We Interrupt Our Programming…

I’m sick.  You know it: the memorize-the-wallpaper, breathe in/breathe out, don’t move, hurts everywhere, hot/cold, headache, sore throat, fuzzy brain sick.  Even killing Zombies on my cell phone is too taxing.

I love killing Zombies.

The true test?  I can’t look at even a photo of cake.  Yuck.  However, try to wrest this box of low fat wheat thins out of my grip and you die.  Tea.  Wheat thins.  Go figure.

The Huns went on a trip.  I have no one to take care of, so I get to feel delightfully, guiltlessly, sorry for myself, with a sliver of martyrdom, since there is no one to take care of me.

I have to make my own tea.  I have to open the box of wheat thins all by myself.  It’s too much for one person to tolerate.  I’m at my breaking point.  Even Christmas wants ME to get HIM his toys.

What is it about having the flu that turns one into a petulant five-year old? I have to resist the urge to call my mommy. I want to text everyone I know and whine. (Insert picture of Jane’s Dentist receiving text.) I can’t talk out loud without scaring myself.

I answered the phone.


“Sir, I’m so sorry. I have the wrong number” a familiar voice says.

“You don’t”, I say, “It’s me.” Not helpful.  “It’s Jane.”

“Jane? You sound like you’re six-foot six! You sound like a guy. Waaaaait a minute. Is this the Undead Hotline?”

“Serial Killers R Us”, I say, “but we have a problem.”


“Too weak to start the chain saw.”

I spent the last hour thinking about how much dazzling I could have produced, if only I had a BeDazzler.  Petulant. Five. Year. Old.  Aha!  Excuse to text Daisy.

Jane: we need a bedazzler

Daisy: true. why?

Jane: itty bitty foal blankets. Itty bitty bejeweled foal blankets.

Daisy: I ordered a suckling halter today. Smallest thing I’ve ever seen. So cute.

Jane: Focus. We could bedazzle halter.

Daisy: I want one.

Daisy: For real.

Jane: Me too.  For real.

It feels like I’m confessing to something insanely inappropriate.  I remind myself it’s not a questionable photo collection, it’s jewel encrustation. BeDazzler: now on gift list.

This is a blathery way of saying I’m calling in sick to the blog. Before I start to whine. If I call in sick, I haven’t wimped out on the postaday challenge.

It’s legal.




15 thoughts on “We Interrupt Our Programming…

    1. Let me get this straight: while I’m confined to my deathbed with bouncy dog and the really awful canned soup (wheat thins, vanished) from the back of the pantry, you went wine tasting? Without me? To Cupcake? And bought Red Velvet?
      Wow that sounds good.
      (Once I’m well I will think your day was AWESOME.) 😉
      But because I’m sick, I’m coordinating a stealth mission: Operation Sofa Bedazzle. Yessirreee, by the time I’m done hot gluing (we don’t own a bedazzler yet) gems to your sofa, it is going to be good and uncomfortable. (But sparkly!) I’ve already called Barbie. You really shouldn’t leave your keys in your pocket around her. She’s good.

  1. When you run out of stuff to bedazzle, come visit me. I have horse stuff (size Gigantor) that desperately needs some shiny.

    I’ve got a girly chainsaw you can use–easy to pull-start, even in a weakened state. The adrenaline rush from charging zombies should get you there…..

  2. Please please please tell me you will post hundreds of pictures of the baby and allow me to live vicariously. Every spring I get mopey because I want another baby horse. (Only sign of a maternal instinct).

    Also, what is it about moping and Bedazzling that go hand in hand?! For years, whenever I get depressed about my disastrous love life, I say that I am going to end up “Alone, with eleven cats and a Bedazzler.” Now I’ve just shorthanded that conversation and we just say “eleven cats and a bedazzler.”

    Oh, and feel better. Sorry about opening the wheat thins yourself. That sounds painful.

    1. Hundreds? Thousands.
      Look it’s sneezing! Click. Look, it’s yawning! Click. Look it’s learned a verbal command: breathe!
      Click, click.

      I think the bedazzler is a magic sparkly fixer of All Things Wrong. If the inventors understood their true market was adult women, they’d sell a heck of a lot more of them. I tell Shaun if anything goes wrong, I’m going to be the crazy woman at the end of the block with eleven shetlands and a bedazzler.

      Wheat thins: I got a paper cut upon opening the box. Life is suffering. Will it never end?

      1. I have a video of Julie trying to lay down and being unable to remember how her legs are supposed to fold up… I will cherish it forever. It is the cutest thing ever. It also features an adorable baby horse sneeze. I suggest you video him/her trying to stand up and lay down. It will amuse you for years to come.

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