being sick blows.

Friday night I came home from a long day/week and was debating about what to have for dinner when I had the distinct sensation of something being caught in my throat lungs. I coughed for a good five minutes to no avail. I felt like I'd been stung in the throat. Only I don't remember seeing a bug, much less inhaling one.

Saturday I met frioends at the river for a run. Everything felt slow and I blamed it on being tired. By the time I got home,  that I've been stung in the back of the throat feeling turned into holy shit I have to lie down cause I might cry otherwise. And I lost my voice (This is big. I've lost my voice maybe three times in my life. Crazy.). I think I was awake on Saturday the same number of hours I'd slept on any given weeknight of the past week.

I don't feel like the living dead today, but I do still feel like I've been stung in the back of the throat.

Which begs the question: 

Why do guys always want to do something when the female half of the pair is ill?

I was asking my sister this very question last night after That Handsome Man I'm Seeing asked if I wanted to go out to dinner. 

No, I don't wan to to go out to dinner. I don't want to leave the house. In fact, I think I'll go back to bed now, if that's alright.

Only my sister thought I meant "DO SOMETHING". 

Ahem.  I suppose there's that, too. 

OK. Wait. That's not the question. 

The question is: 

What the hell is wrong with me and when will I be better?

Being sick blows.

When I'm sick, it's like my world has frozen. Sometimes it's hard to remember everyone else's keeps going.

This is what happened between naps: 

Football started.

Rise up! ....dammit.

The Masters happened.

If you got to go, please know I am jealous. Even though I've only played golf once.

My mother showed me her off the cuff humor- in public. 

From Twitter: 

Person A: Life's too short to fold underpants.

Person B: You misspelled "Wear".

me: retweet!

Mom: Why waste time with the up and down? But thought clothing sans underwear was privledge of old age? #lifestooshort

me: Bwahahahahaha! I looooove my mom.

On Friday she sent me this text:

Mom: Thinking of putting earrings back in second hole. Good or trashy?

me: Bwahahaha! Ma, you're in your mid- sixites, for Chrissakes; who cares?!

At least, that's what I wanted to say...

And this:

That's the Rust Bucket. Without a bed.

Why, yes, thoses ARE zip ties holding the lights on the bed.
Sexy, no?

Let's play a game. It's called Fill in the Blank/ Entertain Me, I'm Sick.

So, last Friday I walked out of work and discovered a ginormous pool of gasoline under the truck. I called That Handsome Man I'm Seeing freaking out about exploding. He convinced me that the best solution was to come home. To drive the truck home. After much deliberation, I manged to do so-without exploding. 

We He figured out that there was a leak in the gas tank. A leak that cost me the better part of half a tank of gas. And while I was out, he took the bed off the Rust Bucket in order to fix this leak. Ahem. He cut the bed off in order to fix the leak. Off and up. 

The remains of the bed are now in the back yard, in pieces, waiting on a new bed so we have something to haul the old one away in.

While the bed of the truck was no prize (the rust pattern looked like a monster took a bite of the wheel wells on each side), having no bed makes it look...

 Le sigh.

You fill in the blank.

Leave your answer as a comment on the blog. 

I'm gonna go take (another) nap.