaster for underneath the missing wheels, which unfortunately are in the back.

Step Nine: Go on a wild goose chase around the house looking for an old piece of scrap carpet.

Step 10: Find the perfect piece in the attic. Brush the bird poo off of it, cut the two small squares needed and take it downstairs.

Step 11: Notice that the cat is missing. Go looking for her. Find her in the attic and spend 10 minutes trying to herd her back downstairs.

Step 12: Try to lift the piano just enough to get the carpet pieces slid underneath.

Step 13: Remember you can't lift the piano to slide the carpet pieces underneath (it weighs a million pounds.)

Step 14: Go have another sip of Coke and ponder the situation again.

Step 15: Decide that you must jack the piano up to get the carpet squares underneath.

Step 16: Go looking for a jack.  Find one in your car trunk beside the donut tire. Take it back into the house.

Step 17: Look for a piece of wood long and sturdy enough to reach from the top of the jack to a spot high on the back of the piano where such a piece of wood could be propped against.

Step 18: After scavenging around the whole property, come up with a shabby board that looks like it might splinter in two. Decide to use it anyhow.

Step 19: Grimace when the shabby board is about 9 inches too short. Commence looking for a small block of wood to fill the space.

Step 20: Find a discarded chunk of firewood. Shrug and take it in the house.

Step 21: Look warily at the piano, the shabby board, the chunk of wood and the jack.

Step 22: Start jacking.  Set the chunk of wood on the jack and when it gets high enough, add the shabby board and wedge it under the top of the piano.

Step 23: Hide your head around the corner of the piano just incase the shabby board splinters into a gazillion pieces sending wooden shrapnel towards your eyes.

Step 24: Gasp in amazement that the piano is actually lifting.

Step 25: Amazement is short lived as the piano slides forward slightly.

Step 26: Continue jacking with your right arm while your left arm holds the piano from sliding forward anymore. Keep your face hidden around the side, that board is a ticking time bomb.

Step 27: Use the arm that did the jacking to slide the carpet square underneath the missing piano wheel, your left arm is still trying to keep the piano from sliding forward.

Step 28: As you slide your hand and carpet square precariously under the million pound piano supported by a car jack, a block of wood and an unstable board, recall the movie 127 Hours. Start to think of escape strategies just in case. Can the cat bring you the phone? How many hours till your husband comes home to rescue you? Would it be easier to chew your arm off?

Step 29: Breath a sigh of relief when the carpet is in place, the jack is lowered and your hand is still safely attached to you and not trapped under the million pound piano.

Step 30: See step #22 and start there because you still have to jack up the other end of the piano to get the carpet square under THAT side too. (Bummer)

Step 31: Put the car jack back in the trunk. Return all wooden materials to wherever you found them.

Step 32: Have a talk with the piano. Explain to it that if it slides back against the wall you will be able to make the room around it beautiful again and people will want to actually go in that room instead of avoid it. Remind it that it is made of wood, just like the floors so we should all try to get along and not scratch each other.

Step 33: Be thankful no one heard you giving the floor and piano a pep talk.

Step 34: Grit your teeth and lift as much as you can possibly lift a million pound piano while trying to slide it backwards.

Step 35: Forget about the slippery spot on the floor caused by dusting and spraying Pledge all morning long. Fall down a little bit.

Step 36: Try again but without standing on the Pledge spot. Do a Happy Dance when the piano actually moves back!

Step 37: Slip on the Pledge spot while doing the Happy Dance.

Step 38: Move the other side of the piano back. (No Pledge spot on that end of the piano to contend with, dance as much as you want.)

Step 39: Inspect the floors for gouges. Find none. Do another Happy Dance.

Step 40: Realize that now that you've moved a million pound piano by yourself, your husband will never, ever, ever help you move anything else. Curse silently at this unexpected turn of events.

Adventures of Kelly & Shirley

Normally I'm a fairly patient person. Normally I'm pretty Hum-De-Dum when it comes to driving. Normally I don't care what the person in front of me is doing or how slow they are doing it. I must be having an off week.

All week long Shirley and I (Shirley is my car and that is her name because as written in our family by-laws: "He or she who paid for the vehicle may name it whatever he or she pleases") have been getting sandwiched in a parade of slow drivers. The first time it happened I laughed it off. The second time I was mildly irritated. Things somehow snow-balled after that. And today was the Grand Finale.

After dropping off the recycling (which I had forgot to do for like, the past 7 months resulting in a packed full car that looked like something off of "Hoarders-Buried Alive") I had to drop off stuff elsewhere, then head across the mountain to pick up our taxes.

It was on the windy road leading up to the mountain that they got me. Yep. I was cruising along and lo and behold, what do I find in front of me? A dark blue Altima. A very nice car, mint condition, and going 35 mph. And what do I spy in the driver's seat? The profile of an older gentleman and beside him a Blue Haired.
Oh goody, I thought.

As we poked on up the windy mountain we (me, Shirley and Mr. Altima) found ourselves behind yet a SLOWER vehicle. We did 20mph the whole way up the mountain. Shirley was indifferent, but I was getting annoyed and thought that maybe some U2 would cheer me up.  Since we were practically at a stop anyhow I figured it was as safe a time as any to dig out my cd & pop it in the stereo. Sing to me Bono, and I will let your Irish voice lift me high above this ridiculousness that is driving in front of me!

Normally this is the part where I veg out, relax and warble along at the top of my lungs, not caring what the idiots in front of me are doing. But as I said, for some reason, this was not a normal day. I was still white-knuckling Shirley's wheel even though the Edge was playing "It's a Beautiful Day."

Three hours later, at the top of the mountain, the pokey-poke holding up me & Mr. Altima pulled over. Maybe he was lost. I didn't stop to find out, Mr. Altima and I were picking up speed finally and my faith in mankind was somewhat restored. For about 15 seconds.

That's when me & Mr. Altima crested the mountain and he put on his brakes immediately so we could go very slowly down the other side. It's a straight shot, you really can't goof it up. There are no twisty turns on the other side of the mountain. Go Baby Go!

Well, I thought, maybe he'll turn left at the bottom where it Y's off. No.  Indeed he did not. He turned right. Which is the direction I wanted to go. It is 6 miles till the next stop sign. I was just grateful he didn't leave his turn signal on to blink at me obnoxiously for the next 10 minutes.

Upper Snake Spring resumes in twisty-turni-ness and the speed limit is 45mph.  We may have been doing 40 and this was unacceptable for me. (Once again, I don't know why I was having this desperation to get GOING, I'm really not a speedy driver to begin with.) Bono was crooning to me that he still hadn't found what he was looking for and I screamed back: Me neither- I'd like a passing zone PLEASE!

We came to the delicious place on the road where a speed limit sign clearly states END SPEED LIMIT 45!
Yay!  "LET THOSE PONIES RUN PAP!" I yelled to Mr. Altima, "GIVE YOUR HORSE THE REINS!!" Unfortunately, his head was turned the opposite way looking at some rural scenery and failed to see this notice. The Blue Haired's cataracts prevented her from seeing it also. 

I may or may not have been making some horrible faces at this point. U2, then decided it would be quite hilarious to sing me "You've got to get yourself together, you've got stuck in a moment, and you can't get out of it.."   Not funny guys, I thought back, what I got stuck in is a sight seeing tour with no passing zones. I then began considering the cost of getting Shirley fitted with a cattle catcher, like on the front of trains, so I could just start ramming people like this out of my way. (KELLY CHRISTINE! - that's what my mom always said when I would say something inappropriate, so I felt like I should interject that for her.)

Over hill and dale we went. Slowly. I shouldn't have done it but I finally zinged around Mr. Altima & Mrs. Blue Hair when I had a chance. Shirley put her six cylinders to work and we passed that egg-timer. And delightfully drove 57mph the rest of the way to town.

Cove Colloquialisms: How We Talk 'Roun' Here

I never knew I talked funny until my senior year when, as proud officer of the FFA, I was privileged to attend the National FFA Convention in Kansas City, MO. As we intermingled with kids from other chapters, a fellow from elsewhere in the nation said he liked my accent. ?? I was not aware that I had one. I thought they had them. And apparently we also talk slower.

When I meet someone new who's not from Around Here, I try to speak in a non-regional dialect. But the effort is such that eventually I find myself talking the same way I always do. I was very, very impressed when in one of Stephen King's books (I've read so many that now I can't remember which one) he actually used some of our sayings and even printed them the way we say them.  (Yay Stephen!)

Don't get the wrong idea here, we don't sit around on our porch wearing bib overalls and playing the banjo (we lack the musical talent) but we do talk a little different.  We add letters that don't belong, subtract letters that should, and make up our own words. Here are some examples:

CRIK - (creek) "I'm gone down to the crik ta do some fishin'." (I'm going down to the creek to do some fishing.)

WARSH - (wash) "I warshed Elmer's close but thur steel greasy." (I washed Elmer's clothes but they are still greasy.) Some pronounce it worsh instead of warsh. I have friends who've tried their best to break me of this habit but no matter how hard they try, I still say warsh. Once when we were little kids, one of my cousins wanted to write "Wash Me" on the back of my mom's Volkswagon Rabbit and they asked me if it was spelled with an "AR" or an "OR." Dummy me, I had to really think about it before I remembered the "R" doesn't even belong. HA!

POP - Around Here we call it Pop instead of soda. "Grab me a pop outa the fridge."

REDD- The correct spelling of this word eludes me since we've never spelled it, only said it. And apparently no one else says this except for Around Here. It means "to clean up." Example: When I was little we were down in Virginia at my uncle's house. I said to the visiting neighbor kids "We'd better redd up around the pool." They said "What??" I said "We'd better redd up around the pool here." (thinking that adding "here" would make my point clear.) Finally they said WE DON'T KNOW WHAT REDD UP MEANS! So I said "WE'D BETTER PICK  UP ALL THESE POOL TOYS AND PUT THEM AWAY!"

IGGLE - (eagle) "Didja see that iggle flying aroun' down by the gap?" (Did you see that eagle flying around down by the gap?)

We also have a habit of dropping the "h" off of words like "his" or "hers". The "h" gets lost on the word that precedes it. Such as:
Person 1: "What's yur husband doin' taday?" (What's your husband doing today?)
Person 2: "I dunno what'ese gettin' into." (I don't know what he's getting into.)
Example 2: "Whats'er problem?" (What's her problem?)

GETTIN' INTO - (doing) When we say this we don't literally intend to climb into something. We just mean "What are you doing?"

HUH - This can be a question OR a statement. We say this when we can't think of something else to say in response to a statement by someone else.
Person 1: "That water jus came through n warshed the bridge out." (That water just came through and washed the bridge out.)
Person 2: "Huh."

HOW 'BOUT THAT - used similarly to Huh as a question or a statement. This is the other go to when you have no other response. Sometimes we use them together.
Example:
Person 1: "Didja see Bernice's boy made the honor roll" (Did you see Bernice's boy made the honor roll?)
Person 2: "Huh. Wool how 'bout that." (Huh.Well how about that.)

WOOL - (well or we'll) Sometimes we say "well" but it sounds more like wool, as in the above example.

KELLER - (color) "Getcher crayons n wool keller." (Get your crayons and we'll color.)

YINZ - (You ones) Down south they say "Y'all", our version is "You'ns" often pronouced as "Yinz".  "Whad're yinz doin' this afternoon?" "Do yinz wanna come down 'n' swim?"

PUNKIN' - (Pumpkin)

We have a bunch of words that sound exactly the same as other words, even though I think, they are supposed to be pronounced different. Some flaming examples:

Close - Clothes (both pronounced "close." I don't know where the "th" got to.)
Cow - Kyle   (both prounounced "cow")
Owl - aisle   (both prounounced "owl")
Our - are   (both pronounced "are")
Pool- pole (they both sound the same to me, aren't they supposed to?)
Dawn - Don ( both pronounced "Dawn")
Pitcher-Picture (both pronounced "Pitcher")

Other weird things we say:

"Fred's came down for supper this eve'nin'. " (Fred and his family came down for supper this evening.) Fred is used as a plural even though Fred himself is obviously singular. Hence the 's on the end. Another example:
Ronald's came by n picked chestnuts today." (Ronald & Margie came by and picked chestnuts today.) The whole household is included in these statements but for some reason we use the first name instead of the family's last name. *Note: Fred and Ronald really are our neighbors so the likelihood of both of these scenarios are realistic.

I'm sure there are other ones that I've missed. I really can't linger though, us 'n Fred's is gettin' together tonight for Desperate Housewives so I must skedaddle.