I have the plague. It’s exactly what a girl wants to have in July. My left tonsil is the size of a golfball on steroids, which is very convenient to eating real food. (Oh, Hot Mugs Of Chicken Broth… you have been my friend for the past twenty-four hours!) I also have the whole low-grade fever / chills / general body aches / wicked cough that sounds like I ate a bowl of gravel and chased it with a shot of liquid Round Up going on.
It all started with a migraine on Friday afternoon that caused me to lay on my bed like a slug. I told the boy, “Please watch your baby brother for thirty minutes; Mama needs to take an Excedrin that’s big enough to kill a buffalo and do nothing for a few minutes.”
Two and a half hours later, I woke up, which was a good thing, considering that I had to be at Vacation Bible School to help serve the snacks in fifteen minutes.
I think it’s safe to say that I did not show up at the church looking as good as Cindy Crawford always does.
Or even as good as a woman wearing a gigantic pair of men’s sweatpants at Walmart, which she has pulled up over her legs and… ahem!… her boobies as well, creating a gray, one-piece pantsuit, with nothing beneath it. Although this sort of thing happens in Walmarts in the bigger cities every hour of the week, when it happened here in Small Town last week, she was asked to leave, for fear that her sweatpants would fall down to their place of origin and cause some flashing.
Some things will never leave your memory, if you see them, people. Small Town has some pride.
After dishing out snacks for forty-five minutes on Friday night, my head was at DEFCON 1, so I went home to bed.
On Saturday, I felt much better, but I was suffering from a migraine hangover.
On Sunday, we went to a giant barbecue at our church, which I left early because I was back in the throws of MAMA IS PRETTY CERTAIN SHE’S GOING TO BEND OVER AND BARF ALL OVER THE CHURCH PARKING LOT IF SHE DOESN’T GET TO HER BED IN ABOUT THREE MINUTES. Stuff like this will get you shunned from the Baptist church, I think. Baptists take pride in their potluck contributions, and nobody wants to see their lemon bars afterwards, on the asphalt.
I took another nap on Sunday afternoon.
It was a rather long nap.
And then I got up, because I was hungry. When you’re suffering the heat of a migraine at a church barbecue, you don’t really eat anything. Not even the lemon bars.
Hubs had grilled some Polish dogs on Saturday night; the leftovers were in the fridge. I took a bite out of one… while it was cold… and suddenly realized my mistake. At our house, we have Hubs’ Polish dogs and MY Polish dogs. They are not the same dogs, because Hubs likes things spicy.
I’m pretty sure this Polish dog originated at the gates of hell, and my tongue turned to ash.
And that’s pretty much when I realized that all the migraine-ing and all the napping were happening because I was slowly developing the plague. The plague struck minutes after I ate ice cubes to cool my mouth off.
I blame Hubs’ Polish dog completely, but he did share some of his prescription cough syrup with me last night, since I was trying to film an episode of Myth Busters and see if a lung could really be expelled from the body in a fit of hacking cough. (The jury’s still out on that, but we’re leaning toward the verdict of YES. YES, YOU REALLY CAN DEPOSIT A LUNG ON YOUR BEDROOM FLOOR FROM COUGHING, AND LET’S JUST HOPE YOU HAVE A BIG JUG OF CLOROX BLEACH HANDY WHEN IT HAPPENS.) I know that prescription medications should never be shared, but I think the laws state that in the safety of your own home, you can throw back a shot of whatever your husband hands you when he can’t take your hacking any longer. I think the laws also state that after you’ve thrown back a shot of coma-inducing cough syrup with YOUR HUSBAND’S NAME on the bottle, you can avoid an arrest and a night spent in a jail cell that smells like someone had a migraine and didn’t make it to bed in time. I know that this sort of stuff sells high on the black market, and there’s a reason for it…
It can be used as anesthetic. It also gives a girl some good hallucinations, via dreams. While under the influence of someone else’s cough syrup, I dreamed that I was on Small Town High’s football team, and I made the game-winning touchdown in a playoff game. It all happened when I scooped up a fumble and ran the ball into the end zone. I didn’t stop there, though, because I couldn’t remember if I just had to break the plane of the end zone, or whether I should really run it to the fence at the far end of the field, JUST IN CASE. I didn’t want my six points recalled, so I ran that ball a little extra distance, and I touched it to the chain links.
And then I did a little victory dance that would have made MC Hammer proud. This goes completely against my way of thinking, because I’ve never been a fan of victory dances in the end zone. No, ma’am. I’m a fan of humbleness after a touchdown, so I don’t know what got into me.
Other than the cough syrup, that is.
I spent all of today in bed, napping and wondering if my head would just explode with all the pressure and all the snot and all the crippling cough. My sweet mama came over and gathered up my boys for me, so that Thing 2 wasn’t constantly climbing in bed with me and demanding to watch Baby Einstein videos on my iPhone. I needed my iPhone, people, because once Carrie texted me and said, “The new prince is here,” I had to devote a fair chunk of my laying-in-the-bed time to watching news clips.
I celebrated the new little prince’s birth with another mug of piping hot chicken broth. I know that tea is the drink of choice in his country, so clearly I’ve already let him down.
Hopefully, I’ll be back here tomorrow evening with weekend pictures, because I can take those even when I’m on my death bed.