Serving Up the Spoonie Special

May Intensify Dizziness, Irritation, Nausea, Screaming, Etc.

I’m ba-ack!

Did you miss me? (You don’t have to answer that)

My vacation/social media siesta was phenomenal. Surprisingly so. I hate to advocate leaving work, but if you have the hours and wherewithal to detach yourself from the world for two weeks, DO IT! You won’t regret it.

Before I dive into the first essay of the year, a quick note: I’m changing up the format for 2024.

Nothing major (I promise you’ll still get the same level of biting humor); I’m simply cutting back the schedule. Rather than delivering weekly essays, I’m going to give myself some breathing room and slow down to every other week. (The monthly Shell Exchange will continue)

I’ve put WAY too much stress on myself coming up with a new “shell” and writing an essay every week—usually at the expense of my other writing. Something I reflected on A LOT during my break.

I LOVE working on these hermit crabs, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want them to become an obligation I resent. (Please don’t think otherwise. I wouldn’t have created this if it wasn’t near and dear to my heart)

So easing up makes sense.

Thanks for understanding.

---

Heart-Skipping Hurricane

Ingredients

• 1 oz. unrelenting anxiety

• 3/4 oz. underlying heart arrhythmia

• 1 oz. overpriced, oversweetened frozen coffee (in theory) drink

• 1 oz. dysfunctional circulatory system (etiology of your choice)

• 1 oz. moderate physical activity (brisk walk up three flights of stairs sufficient)

• 1 tsp lack of sleep (minimum of three nights)

• wedge of weather change, slice of ignorant ER doctor, and sufficient doubt to delay doctor visit for 4 days

Directions

1. Combine all ingredients—preferably at the most inopportune moment. Suggestions include holiday weekends, your husband’s birthday (the most likely choice), or the middle of the night during the height of the pandemic.

2. Strain the sanity level of everyone you know to the breaking point by obsessing over inconsistent EKG readings obtained from your phone’s (admittedly) flawed flashing red lightbulb, followed by a refusal to contact any medical professionals. Allow this pattern to chill at least overnight.

3. Garnish your creation with silent tears when your heart refuses to behave abnormally every moment you’re hooked up to the monitor in the ER, ensuring no one sees you cry and mistakes your abject misery for actual illness.

POTS Colada

Ingredients

• 2 oz. blood pressure hitting rock bottom for no good reason

• 2 oz. sudden-onset tachycardia

• 1.5 oz. episodes of collapse (in front of at least 50 strangers)

• 2 cups blood donated earlier in the morning

• 1/2 oz. random nausea

• piece of misplaced hysteria by an overreactive woman

Directions

1. Place the usual suspects (nausea arriving out of nowhere, pulse jumping into the 90-100bpm range—unusual when standing in line for the teacup ride—and spontaneous nausea) together with the random outlier of having accomplished a Good Deed earlier in the day.

2. Pulse for 16 hours, then pour the body onto the ground no fewer than three times (making a—quickly forgotten—mental note to thank your husband for managing to prevent your head from smacking the ground) while standing in line for the most innocuous ride in the entire amusement park. You should ensure at least three children are privileged enough to witness your performance.

3. Top off with a frantic call to 911 by the idiot standing three people in front of you (without anyone suggesting the need). Reserve a small part of your consciousness to laugh as your husband shouts at her to shut up, that fainting is simply part of your nature (as it is for everyone, naturally).

Meat-Allergy Tai

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup needless medical testing and imaging

• 2 tbsp mysterious abdominal pain

• 1.5 tbsp random nausea

• 1/2 oz. misunderstood food reactions

• 1 tbsp revolving GI specialists

• 1 tsp unrecognized food contamination

• 1/2 oz. frustration, tears, screaming, and protests

• absurd amounts of whey, gelatin, and glycerin

Directions

1. Combine all of the ingredients, beginning at the age of 11, courtesy of a single bite from a lone star tick; unrecognized and ignored—much like you will be for the next 33 years. Try not to take it personally. (After all, you’re female. And young. And opinionated about your health. A terrible combination in this world)

2. Fill a medical record with “Normal” and “Negative” test results and imaging. Don’t overlook the added notes regarding your mental health and the recommendation to seek counseling, weight loss, and psychiatric therapy.

3. Strain to comprehend why you endured a confusing and misunderstood hell for three-quarters of your life when a single blood test contained all of the answers.

4. Top off your incredulous disbelief with the “cure” of a food elimination diet, erasing the agony you’ve long since concluded your due in life. (Yes, even if it means forever giving up chocolate mousse)

Insomnia on the Beach

Ingredients

• 1.5 oz. alpha-delta sleep patterns

• 1 oz. spontaneous leg pain of death

• 2 oz. tachycardia (minus the explanatory evil clown nightmare)

• 2 oz. every non-pharmaceutical sleep aid invented (to date)

• slice of memory foam pillow and wedge of memory foam mattress

Directions

1. Grab your absurdly expensive lumbar-supporting mattress, memory foam topper, memory foam pillow, cooling pillow mat, lowered thermostat (to the utter delight of your husband), humidifier, fan, weighted pillow (your cat), the latest OTC sleep aid “prescribed” by the last medical professional who recommended you get more sleep at night, and your three nightly prescriptions that (falsely) promise to cause dizziness, blurred vision, and drowsiness. Attempt to find some false hope these items, once combined, will grant you an hour of uninterrupted sleep.

2. Pour yourself between your freshly laundered sheets, luxuriating in the soft touch of cotton against your (currently) exhausted body. Top the evening off with a sigh of relief as every bone and muscle gives in to the leeching pull of sleep.

3. Garnish the night with a heart-pounding wake-up call of immediate alertness 30 minutes later as your right leg seizes up in a bear trap-vise combination (you don’t recall placing one in the bed, but it’s certainly there now). Perform an Oscar-worthy show of silent screaming and attempting to unkink your foot—all without disturbing the dead body beside you (fine, he is actually breathing) or dislodging the cat curled between your knees.

Bahama Menopause

Ingredients

• 1 oz. spontaneous drenching sweat

• 1 oz. weight gain in the face of routine exercise and calorie restriction

• 1/2 oz. decreased tolerance for stupidity (people, it’s actually people, in general)

• 2.5 oz. fire (literal fire) consuming your body

• 3/4 oz. fatigue (in addition to your daily amount)

• wedge of anxiety (fancy menopause version) and estrogen patch

Directions

1. Add ingredients together—with a mild and underplayed warning from your gynecologist—and shake vigorously in a misbegotten attempt to rid yourself of the unflattering baseball-sized patch adhered to your abdomen. Be sure to convince yourself that a single “sticker” could not possibly do anything as magical as hold back an entire avalanche of symptoms.

2. Strain the fabric of sanity three days later as your body devours the last drops of estrogen available, delivering you into the hands of premature menopause. Discover what actual warmth (correction: excessive warmth) feels like for the first time in your life, and combine it with twice the usual laundry loads as your sweat glands decide to rob your body of every drop of moisture.

3. Garnish your experiment with the ultimate mental roller coaster, strewing the world of those around you with grenade eggshells. Marvel at your ability to barely lift your head from the couch and scream loud enough to shake the walls at the same time.

Not-Really-A-Painkiller

Ingredients

• 2 oz. (not actually) broken bones and shredded organs

• 1 oz. circulation (mostly) cut off to the hands and feet

• 1 oz. “have you tried yoga?” from friends, family, doctors, and strangers

• 3 oz. overactive (and defective) brain and spinal cord

• sprinkle of indescribable fatigue

Directions

1. Fill out every medical form with check marks and lists of symptoms that make you appear barely alive and far from functional—and guarantee to earn you a sideways look from all the medical professionals who see you (after verifying you managed to complete the “date of birth” section correctly and asking you to complete a basic math problem to ensure you are, in fact, the age you claim, reassuring you don’t look half as dead as you feel).

2. Pour your ingredients into an outwardly-appearing “normal” body, ensuring a lifetime of doubt, scorn, and outright disbelief. Learn to apply the same behaviors yourself despite crippling agony and exhaustion.

3. Shake in silent frustration and misery as doctors—supposed “authorities”—purse their lips and tell you in a stern voice, “There’s nothing wrong,” despite watching you curl your body into Greek letters on the hospital bed. Swallow your tears as they suggest the pain resides “in your head.” (The irony)

4. Garnish the eventual “diagnosis” (as if eliminating thousands of diseases and conditions somehow grants a doctor such an accolade) with an ice-cold expression and demands of “Where do we go from here?” Show no surprise when the medical team that offered no assistance in the past shrugs their shoulders and continues to stare in mystified confusion.

Zombie Fog

Ingredients

• 1 oz. fibromyalgia-sapping pain

• 1 oz. attempting to work at a “normal” human pace

• 1 oz. obvious flare symptoms

• 1 oz. refusing to take breaks (valid or invalid reasons acceptable)

• 1 oz. unrelenting nonsense jingle in the back of the mind

• 1 oz. insomnia (minimum of 2 weeks)

• 1/2 oz. depressive fugue

• dash of (attempted) concentration

Directions

1. Shake all ingredients together, ideally choosing a suitably embarrassing moment for your preparation. Popular choices include interviews, meeting with lawyers, applying for business licenses, speaking with favorite authors, and presenting your work to complete strangers. Be sure to wear your nicest clothes to heighten the drama of your ensuing failure.

2. Pour out absurd nonsense (inserting made-up words gains you bonus points) or open and close your mouth to imitate your favorite fish. Blink to reassure your audience you have not suffered a stroke; the incompetence is entirely yours to claim.

3. Pour additional sentences containing variations of the word “thingy” to further convince your listeners you have zero grasp of the language. Or, indeed, any form of coherent thought. Struggle and spit over words, and include random hand gestures as you see fit.

4. Garnish your performance with a weak smile and a reassurance that you are a learned individual. If you feel like it, reference your educational degrees or background. (Your college has requested you no longer mention them by name, however, so keep your words vague—as if that’s difficult in your current state)