Ok, so, not, like, single-handedly. But still.

He’s the one with the cap on backwards. *facepalm*

This program has helped him immensely. He’s so much more confident and competent with his social skills. He’s come a long way.

“I’ve got to take a class in Des Moines in a few weeks,” said he.

“What? What for?” said I.

“Taking the test to get my license. The class is on a Saturday and Sunday, 8am-5pm both days, so I have to be gone from Friday night to Sunday night.”

48 hours without my hunk? Because he works first shift and I work third, all we get together are Friday and Saturday nights together. Not cool.

An even worse thought dawned.

48 hours alone with my tween and teen? There’s no way this scenario doesn’t end in tears and/or blood on the part of at least two of the three parties.

“Can the kids go to Gramma’s and I go with you?”

“Why would you want to do that? Won’t you be bored?”

“Let’s see… a weekend of laying in a hotel bed reading or watching TV and dozing on and off and then going out with you when you’re done?” I added my very best DUH GEORGE expression.

Before he could answer, another joyous thought popped in my head. “Oh my gosh, what if the hotel has free wifi?!”

“I’ll call my mom.”

Yet another one of the many reasons he is totally Husband of the Month.

Then hit your fast-forward button to last Wednesday.

I got The Plague.

That morning at work, I was feeling a little ache-y and alternately sweating and shivering. I got off at 8am and went straight to bed. I woke up around 2pm.

Words will not properly express my most unhappy surprise as I woke. But I shall make the attempt to document my thoughts.

Why am I waking up oh I hafta pee and OW OW OW OW what the hell OW pain OW OW everywhere hurts hurts hurts OW OW OW OW shit did I get hit by a damn truck OW OW OW oh my gah OW OW what the hell is with my body it hurts OW OW hurt hurt hurt OW OW OW *&%$ OW

AND AT THAT POINT I HADN’T EVEN OPENED MY EYES ALL THE WAY YET, MAH PEEPULL.

It felt like the entire surface of my body was boiling and each time a bubble popped, it carried with it a current of pain zapped inside my muscles and traveled up to the skin. Somehow I stumbled to the bathroom and avoided peeing all over myself.

When I hurt, I’m a huge baby and I need to hear Tom’s voice. I used what little strength I had to pick up my iPhone and call him.

“What’s up, baby?”

“HURT OW OW I woke up and OW OW it hurts all over OW OW OW make it stop it huuurrrtttsss OW OW huuunnnnnnyyy OW OW I think I’m siiiicccckkkkk OW DAMN OW OW OW”

He said all the right things; assured me that it was not my time to die, told me to take a couple acetaminophen and a couple ibuprofen and go back to bed. I did what I was told. Before I hung up, I think I might have told him that, just in case, I wanted him to know upon my death, it was ok to remarry but not too soon.

Thursdays are a little rough. I work 12am-8am then 4:30pm-12am. He called work and arrangements were made to cover both those shifts that day, bless their hearts. We’re gonna take a big hit on that next check, but there was no way I was leaving that bed without a gurney.

Which leads to Friday. I decided to still go to Des Moines. I never had any of the stomach issues others have had with the flu THANK GOD and most of the ache-y-ness had abated. I had a major snot situation and a bad cough, but I was up for a two hour car ride to take me to my Weekend of Vegging.

We were sharing a room with one of Tom’s classmates so no *stage whispers* hanky panky. Like my wheezing and coughing and hacking and blowing my nose every ten freaking minutes was even remotely sexy!

But there was resting and bad TV and (Thank you, Lord) free wifi and reading and dozing. I took a long bath and then painted my toes.

And went through almost a full box of Puffs Plus with Vicks.

We got home Sunday night and I found it impossible to nap, so this shift has been a little rough. But I’m off at 8am and I can sleep all day if I like.

And apropos of nothing… I’m on a horse.

I am the author.

I am words’ bitch.

I might huff and puff and show them brawny bravado, but they remain aloof and unmoved.

I may stroke and pet them and softly croon into their kernings, but they turn a deaf ear like an obstinate lover in a bitter quarrel.

I might suffer under the delusion that I can throw my lasso around them and force them towards one way or the other, even down into the gritty dirt, but I may as well be tossing a spider that’s trailing a single strand of web shiny and barely visible among the dust mites in a ray of sunshine.

I may rage at them, my temper rising and falling with the guttural strain of my voice, but they stare back at me defiantly, unimpressed by my powerless fists-flailing in the air.

I might line up the plans for my stories in single file, but I am at words’ mercy; they alone decide whether they will flow like water over a fall or stand stubborn in a stagnant pool of stink.

I may set aside hours for them to line themselves up on my page, but they will come when they’re damned good and ready, blind to the hands sweeping the clock.

I might deftly plan my strategy to force their march across the lined paper, yelling them into order like a drill sergeant, but they huddle and snicker at the way my spit reflects in the sunshine as my ineffectual wails echo across the unexcited atmosphere.

I may preen and posture, pretending they’re not there, but they sneer at my pretentiousness, fully realizing I am merely putting on airs and graces, effectual as a cat raising its hackles at its reflection in the water.

I might calmly bid them about, subtly calling them into order, but if I am lucky and the stars align and the moon shines down at a precise angle, they may eventually arrange themselves into an aesthetically pleasing array of lovely lines across the field, like a month old crop of fresh vegetation covered by a light fog glowing under shy dawn sunshine.

I am words’ bitch.

I am the author.

What a fabulous weekend!

Thursday was full of hawsum. That morning at about 4:30am, Ree at Confessions of a Pioneer Woman replied to me on Twitter! And that was when she was getting ready to go on Good Morning America! That made me all kinds of smiley.

I got off work at 8am and managed to get about four hours sleep before I had to pick up the kids from school.

I napped another hour until Tom got home, then I had to get up and get ready for dinner with friends at Texas Roadhouse. Good conversation with a great couple, no kids, a glass of wine, and a medium rare steak; you’d think it doesn’t really get better than that!

But then we moved into the next part of our evening, which was to see Jeff Dunham at the US Cellular Center. What a fantastic show it was! I laughed so hard, my cheeks and my sides hurt. Tom only had to feed me back a few lines that I couldn’t hear.

Friday I worked first shift for the first time at the shelter, very different from second or third shift. After work, went to get a marg with a bunch of girls– fun!

Saturday and Sunday I did absolutely nothing, didn’t even leave the house. All I did was read, dink around on Twitter, and watch movies. I killed at least 47 innocent brain cells in the process. I really needed that, though.

Oh, and BTW, I gave Tom a spare key to the blog and he used it yesterday. For those of you just turning in to the Dory Show, Tom is AKA Hunky. That’s what you’ll see at the top of his posts. Such as the one right below this one.

How was your weekend?

If you must know, it’s 17% – pii × a warty frog ? e=mc° + ?Ç™, that’s how.

Is actually scheduling time for blogging and housework and project time in my planner just too pocket-protectored, color-coded, anal-retentive? Because It feels like my To Do List always wins. I’m pretty sure he cheats, but I can’t prove it. One of these days I’ll invest in one of those Vegas Casino Security Cameras, but until then I’ll just self-flagellate. I suck ass.

When I checkmark something complete, I feel a tiny little *bing* of accomplishment. It’s like one *bing* in a 50 gallon drum full of *bzzzzzzzzzzt*. Maybe I’m expecting too much of myself. Maybe I’m trying to cram 50 pounds of flour in a 10 pound sack. But every day, no matter how much I did get done, To Do List, with an insolent roll of his eyes, flips me off defiantly. So anyway, I need to do something to totally pwn him and bring him down to his knees. Should I kick him in the nuts? Too harsh? Well, before you answer, consider this. I have items on him that I’ve had for literally years. Like finishing the vector rebuild in illustrator of my linear perspective picture from Drawing I in 2004. And scanning all my film negatives into digital files. And finishing the Sister Scrapbook I started in January 2006. And finishing the toy train montage in photoshop that I started in 2005. Some are just months old, like re-designing my other website with my online portfolio. And tagging the pics on my hard drive with people’s names so I can search easier/faster. And cleaning my basement. And gathering all those hastily scribbled post-its and backs of bills and bar napkins with friends’ new addresses and numbers, and getting my address book updated.

Hey, you remember the Friends & Family plan that MCI had in 1995ish? Just in case you don’t, that’s the long distance calling plan that worked like this: half of America called MCI and gave them the numbers of everyone they knew to get a .0271% discount off their long distance calls to them. The other half took the first half behind the barn and pounded on them a little bit with a weathered 2×4. While America was engaged in mortal combat over telecommunications, MCI telemarketers instantly had in their sales arsenal a tool that has been wielded since the first time Adam spaced off Eve’s birthday; that’s right, pack your bags, we’re goin’ on a guilt trip!

“Hi there, I’m interrupting your dinner tonight to share with you some very exciting news! Cousin Thelma has added you to her Friends & Family list! But, wait… I see here on my computer that you haven’t added her to your list. What on God’s green earth did she ever do to you to make you hate her so venomously? I don’t want to have to call her and tell her how much you apparently despise her very existance… she might cry. You really need to add her to your list or she’s liable to drive off a cliff and you don’t want that on your conscience, do you? Oh, waaait, you don’t have a list because you’re not an MCI customer. But if you’d like to sign up with MCI, you can put her on your list and she might forgive you for the time you put a baby garter snake down her parachute pants at the 1987 Jones Family Reunion! Wow, that was a close call! Get out your phone book, whaddya say?”

Yeah, that was awesome. I just loved being a corporate pawn in MCI’s little game. The customer would call in, recite the number and then invariably they would ask, “Now what’s the discount again?”

And I’d reply, “Can I interest you in a lecture in quantum physics instead? It might be a tad easier to understand.”

And they’d give me a derisive snort and hang up on me.

I loved hang ups. They make your stats look phenomenal. And after all, isn’t that what being an Inbound Customer Care Representative is all about, the stellar stats? Some pie-in-the-sky dreamer once said it was about doing what’s right for the customer, but they were sadly mistaken. I know this because all the supervisors cared about was our numbers. I can even remember one of the goals… AHT (Average Handling Time, i.e. the length of the call) was set to 213 seconds at one point. Man, I took the abuse from the customers for four loooong years; first, three years at MCI then another year at McLeodUSA. I can tell you that now because neither of these companies exist any longer. Well, that, and it’s my blog, and I’ll tell you anything I want to.
Ahhh, that’s back in the days I could still use a phone with an amp. Then I finally gave up my cell phone about a year ago because I was so frickin’ tired of the business-like “Pardon?” or the impatient “What?!” and the hopelessly resigned “Sorry, say again?” and then finally, “Here, just a second; tell Hunky and he’ll tell me.”

It was quite entertaining for me when some unsuspecting victim would ask me, “Hey, can I use your phone real quick?” then dial the number and hold it up to their ear. Two seconds later, they’re holding it at arm’s length and asking, “Wholly Crap, how do you take it off speakerphone?! I think my ear’s bleeding!”

“It’s not on speakerphone.”

[uncomfortable moment]

“Oh.”

We kept the phone for emergencies (it’s even bright red!) and (ok, and because those Sprint brother-duckers said they’d charge me a $200 early disconnect fee) the library calls it every time one of my holds become available. I keep forgetting to change the number on their records. Imagine that.

Upon the highly respected recommendation of City Girl (who I am beginning to fall a little bit in love with in a totally non-lesbian sort of way), I picked up gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson, and it was fabulous! I absolutely shiny crimson heart her voice; it’s dry and sarcastic and sassy and all “Girlfren’, pleeeeeeze!” complete with neck roll. I’m looking forward to reading more of her books, but first I’m gonna read Devil in the Details as recommended by Ali. I’ve found that I like finding a cushy chair and reading through my lunchtime.

I’m not so much in love with being back in the rat race. I haven’t seen Hunky for more than five minutes at at time (except, well, duh, sleeping next to each other for a few hours) since last weekend. I miss my Hunkeroo. By the by, if you have a minute, give him a comment to encourage him, because between the part-time job and part-time internship and full-time school, his candle is so burnt at both ends you can’t even hold it without burning your finger off. And also because when I told you it was his birthday, he didn’t get any comments and he tried to act like it was no big deal, but he was bummed out. (bags… guilt trip… *ahem*)

Crap, where was I?! *blinks* *shakes head*

Ah, yes; back in the rat race. I’m working on a PC again for the first time in four years, and then when I get home on my Mac, I Ctrl-V to paste and it doesn’t work. Then halfway through a rip-roaring good tantrum, I sheepishly realize I need to Apple-V. Because it’s like speaking Russian to a Aussie.

And I totally abhor getting up early. That alarm goes off at 4:30am and I sit up, die a little bit, hit snooze once, and doze back off. When it goes off again, I force my lazy ass up outta bed and get ready. Then from 6am-2:30pm I type stuff . At 3, I pick up the boys from school and for the rest of the evening, I keep like a running countdown in my head. Only 4 hours til 9 … Only 2 and a half hours til bed… Crap, it’s 9pm and I forgot to put out clothes and lunch for tomorrow! etc. etc. and on and on and I try to cram as much into the time as possible. I hate it. I don’t get things accomplished like I want to do, so then I beat myself over the head with “How does everyone else do it? Blogging and housework and projects and quality time with the kids? What the hell is wrong with me?” et al.

Which brings us back ’round to…

Maybe I should put it all on my never-ending, cheeky, openly taunting, impertinent To Do list. And then knee him in the nuts.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. And [in meandering southern drawl] Thank You Again For Your Support.