Hubs is home sick today.
If what I had a couple of weeks ago was known as The Black Death, then what Hubs has, according to him, is The Black Death on Steroids. I asked him how he was feeling a few minutes ago, and he simply sighed, as he poked his head a little farther out from under the blanket, and said, “It’s touch and go right now. I feel very weak.”
Oh, the drama!
What Hubs is suffering from is a chest cold, combined with some serious nasal congestion. He sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher, after she’s slipped outside to smoke an entire pack of Camels before the kids arrived back in their classroom from PE.
His voice is a bit hoarse, yes.
He has spent his entire sick day camped out on the sofa, buried beneath a blanket, with carbonated beverages at his side, watching the Olympics. Moments ago, he was griping out loud by yelling out, “The USA’s women’s hockey team is playing Canada right now, and the only coverage this stupid channel is airing is the curling event! What is wrong with this world?!”
So, while we waited for the people behind the scenes at NBC to focus America’s attention on a REAL sport, Hubs and I watched a bit of curling. All I have to say is this: Any man who goes to the Olympics with a broom and can sweep, sweep, sweep like these curling teams can, needs to come see me. I actually encouraged Hubs to take up curling; he saw through my plan immediately, as he envisioned me asking him to practice on the kitchen floor here at home. According to Hubs, if you don’t get to actually HIT anything or break the sound barrier, the sport isn’t worth participating in, and sweeping, he claims, is not a sport.
I beg to differ, because I’m guessing that my friend, Amy, and I could win any curling event, because we’re both fantastic sweepers, but I’m concerned that I’d probably slip on the ice and break the back of my head wide open. Plus, Amy is incredibly gifted at cleaning grout on your bathroom floor, which she has actually done for me on a day known as The Time I Collapsed Mentally When The New Grout Was Stained With Horribleness. I would like to award her with a gold medal for that one, because her magic potions and biceps got my grout clean. Indeed. I should play our national anthem, let her stand on a cardboard box, and give her a gold yogurt lid.
The sport that Hubs has decided he does want to try is the skeleton racing. We watched the women take part in this event a couple of nights ago, and Hubs kept shouting out, “I would so love to do that! Can you imagine the rush from whipping down the ice track like that?!”
Yes, actually, I can imagine it. The clear plastic face shield on my helmet would be completely filled with puke, and I’d be crying like a baby banshee, as I burned a streak down the ice tunnel of death, hoping to get a gold medal.
And really? I’d be just as happy playing for yogurt lids, like they did in an episode of “The Office,” as I would playing for the real thing.
“Okay, we will be competing for gold, silver, and bronze yogurt lids.”
“Now the bronze are really blue, and they’re also the back side of the gold. So no flipping, okay? Honor system!”
I’m not sure that Hubs would be as excited about winning a gold yogurt lid tied around his neck with a string as he would be about winning the real deal. No matter. Right now The Black Death on Steroids is going to keep him from competing in anything, even professional sweeping.