Tuesday, November 25, 2008

My Weak-like Week

A few bits of news to relate and since I'm a girl and we like to make lists a la the "Sparkles" episode of "Southpark" I shall relay my passing events in numerical-form:

1.  After a rather harried trip to NC with his grandmother, Harry returned with the sniffles.  I quickly made funeral arrangements and called the insurance company to make sure I'd get the nice fat check since he's obviously DYING and stuff.   So when  he stood up after eating, walked three steps to the right and let out a belch that lasted for 10.4 seconds I thought my cash cow had come in.  I was pretty sure that was the sound of a dying man... or frog.   Instead he turned to me sheepishly and said, "don't put that on your blog..."

2.  After my sister left my house Saturday night the large water I drank at the movie theater hit me.  "I have to peeee!"  I announced and headed toward the half bath off the kitchen.  "Uh - don't go in that one,"  Harry said while placing a meaty palm on the white door.   "Okay, fine," I said and started to waddle toward the bedroom.  "Uh," he called after me.  "Uh- baby?  I wouldn't use that one either..."
I turned on him and shouted, "For god'ssakes!  If you have to go - use ONE bathroom!  Don't spread it around like some sort of - of - POTPOURRI!"  He then giggled so hard that he added more aromatics to the spicy blend of Harry already wafting around us. 

3.  Harry's congestion means only one thing to me - I'm destined to be beat up as bad as Rocky in any of the Stallone-y movies.   Throughout the night my husband will toss and turn and steamroll me like I'm a lumpy pillow stuck in his path of comfort-achievement.  So in the wee hour of the night on Sunday I am none too surprised, but just as pissed as ever, when I feel a size 13 man foot contact with my thigh.  HARD.  "Godda- all to HELL! That's it - go sleep on the damn couch!!!"  I yelled to my sick husband who sadly picked up his box of Kleenex, blankie and pillow and retreated in a phlegmy fog to the couch in the basement leaving me to rub my leg and pray for death.  His or mine. 

4.  Feeling bad for kicking me like a football in a dead heat, Harry hovered over me last night.  I was grumpy, cranky, mean and just not a happy camper as I beat my pillows with my fist and grumbled into the mattress.  Throughout the night I would wake up and be livid that it was not yet morning. Flipping around, jutting out my knee or smushing a blanket between my knees, my dear hubby would follow my every move and tuck the covers around me.  Like a graceful bull fighter besting the angry burro he would sidestep my sleepily tossed fists and feet and cover up my exposed skins.   For eight hours he was the Spanish dancer and I was the bull in a china shop. 

5.  Harry gleefully relayed his conversation with Autorama today. 
"Can I change my email address, too?" he asked the salesguy on the phone. 
"Sure.  I can do that for you."
"I want to change it to harryshivel@mac, you can do away with the hballs address," Harry relayed to the salesguy. 
"Oh.  Wife take away your 'balls', huh?"  
My husband found this hilarious.  I just wanted to know why he was talking to Audorama peeps and how much it was going to cost me. 

And that's about it.  I'm sure there was more - but I'll save those for the upcoming Thanksgiving post, cuz ya know it'll be a doozy!  

Everyone have a great T-day if you're here in the States - if you're not - well just go out and eat too much and then take a nap - same thing!!!



Linda said...

Sick men are not fun! I totally understand about making the funeral arrangements! Linda

Anonymous said...

Sick men are such babies. My hubby complained less when he was shot in Iraq than when he is after coming back from chicago with a cold yesterday.