I have a throat infection. Swallowing hurts. It’s summer, dagnabbit! Not sick time! (Not overly surprised, though, since I’ve been stressed, eating less, and not getting regular exercise for almost two months.)

I’ve been feeling mostly okay otherwise, until last evening, when the slightly runny nose and occasional coughing started (my concern was the infection spreading to other important cranial and respiratory locations). As of early evening today, I have a 12-pack-a-day bar cougar voice. Rawr. (It’s weird, I was fine when I was at Sherry’s painting, then went home, had a nap, and woke up sounding like I’d gargled gravel and battery acid.)

Lucky for me, I got to sit in the waiting room at my doctor’s after hours clinic for a couple of hours this morning (fortunately I never leave home without a book), and then was treated to a five-minute visit that included several questions, the fastest exam ever, and the printing out and scribbling on of a prescription. (Which I got to pay in full, since my benefits ended on July 31st. w00t.)

When I asked where this antibiotic fell on the cooter friendliness scale in terms of the likelihood of causing a yeast infection, the doctor (not mine, but similar), goes, “Oh, did you want something for that, too?” Umm, sure! And some Percocet while you’re at it, Dr. Pez Dispenser!

I turned down her kind offer, since, really, it seems like the kind of being-preparedness that would make that unpleasant possibility a guaranteed eventuality.

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