Ode To The Sniffles
Subject: Phoenix from the flames
Date: 2/16/01 2:46 PM
From: Elizabeth Pfeiffer, email@example.com
To: Mari, Simone, Heidi, Shanon, Ciam
Yes, we all must make painful choices. For some people, it is the choice between a frustrating day fighting the snow in the fourteen car piled-up snow-stupid city of Seattle or losing the day's pay that they so desperately need to get the medication that will enable them to continue the back yard paint ball and pet food project that was started last summer (and now languishes under that very snow).
For others, such as our lovely blonde new-found flumpette with the four day weekend (due to a not so difficult choice about the snow), it is the choice between Kids In The Hall and In The Heat Of The Night. Oh how we struggle with these dilemmas, wrestling, tossing from one side to the other, like Deborah did last night all strung out on pseudafed (but more about that in a minute (first I have to finish my opening metaphor (which I will do as soon as I finish up this paranthetical tangle))).
Sometimes a ray of inspiration comes down to illuminate the roiling grey state of indecision that paralyzes us. And sometimes, yes sometimes, someone is there to witness this (dare I say) miraculous event (I'm talking about the moment of inspiration, not the resumption of the pet food and paint ball project (about which I am dubious, considering the snow - poor Ridley)). In the present case, that ray has a powerfullly evocative name: "pilot". Yes, subscribers, it turns out that it is the pilot episode of In The Heat Of The Night (in two parts! and even better, no week to wait between them because it is so OLD! They are being shown . . BACK . . TO . . BACK). Ah well, I was hoping for a nice demonstration of STVMV on the part of the flumpette, but Kids In The Hall does not even rate a cautious commercial break peak, when pitted against the power of the pilot.
We at LLeP sincerely hope that our P.L.A.T.E. program provides such inspiration to our subscribers in need. That is why it was conceived, on a dark day, when a lonely cry came across the gulf of the internet from an LLeP subscriber:
>DISAPPOINTING THAT MY TRUEST AND BESTEST
FRIEND WILL NOT BE AT THE RITUAL ON
>THE FULL MOON...I AM IN A HEAP ON THE FLOOR OVER IT....NEED CONSOLING,
>PLEASE FIX ME A PLATE.
At that moment we knew what we needed to do. No deeply divided feelings for us. Our mission was clear, and so the P.L.A.T.E. program was born. Out of the pain and vulnerability of people like you, who must walk that narrow path of harrowing indecision each day. Witnessing this morning's struggle over Kids In The Hall versus Heat Of The Night (uh oh detective Tibbs has been beaten up, oh my, the TV calls), I realized that while my own ray of inspiration had of late become dim (too many Tostito's blocking the light I guess) the *need* had not become dim, .. er... abated? er.. "None! None more black!".
So, after a long hiatus we are proud and touched (we *must* be touched, good god) to bring back the P.L.A.T.E. program (Put Love Around That Email), with it's award winning eMeditations and sympathetic eArticles. For our new subscribers in Austria, Everett and The Canadian Dominion, we hope that you will find it a warm and welcome complement to the more hard hitting eJournalism you have experienced with our regular LLeP services. [insert disclaimer] Should this subscription be in error, or unwanted (sob!) simply send an email to firstname.lastname@example.org with a blank message and the subject line: Get this Shit off my goddam plate, it stinks!.
[insert welcome-message] We hope that you will enjoy the services provided through the PLATE program. Welcome to comfort and sweet loving support.
Remember, [insert alt-gem-slogan] The sympathy of a Gemini Moon is only an inbox away!
with fondest regards,
Liz Pfeiffer (your friend and CEO of LLeP)
Subject: PLATE: For all the
Date: 2/16/01 3:43 PM
From: Elizabeth Pfeiffer, email@example.com
To: Mari, Simone, Heidi Roecks, Shanon, Ciam
Well, now that we have busted into the illicit porn operation conducted by the son of the pillar of the community (yes, you guessed - In The Heat Of The Night (and of course, as one might also have guessed, now that the truth is known, there was a brief flick to Kids In The Hall. I can rest easy now)), We bring you the latest PLATE eArticle: Ode to the Sniffles, for all those out there who are just sick enough to be miserable, but not sick enough to be forced to take better care of themselves. And I'll bet you thought I had forgotten all about Deborah.
And now Tibbs's vengeful rage has been averted by some slick talking by Gillespie, so we can continue peacefully to..
Ode to the Sniffles
Oops, I forgot about the final confrontation, including the obligatory angry "You only cared about the family name" confessions, with the pillar of the community and his misunderstood emotionally abused son. Sorry 'bout that. There - now just the good natured ribbing back at the station (she now moves on to Kids In The Hall). And we're off!
Ode to the Sniffles
Your head is pretty stuffed, but you can't quite call it a headache.
You aren't feverish, but every so often you have a little orientation lurch just to keep you wondering if you should get the thermometer out anyway. I mean, if you are really feverish enough, you only may be deluded that you feel fine, right? Nope.. 98.2 And you are experienced enough to know that minus .4 degrees does not amount to a rat's ass in any doctor's office.
And the throat, yes, the throat. What is going on in there? Does it actually hurt? I mean *hurt*? You have tried to asses it in some objective way for so long that you haven't the slightest clue what your throat feels like. I mean, on a scale of 1 to 10, you know it isn't a 10. But you sure can't just forget about it. And you know that you don't normally pay this much attention to that little area at the back of your tongue. No, you usually go for days without giving it any special notice (well, I do anyway - LLeP and PLATE are fully committed to supporting diversity, so if you happen to obsess about the back of your throat all the time, even in the best of health, we fully support you in that).
So the question then arises.. drugs? Do you really merit drugs? And on the other hand, if you start taking them, it is a clear admission of defeat. You don't take things like pseudafed and echinacea lozenges unless you are sick. So if you do take some of them, then you are sick, right? Damn. There it is, that harrowing path of indecision that you read about earlier.
Of course, having taken the drugs you need to believe that you are not that sick. So what to do, what to do? Oh, OF COURSE! Go at 10:00 PM through the rapidly accumulating snow to The Barca (sorry I can't make that foreign little squirmy thing under the 'C') on Capitol Hill, drink wine with your friends from massage school, breathing lots of cigarette smoke and working on the wax buildup in your ears (it's a protective mechanism, don'tcha know, your poor ears are trying to defend themselves against the apalling pandemonium that they are inexplicably subjected to) until midnight. You don't notice your throat the whole time! Hurrah, you're cured!
But you get home eventually, unable to breath through your nose. Now that *is* unusual (unless of course this is your normal state of affairs, in which case - go see a specialist, for god's sake!). Hmmm, must be due to the cigarette smoke from the Barc[foreign squiggle]a. Well, a bit more pseadafed will take care of it, right? It certainly worked on the way to the Barc[foreign squiggle]a. So two more pseadafeds down the hatch. Even an extra glass of water! And the snow outside falling so quietly and serenely down. It is a true Winter Wonderland. You are even so well that you go outside to look around, and (for the obsessives out there who also need some loving eSupport) measure the snow.
Well, everyone knows the ensuing night, right?
No sleep. That dried up feeling behind your eyes. You feel kind of hot, but you know it isn't a fever, or could that be a delusion (but if you get up to check your temperature you will have to turn on the lights and that will disturb the delicate day/night rhythms that are so critical to you ever getting to sleep tonight). Has your bed EVER been this uncomfortable? Oh crap it is 6:00! The delicate rhythms failed miserably! Hanna is getting up soon, to call in about whether she is going to work or not. And you cannot recall any sleep. You can remember going over the final exam from school several times, picking sullenly at the missed questions like old scabs, especially the ones which were certainly bogus, but it would have been too petty to go argue about them when the score was plenty high enough for anyone but Helen, and it is all over anyway. You can remember some very odd mishmashes of imagery that morphed about in a very strange way (feverish?) when your eyes were closed. The little scene of pipe cleaner ponies struggling around in the snow, and then the thick dark gel like stuff that started emerging from the snow underneath them and you decided you ought to change the whole scene in case you were in fact feverish and you didn't want to risk whatever that ooze might turn out to be if you were.
I told you I wouldn't forget about Deborah.
But she is alright. She just has the sniffles.
love love love,
PS Now we are on to Scarecrow and Mrs King