UTI, Round 2 November 30, 2006

My pee looks like orange Gatorade, which can only mean one thing: I’m taking Uristat.

I’m taking Uristat, which can only mean one thing: I have another UTI.

This is possibly the least fun thing in the world. A UTI means constantly feeling like you could pee gallons – GALLONS! – yet when you actually go, nothing comes out. And when it does, it burns. It also means no sex and I’m a tad concerned that that’s the thing that bothers me the most. Give me a burning sensation and constant pain and pressure but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T TAKE AWAY SEX.

The good news is, my Fairy Godmother (a co-worker with an unfulfilled prescription for the same exact antibiotic I was prescribed when I last got a UTI, in the good ol’ days when I actually had health insurance) has bestowed upon me six lovely pills that should take care of everything shortly. Until then, I’ll continue to suffer and also giggle in the bathroom because, yes, I still find neon urine absolutely hilarious.

On a completely unrelated note, I had a crazy dream last night. I know, I KNOW – how lame is it to blog about dreams? But this one is crazy. At least, to me it is. And I’m the sick and constantly peeing one here, so indulge me.

So, last night I dreamt that I was having a wonderfully fabulous affair with Jack Nicholson. (Note: I have never, not even when he was in an acceptable age range, found Jack Nicholson attractive.) We went to a wedding, possibly in Italy, where I was wearing an amazing, low-cut steel grey dress and amazing steel grey ribbon heels to match and it was all very amazing. We returned to Jack’s villa after the nuptials, where I stripped and got into bed. Jack left the room for a moment (no doubt to scarf down some Viagra) and I found not one, not five but TEN earrings from other women. And I didn’t even care (clearly, in my dreams/sick fantasies, I have no trust issues whatsoever). I was just annoyed that the studs kept poking me in the back.

So, Jack returned and we started to make out. And then Jack Nicholson morphed into Danny DeVito. And I actually said to him, “But! What! About! Rhea!” And then I woke up.

So, yeah. That was my crazy dream. I’m blaming the Uristat, a recent viewing of As Good As It Gets and Gawker, for posting the DeVito-drunk-on-The-View footage yesterday.

Oh! And since this is clearly not a coherent post already so I may as well just go for it, the Boy is the best. I should put that out there. For posterity. Or something.

Last night, not only did he wait, in his car, outside my office for fifty minutes so that I would have a ride home when I got out at 10pm, he presented me with a bouquet of tulips, for taking care of him when he was sick. When we returned home to my apartment, I noticed that he had cleaned my former disaster-area bedroom, down to folding my clothes and making the bed. Sure, I probably got this UTI from having sex with him but, clearly, he’s so totally worth it. (See how I totally tied in the Boy’s awesomeness to my UTI right there? Yay for a semblance of coherence!)