Wowsas!

Holy schmaoly! They don't kid when they say that time flies. After receiving a couple of requests a week over the past weeks for Calamity Amy (who it would appear is significantly more popular that the real life Amy) I decided to log in and give my supporters (dare I call you fans?) a little something. I didn't realize an entire year had passed since my last entry. This means I am aging at a pace I am entirely unprepared for.

Lots of mayhem has happened since we spoke last. A full year of our lives in fact. However, let's let the distant past stay in the past and I will just tell you about yesterday. Even better, I will tell you about last night.

You see, I woke up ill. Not just not feeling well, or feeling poorly. I was ill. Could barely speak, could not swallow, and wishing that the scratching in my throat would attack the itching in my ears. The black under my eyes was the envy of any football player. The curls in the hair? Testing their limits for unruly. That was the good part. The worst part was the unyielding fever.

I needed to get to work. I wasn't motivated to get to the bathroom, so getting to work was going to a challenge. I must say since it was the busiest day in the history of my working at the day job, and considering I didn't take so much as a bathroom break (though I did take about 57 nose blowing breaks) I faired pretty well. Industrial toilet tissue is not the kindest on this niche skin, so today it looks like I have a kool-aid mustache (and nose for that matter). Thinking of it though, if I were to look closely, I could likely see the vascular system in that portion of my face. That stuff removes skin better than any cheese grater or chainsaw known to man. I look like I am wearing a Freddy Kruger mask- but I am not.

But, I digress.

I get picked up from work, sit my hiney in the arena for a hockey practice, then head home to produce a pot roast and mashed potatoes. My slow cooker is my very best friend (a close second is my dear friend Kim who put the roast into the slow cooker after I completely forgot about it in the morning, and was thank goodness for small favours, watching Bridget at my place yesterday).

Needless to say, I was pooped.

I flopped on the couch and put my feet up. I was as close to death as I can imagine. No swallowing, no breathing, no hearing. I was gravely ill. Cold medicine was no help, and I had consumed the last of it. Heating pad was no help for the chills. An open patio door was no help for the cold sweats, even with the balmy March winds blowing through.

Then the inevitable happens. Mr. Olympia Reynolds hops his arse off the couch and announces, 'Well, I am going to the gym.'

You can picture the glare. You probably are already picturing it, but put it out of your mind for a minute. I needed Halls. Grapefruit flavored Halls. I was thrilled.

"Please bring me back some Grapefruit flavored Hall's," I say, as he headed eagerly towards the door.

"Ok."

I pop quiz him, "What else do we need?"

Milk, he tells. I am pleased with him for remembering.

"What did I need?" I probe.

His retort is that since I don't trust him to remember that I should text him with a list. Very well, I figure this is a good thing, considering my darling man isn't know for his seeking and finding skills, or active listening.

I text a list:
-Grapefruit or Pomegranate Halls
-Milk
-Advil Cold and Sinus
-A treat

I go back to self pitying and he goes off to his lateral side raises or whatever it is that he does there.

Now. To tell you that my throat is sore is a mild understatement. It did then, and still does, feel like I absentmindedly ate a handful of thumbtacks while putting up the Christmas decorations. I was (and still am) in rough shape.

I was so happy to hear his key in the front door when it was time for him to come back. He was even earlier than I expected! This was marvelous!

He shows me the treat. Ice Cream! My favorite!

Then I ask him for the Halls. I get a sideways look similar to the one a shitzu gives you when they know you are talking to them but are not really sure what you are talking about.

This is not going well my throat screams to my ears! My whole body goes into a panic.

I look at the stove and suddenly my ears are making the same noise that the steam whistles make in cartoons at quiting time. There, with the cold medicine and the tub of ice cream, is nothing resembling a package of Halls. Instead what I am thrilled beyond the world to see is a gigantic freaking grapefruit.

Clearly, active listing and seeking and finding are not the worst of his impediments because when I ask him what he is doing with the grapefruit he says, with all good intentions, "Honey, I had to get you that- I have never ever seen a pomegranite at Wal-Mart."

I have to get over this cold as quickly as possible. Since he doesn't listen to me, and written instructions are not fully understood, I don't want to have to tell him my final wishes! I want to be creamated, but he might put me in the oven instead!