I am still sick. I woke up a few days ago and didn't feel exactly like this anymore, and so I thought I was on the mend. And, in fact, I do think I am one my way to Wellsville. I finally swept my floors, although I almost bought a Roomba; yes, they were so bad I contemplated robotic intervention. I got the laundry done. I even made the 3 hour round trip drive to the bank (see, I am way too cheap a bastard to pay some dumb ass bank $50 to wire money into my account when I live all of 30 minutes from the American border. I'll do it myself, thank you very much). I was doing ok. Yes, my nose is still packed full of stuff the same color as this blog page, but what can I say? I like things to match. Yes, my tum has been upset all week, but I figured that had something to do with the packed nose and the post-nasal drip and a fairly strong gag reflex. But last night, oooooh last night, it all came crashing down. About 10:15 or so my stomach told me to take a flying leap and turned over several times. Now, I never, ever throw up. I have a stomach of steel plated steel. I can clean up puke, I can watch people bite the heads off praying mantises (which are an endangered species, people, and it's totally illegal to do it, but if you did, I could watch it just fine*). I only puke when I'm drunk and when I'm pregnant. Funny, one usually leads directly to the other and the both make me hack. Coincidence?
Anyway, I was not drunk and since I picked up one of these beauties**,
I know I most certainly am not playing host to any short people. But for some strange reason, right about 10:15 last night, I had to throw up. My kids have never actually seen me throw up before, and 2of3 sorta freaked out. Yes, honey, even moms throw up sometimes. And when they do, well, let's just say that Mr. Creosote ain't got nothing on me.
There's no point here. I thought I was better; I clearly am not. And now I'm totally afraid to eat. I'd rather listen to 7 hours of Kathy Griffin than throw up once.
On another note, I am thinking it might be time to change my email address. Unlike my incredible traveling blog here, I have had to same email address since the dawn of man. Which is fine, except that my email is the first 4 letter of my name and my boys names. Which is also fine, except it might be time to accept that I now have a third child and maybe start including her in some things, like my tattoos, or my jewelry, or my email address. And hell, the boys have their own email accounts now. Maybe I should just have one in my very own name? Maybe???
Maybe I'm not quite ready for that just yet. So I'll leave it up to you, dear readers. Do I get my own, shiny new email address or do I bank on the fact that I've got 3 good years before this kid can read and 7 or so before she gives a dingo's kidneys about email?