Eh?

Meanwhile I continue my slow decline. Now I'm going deaf.

There's a nonstop thrumming in my right ear that accompanies my every waking moment like a soundtrack. Apparently my life is a lowgrade thriller with supernatural overtones and a transgender undercurrent.

Seems I have fluid in my middle ear. Probably leftover champagne from that Thing I went to a couple weeks ago. My liver hung out a sign — No Room At The Inn! — the hooch had to go somewhere.

So I took me to Doc Number One (did I mention I hate doctors?), who diagnosed an ear infection and put me on steroids, the kind you snort (did I mention I love doctors?).

Finally! A medical procedure I know something about!

At the pharmacy I waited until the pharmacist finished describing possible side effects of my new script, then asked the big question:

"Can I consume alcohol with these meds?"

"Well, it may induce a feeling of..." she began, and I finished her sentence,

"Euphoria?!"

"Well, I suppose..." she began, and waited while I finished my cheer.

I listened while she tutored me in the correct way to ingest drugs through one's nasal passages, then took the product out into the parking lot and blew it. The effect was less than mind-altering. So much for doing things the medical way.

That Thing I went to a couple weeks ago? My birthday. I didn't go anywhere, that was just a ruse to throw off the Booze Police. What I did was sit at the new "eating" bar in our kitchen and drink bubbly until the neighbors came home, then I invited the neighbors over and bubbled some more.

We had the new "eating" bar installed because our kitchen seriously lacked counterspace. As opposed to counterculture, which we're up to our ears in. Suffice to say there was only enough room to line up ten beers at a time, something had to give. What gave was my right ear.

Don't get me wrong, I've been a staunch practitioner of situational deafness for 26 years (it's just coincidence that's how long I've been married), but this was different. When I could no longer hear my favorite sound in the universe — a champagne cork popping — I took me to the above-mentioned Doc Number One. When the nose candy fell flat, I took me to Doc Number Two. An appropriate moniker.

Doc Number Two put me in a padded room (sorry, pal, not that kind of padded room) with low lights, a carpeted ceiling, an ergonomic chair and featherweight headphones, and closed the door. FLWOOP.

Finally! That sensory deprivation chamber I've been searching a lifetime for!

I expected a hookah and lava lamp to appear at any moment.

"Can you hear me now?" intoned The Voice in my featherweight headphones.

"Do you mind if I book this joint for, say, a week or seven?" I intoned back.

"If you can hear this sound," intoned The Voice, followed by a short low frequency buzz, "please signal by raising your right index finger." I added my middle finger, too, ala the universal peace/victory sign, to indicate solidarity.

This buzzing/hearing/signaling continued for the better part of an hour, and believe me, it was the better part. When it was over, Doc Number Two ushered me into his office.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" he said loudly.

"How's about I return to The Chamber and you can give it to me there?" I said.

"Good news is the fluid in your right ear will dissipate in time," he said loudly. "Bad news is you have advanced hearing loss in both ears. Abnormal for one so young."

I resisted the urge to throw myself into his arms for that "young." Or maybe he'd said "hung." Or maybe "strung." Who knows what the fuck he said, there were any number of possibilities, and seeing as how I'm apparently deaf as a post, I held myself in check.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind turning a deaf ear to my fellow human beings, nothing would please me more. It's the birds and beasts and champagne corks I'll miss hearing. And the flowers. It's true, I have the ability to "hear" certain plants, particularly when they communicate in smoke signals with the help of a hookah, followed by a short low frequency buzz.

Although I did hear my husband when he suggested I accompany him to England in July. He was no doubt hoping for a recurrence of my situational deafness, but I happened to be in a brief window of recovery.

The last time I went anywhere was 2008, when I accompanied my husband to France. Not a particularly Anglo-friendly country, to be sure. I got tired of being snubbed for my less-than-fashionable shoes and my refusal to eat anything that had lips and my poor command of French. The problem with France is, the French live there. And now look at 'em, poor saps. Make that surgeons pauvres.

Finally! A language where the word for "sap" is "surgeon"!

So it seems I've been invited to go to England in July (did I mention I love husbands?), except if I don't get this ear thing straightened out by then, my head's going to explode by the time we reach cruising altitude. The last time I reached cruising altitude was 1984. My head exploded, and I've been descending ever since. Make that declining.

As far as England goes, I'll have to play it by ear. At least they speak English in England. Sort of. And I have a feeling they won't give a fuck about my shoes.