The one where I'm not thankful

I seem to have forgotten to blog all last week... what the hell?  It couldn't possibly have had anything to do with me coming down with the flu, Thanksgiving, having to babysit the nieces and nephew ALL WEEK (since when do kids need a week off for Thanksgiving????  When I was a kid, we only had Thursday off.  Up hill.  Both ways.  In the snow.  Bitches.  Okay, there was no snow, because I grew up in California, but you get my drift.  Kids these days don't know what it's like to suffer) I basically lost all my ability to think about anything other than homicide.  I also quit doing the whole "30 Days of Thankfulness" thing because let's face it, I wasn't.  

Today, however, as they've all gone back to school, I am thankful that I didn't kill anybody last week.  Because going to prison would totally suck.  The thought of peeing in front of strangers on a stainless steel potty in the middle of the room is the only reason some people are still alive.  Truest fucking story ever.

Also?  I'm pretty sure you don't get vodka in prison.

Spending a week watching my 15 year old nephew killed every ounce of originality and joy I've ever had in me, no lie.  (Every time he opens his mouth, a kitten dies and a unicorn loses it's wings.)  You'd think a 15 year old wouldn't need a babysitter, am I right?  Well, in this case?  You'd be wrong.  It isn't that he'd get into trouble or do anything horrible (I think...) it's more that left to his own devices?  He would have no idea what to do.

No. Idea.

So rather than coming up with something productive, he'd spend the day sitting in the living room watching Lizard Lick Towing (don't even ask because I honestly have no idea) and a variety of shows that I refer to as Stupid Hillbillies With Big Trucks And No Brains trying to remember the proper breathing sequence.  (Is it out and in?  In and out?  Exhale exhale inhale?  Inhale and hold it indefinitely?  Remember the joke about the blonde who went to the beauty parlor wearing a head set and the beautician asked her to remove it and the blonde said she couldn't, because if she did, she'd die?  So the beautician finally convinces her that she needs to take it off in order to get her hair cut and sure enough, a few minutes later, the blonde dies.  So the beautician puts on the headset to see what it is and she hears a voice saying, "Breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... breathe out..."  My nephew needs one of those.)  He'd eat nothing but cereal, drink nothing but soda, and it would never occur to him to let the dog out or feed his sisters.

(Actually, what would really happen is that his two developmentally disabled sisters would wind up taking care of him.)

Enter Aunt Dani.

Lucky, LUCKY Aunt Dani.

And her flu virus.

And her bottle of vodka.


Okay, that last part is wishful thinking.

I made a deal with my friend Lindsay that we would not drink vodka until Christmas Eve.  I'm almost ashamed to admit it was my idea.

I know, right?  What the fuck was I thinking??


Okay, here's what I was thinking  (please note that it's mostly Lindsay's fault.):  Lindsay pointed out that when she drinks vodka, her weight goes up.  (We're using the word "vodka" because pretty much, that's all we drink.  But I'm sure it holds true for other alcohols as well.  Not that I would know, because I don't drink other alcohols, due to the fact that they taste yucky.  However, if I go long enough without vodka, I may find it in my heart to give some of the yucky alcohols a try.  Because that would totally not be cheating.)

Coincidentally, my weight has also been going up, as has my vodka consumption.  (Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps my nephew alive.  True story.)  So due to the fact that I have no desire to outweigh Santa on Christmas Eve, I was all, "Hey... I know!  Let's not drink vodka until Christmas Eve!"  And since I hate to do anything alone, especially something that isn't particularly fun, I roped Lindsay into it with me.  (Plus, if she drinks vodka before Christmas Eve, that means I can, too.  It is written.  That's why you always do these things with friends... you get to blame your failure on them.  I love you, gurrrl!!)

If perchance you think that maybe I'm being a little too hard on the nephew and unfairly blaming my vodka consumption (and consequent weight gain... thank you, Dorkin) think again.

(I call the nephew Dorkin.  It's not actually his name, but it totally should be.  I started with Derk, went to Dork, and then Lindsay suggested Dorkin, because it's more formal and sounds better.  Did I ever mention that Lindsay has the best ideas?)

This is just one conversation I had with Dorkin last week (prepare to be amazed):


Me, to my 9 year old niece after she finished schooling me on Squanto:  "Where did the Pilgrims land when they arrived in America?"

Niece:  "England?"

Me:  "No, that's where they came FROM."

Niece:  "I don't remember."

(Which is fine.  She's 9 and developmentally disabled.  Personally, she knows wayyyyy the hell more about Squanto than I ever have.  For real.)

Dorkin:  "I know."

Me:  "Well, I would hope so.  Tell your sister."

Dorkin:  "Pennsylvania."

Me:  "You're kidding, right?"

Dorkin:  "New York?"

Me:

Dorkin:  "No wait.. Virginia!!"

Me:

Dorkin:  "Well, I know the name of the three ships they came over on."

Me:  "Three ships?  Oh please, do tell... I can't wait to hear this."

Dorkin:  "The Pinta, the Nina, and the Santa Maria."

Me:  "Uh huh... and what year did they come over?"

Dorkin:  "1942.  No wait... 1492."


You have no idea how much I wish I was kidding.

I thought he'd peeked when he informed me that his friend raises black widows to help make Kevlar.  I was sooo incredibly wrong.  (Refer to blog link above.)

The History Of America, by Dorkin

Now you know.


Moving right along, did I mention I have the flu?

I'm not usually a drama queen, because we're kind of at over-capacity here in the drama queen department and I need to wait for someone to die before there's an opening, but damned if I don't feel horrible.

I'm almost positive that this is what Death feels like, when you're going to Hell.  No bright light, no friends and family waving you in, no St. Peter standing at the Pearly Gates... just you, your narly-ass breath, and some shlub that kicks puppies for a living waiting to take you downstairs.

I usually get a flu shot.  In fact, five years in a row I not only got the flu shot, but I also got the flu. (ROCKSTAR!!)  I even got the H1N1 vaccine and immediately came down with the Swine Flu.  (I had to sit in the ER wearing a face mask so that I wouldn't infect other people with my disgusting pig germs.  Thank you, flu shot, FOR NOTHING.)   Anyway, I figured that since I get the flu shot every single year and also the flu, why not remove one step in that equation and see what happens?  Since I can't remove the flu virus, I decided to go with "not get flu shot," assuming that maybe it's actually the flu VACCINE  that gives me the flu.

Right???

Right???

Imagine my surprise when I came down with the flu and discovered I was... wrong.

Wrong.


So very, very wrong.


Apparently, it was the FLU that was giving me the flu.

Who knew?


Curses!!  Hoisted by my own petard.  (As it were.  Okay, I have no idea what a petard is, but I'm pretty sure Shakespeare said it, which means it's an actual thing.  Off to Google "petard"...)


Petard:  A petard was a small bomb used to blow up gates and walls when breaching fortifications. The term has a French origin and dates back to the sixteenth century.


(Now you know.  You're welcome.)

Anyway, this particular flu has been very creative.  It started with fever, aches, and general blah-ness.  I had no energy, no appetite, no will to live.  Then it morphed into all of the above but added a sinus infection, which then morphed into all of the above plus sinus infection plus nausea and, er, potty problems.  The potty problems went away but left the rest, which then morphed into all of the above plus sinus infection minus potty problems plus a dry cough that won't freaking go away and only hits after I've gone to bed.  So from the moment my head hits the pillow until I get up in the morning, I cough like a freaking TB ward.  My ribs ache, my chest aches, my stomach hurts, my head hurts, I can't breathe, I can't taste anything, I'm not hungry, and the only thing that sounds good is a vodka collins.

Which I can't have.  Because of Lindsay.


Dear Lindsay,

We're officially fighting.

Love,

Dani



The bright spot of my week happened the day after Thanksgiving.

I woke up to snow.


I couldn't wait to get up and go outside and catch snowflakes on my tongue.

Because I'm a dork.

Unfortunately, I still haven't quite figured out dressing myself for snow.

My idea of dressing warmly:

sweatpants
socks
Uggs
long sleeved shirt
sweatshirt
gloves


Snow's idea of dressing warmly:

More clothes than that.


I froze my ass off.

No lie.


But did I learn from it?

Did I?

Oh HELL no.

Because I did it again.  And again.  And again.

Day 4 of Snow and I still have no idea where my winter coat is.

I'm dressed okay, right?

Long story short (or is it too late for that?), I barely survived the week.

Which is why, apparently, I forgot to blog.

Oh, and also?  I may or may not have gained 10 lbs.  Because even though I had no appetite and couldn't taste my food, I kept eating it just in case.


Sad but true.

You never can be too careful.

The Epic Tale Of Ninja Squirrel

*Author's note:  My computer turned itself off and needed to be rebooted twice in the writing of this blog posting.  Coincidence??  I THINK NOT.

This just in:  Northern New York is being invaded by squirrels in a secret subplot in which those fluffy tailed little bastards take over the world.

I'm totally not kidding.  Take a look outside, people, and see for yourselves:

Those little terrorists are everywhere.

E V E R Y W H E R E.

And they're gunning for you.  They are going to have sex with your boyfriends, knock up your daughters, eat your food, steal your internet, and mock you relentlessly from the tree tops while they do it.

Okay, maybe not, but still... if they could?  They totally would.

It's not enough that I dream about them attacking me at night, or that when I look outside, they're always there... Nibbling on something, looking adorable, laughing at me...

That's right, bitches... SUPER SQUIRREL.

But now?

It's personal.


A few days ago, Dan and I were outside watching our dogs cavort around the yard.  The trees are almost bare right now, the ground is covered with leaves... It's very Tim Burton-esque and it makes me soooo happyyyy.   All in all, autumn has been very kind this year (if you look past the whole Superstorm Sandy incident.  Which I'm not.  I'm just saying in general fall has rocked my socks off).  I'm constantly charmed by the bird life of this area... every time I see a cardinal I practically wet myself with joy.

It's a bird!  And it's RED!  A RED BIRD!!  *SQUEEE!!*

You know what the world needs more of?  Red birds.  

Even though I'm a firm believer that nature belongs OUTSIDE (and I belong INSIDE) I can't help but hope that one day, a cardinal loses a feather so that I can keep it.  (One time, I saw a dead owl on the side of the road.  I was driving my kids to school and in a hurry so I decided to stop on my way home and snag a feather.  You think that's weird?  Well, here's what's even weirder:  SOMEONE ELSE BEAT ME TO IT AND THE OWL WAS GONE WHEN I CAME BACK 15 MINUTES LATER.)

(Shut up.  That's a totally valid thing to wish for.)

Anyway, I have been thrilled beyond belief this year with the changing of the leaves, the bright fall colors, the geese flying overhead (even though they still sound like turkeys to me... at least I've only commented once or twice this year about hearing the turkeys fly south for the winter).  We even had a herd of wild turkeys sauntering through our yard.  (It was awesome.)  This is truly my favorite time of year.  The hideousness of east coast summers has made me even more thankful for the glorious cooling of autumn and all it's trimmings.


Where was I?

Oh yes.

So Dan and I were outside enjoying the brisk fall sunshine while the dogs cavorted through the leaves.  Nonchalantly, Dan pointed upward to the branches of a leafless tree and said casually, "Cool... you can see the squirrels running around up there."


*cue horror film music that implies death, destruction, murder, mayhem, Great White Sharks, and impending doom*


I glanced up nervously and saw...

nothing.

Huh.


Me:  "I don't see any squirrels..."

Dan:  *giving me the look he gives me when I say something that is apparently so stupid that it embarrasses him to even know me*  "Dani, they're right there."

See???

Of course they are.

Throughout the afternoon I would occasionally glance up at the trees, expecting to see squirrels wearing frilly little aprons, nibbling on acorns, and living their happy little lives amongst the branches, only to see...

nothing.

A trickle of anxiety nestled itself in the back of my neck and I began to avoid getting too close to the trees.

You know, just in case a squirrel fell on me.


Dan:  "Oh for God's sake, Dani!  Squirrels don't fall out of trees and land on people!  Pull your head out of your ass!"


So he says.

But still, I remained cautious.

Because here's one of those things I know with absolute certainty:  If a squirrel fell on me, I would freaking die.

For real.


I. Would. DIE.



Being me, as soon as the day passed and I was safely indoors, I promptly forgot about the squirrel threat and went about my business.


As we were watching tv a short time later, Dan pointed to the front porch and said, "Oh how cute!  Look at that!"


Me:  "Look at what?"


Dan:  *in exasperation because I never see what he sees and it's all my fault*   "A squirrel, Dani... look!  On the porch!  Jeez, that's a big one!"


Me:  *looking*  "I don't see anything..."


Dan:  "Oh for God's sake... Well, it's gone now.  It was one of the biggest squirrels I've ever seen!  How could you not see it?"


Me:  *sarcastically*  "I dunno, Dan... maybe it was on a secret mission."

And right that minute, somewhere, in the distance the faint sound of squirrel laughter floated through the evening air.

Me:  "Did you hear that?"

Dan:  *because he's Dan*  "Hear what?  Did you fart?"

*cue sound of obnoxious manly laughter because men never stop thinking that farts are the funniest thing in the world, bar none*

I know for a fact those little bastards were laughing at me.


I made a mental note to be ever alert to the presence of squirrels.  Because they're sneaky.

And dangerous.


And then?

I forgot.


The following day I was hanging out in the yard with the dogs.  Maisy was snorting through the leaves like a little truffle pig, Javi was peeing on every blade of grass he came across, and I was absent-mindedly standing under a tree watching a chickadee bounce from branch to branch and thinking about absolutely nothing.


This is what the inside of my head looked like at precisely that moment:

And that's when it happened.


Suddenly, without any warning, a squirrel came plummeting out of the trees and sailed past my line of vision about four inches away from my nose.

BONZAIIIII!!

I inhaled so hard I choked on my tongue.


My natural reaction, when something falls from the sky, is to start beating myself on the head because my fear of things landing in my hair is legendary.

LEGENDARY.


(I may or may not have beaten a baby bird to death one time when it fell out of the nest and landed on my head.  I've also killed a leaf a time or two for impersonating a bat landing on my head.  Bottom line?  STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE TOP OF MY HEAD.)

As I stood there panting and hyper-ventilating and slapping myself stupid, the squirrel air-lifted itself off the ground and scampered back up the tree, where it high-fived it's cronies and laughed itself into a pants-wetting asthma attack.

At my expense.

Motherfucker.


My dogs didn't even pause in their individual pursuits for grass to pee on and leaves to look under to protect me from a squirrel invasion.

Apparently the squirrels have been intimidating my dogs.


Either that or paying them off.  I can totally see Javi accepting a bribe and then strong arming Maisy into going along with it.

I am now ever on the alert.  I know they're out there, and I know they know that I know they're out there.  And they know that I know that they know that I know.


And now YOU know.


Stay safe, my homies.

A Nipple By Any Other Name...

Confession:

Nothing makes me happier than discovering a person with a truly horrifying name.  It's like Christmas morning, only better.  It's the gift that keeps on giving.  For example, the day I discovered Sybil Nipple's listing in the phone book to this day counts as one of the most joyful moments of my life.

Sybil Nipple, you guys.

Sybil Nipple.

There is a women in California named Sybil Nipple.


How can you not love that?

For years I would put "Sybil Nipple" in the return address section of my envelopes when mailing payments to the power company, the phone company, the cable company, credit card companies...(that was back in the day before online bill paying, in case you're super young and you're going, "Return address?  Mail in payment?  No habla...")

Just knowing I was sharing the joy with a faceless stranger in a mail room somewhere gave me the warm fuzzies.  (I know, right?  I'm a giver, y'all.)

Recently, I came across this:

Best. Headline. EVER.

"Police Say Kermit Butts Is Tied To Boob Murder."

That actually happened.

And the fact that this cracked me up so much is one of the reasons that I am destined to die in a horrible and humiliating butt-related accident.  Because Karma never forgets. 

So after learning of the fascinating case of the Butts-Boob murder, I decided to hit up Google to see what other awesome names existed.  I found the usual suspects:  Dick Trickle (tee heeee), Dick Butkus, every person who has had the misfortune to be named Dick Johnson, etc.


(I had a neighbor once named Dick Cox.  Dan almost wet himself with joy the first time they were introduced, because he may or may not be something of an asshole, like me.  Funny names crack us  up. We can't help it.)

Since laughing at people named Dick is soooo yesterday, I was pleased to find some new names to tickle my funny bone.  You're welcome in advance for sharing these with you:

At least it isn't "Gobbledick"... silver lining?

Danielle Cobbledick...

No.

Which is what the Holy Ghost should have worn... yes?

(I'll wait a moment to see if lightning strikes me...)


Nope.  I'm golden.  Though I'm sure the devil is currently stoking the fire and sharpening a marshmallow roasting stick with my name on it.

There are times when even I have no words.

Danielle Mangina.

Dani Mangina.

"Hi, I'm Gina.. MAN-gina."

"My mangina brings ALL the boys to the yard!"


Okay, I'll stop.

Moving right along...

Even if their platform was strictly pro-kicking puppies, I'd vote for them.  Just because of the awesomeness of  saying, "I voted  for the Weiner-Beaver ticket..."

And also, Thea Beaver?  No, I didn't thea beaver... did you?  Did anyone thea beaver?  I haven't theen a beaver in years...


Oh, law... that shit's funny, I don't care who you are.

If the doctor thing doesn't work, at least he has other options...

I'm picturing the Christmas card...

MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM THE PORNSAKS!!  

Bwaaahahahahahahahahaaaa!!!  I know, I know... Grow up, Dani.

Good to know... I won't be turning my back on him then, will I.

And finally, last but not least even though I could do this all day:

So THAT's what he does behind the bench all day...

                                             

Share your funny name stories with me, people!!!

Yes, Virgina, there IS a Santa Claus

I'm getting a little worried about the whole "transvaginal mesh/vaginal sling" issue.

Those commercials are always on.  Always.  I mean, it's one thing to have a million moments of panic when one of those "Did you or a loved one take two aspirin and then die?  You may be entitled to compensation!  If you or a loved one has died after taking aspirin, call Blah Blah Blah and Associates" commercials.  I spend enough time as it is trying to remember all the medications I've been given throughout my life just in case I die suddenly and need to file a class action law suit.

See?  Not just me.

I just don't have time to wonder if I've been injured by vaginal mesh or if my vaj fell out of a sling.  Who knows this shit?

Is my vaj in a sling and I just forgot?

Because I could really use the money.

These ads are on so frequently that they make me nervous.  I mean, I am almost positive that my pelvic floor is pretty much where I left it the last time I used it, but I haven't checked lately.  Do I need to reinforce it?  Build a fence around it?  Put it in traction?  Reupholster?  Wrap it with an Ace bandage?

Does Michelle Bob Duggar have one?  

But is it in a sling??

And then...

there's...

THIS:

I have no idea whether or not my vajay is relaxed.  

It's usually pretty chill; hanging out, smoking a cigarette, having a cocktail... (no pun intended... really)...

But is it relaxed?

Wait... Is it supposed to be relaxed?

IS MY VAGINA TOO RELAXED??

Wait... what??

Oh, the dark places this blog is taking me...

Where is my virgina and why does it need to be tightened??

It all started when I saw the same commercial for male catheters five times during a one hour show.  Five times.  Five times.  In one hour.  And I was all like, "I had NO idea that men needing to 'cath' before they pee was even a thing."  I mean, I pee at least 400 times a day.  Not being able to pee has never been an issue.  I can pee on command.  I can pee, then be told we're getting ready to go somewhere five minutes later, and I will need to pee again before we leave and then probably at least twice on the way there and then that'll be the first thing I do after we arrive.  So I'm like, "Really?  Dudes can't pee?  Is this like a trend?"

Is "cathing" the New Black?

Then I started getting paranoid.  Because like I've mentioned before, I am a hypochondriac.  Tell me about a symptom and I will have it within hours. I was beginning to worry because at least 4 minutes had passed since I last peed and I wouldn't even know where to PUT a catheter.  It took me YEARS to figure out how to insert a tampon correctly  (I mean, I knew where to put it, just had some confusion on how to get it there.  It's not as cut and dried as you might think.) ... I know for a fact I wouldn't have YEARS to figure out a catheter.  I always figured I'd die due to something butt-related and embarrassing, but dying because I can't pee?  That would suck.  Hard.  

So I googled "reasons why men can't pee."

Apparently, it's usually because of the prostate.

Which I don't have.

Thank God.  I can pee in peace now.

Or... CAN I?

I DON'T KNOW!!!

And then I made a hideous mistake:

I Googled "vaginal sling."

Word to the wise:  Don't Google that shit.

I will never eat hamburger again.  Just sayin'.

On some of the pictures I was all, "WTF is that?"  And then on others I was all, "Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph... is that what I think it is?" and "Steak sounds good..."  And in one I was all, "I had NO idea my asshole was that close to my vagina."

(I mean it's really close.  REALLYYYY close.  Like right freaking there.  Which may or may not explain some isolated incidents throughout my life.  *cough*)

Twinkle, twinkle, little starrrr...

I've never been one of those women who examined my private parts with a hand mirror and then named them, which could be why I'm a little vague on the proximity of everything.  I mean, I know where things are and where things go and the utilitarian purposes of it all, but I have no desire to come face to face with it.

In fact, when I was giving birth the first time and the nurse put up a three way mirror so I could watch the whole thing, I screamed like a crazy woman and ordered them to "take it awayyyyy!"    Some things are better left unseen.

(No offense to my beautiful children, none of whom are reading this, I'm sure.  And if they were, they stopped as soon as they saw the word "vagina."  I guarantee it.)

As for vaginal mesh, why, it could be anything.  Because I refuse to Google it.

Well that's... terrifyingly vague...

I'm picturing something like a window screen, only for the vaj.  I'm not sure why a vaj would need a window screen (To deter mosquitoes and other flying pests?  To prevent robbery?  To filter out leaves, twigs, and other debris?) and I don't really want to know.

Or do I?

No.  No I don't.


*long pause*

Crap.

My swan song

Once again, Karma has made me her bitch.

(Karma is either a woman or a gay man because no heterosexual male in the universe is as clever or diabolical as Karma.  Sorry, guys.  If you'd stop thinking with your peeners and use your brains, you might achieve the level of evil brilliance that women, gay men, and Karma all use against you.  Take notes.)

Ever since my last blog post, where I complained about Dan complaining about being sick, I've been sicker.

For real.

Like, practically at Death's door.

Okay, maybe not THAT sick, but close, dammit.

It all started Friday, when my mother arrived from California to spend a few days with me.

Friday morning dawned bright and clear, after a night of no sleep listening to Dan snore, cough, and make a sound that can best be described as gargling snot.  (Sorry so graphic but really... it was that gross.)  My throat started hurting at around 2 a.m. (yes, Joanie, IN THE MORNING) and by 7 I was sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, and stuffy-headed.  

I called my mother at the B & B where she was staying and hacked into the phone.

Mother:  *suspiciously*  "Are you sick?  Because I don't want to get sick.  If you're sick, stay away from me."

(Because she loves me that much.)

Me:  *coughcoughcoughcoughcough*  "I'b pretty sure it's just allergies..."

We spent the day touring Amish country (which pretty much describes the entire area surrounding me).  As luck would have it, we didn't see one single Amish person.  Not one.  Nada.  Zip.

I kid you not.

I took her to the Amish Mothership, where all their farms and businesses are lined up neatly along the countryside, promising her with my hand to God that we would see herds of Amish tilling the fields, scampering along the roadside, living and breathing in their natural habitat...

They weren't there.

None of them.

The Amish were not home.

The closest we came to seeing Amish were the houses that they live in, which I pointed out to my mother, who greeted it with much skepticism.

Me:  "See?  Those are their houses..."

Mother:  *looking at the houses, that look like all other houses*  "Uh huh..."

Me:  "Really... those are Amish houses.  I swear."

Mother:  "Sure they are..."

After I dropped her off at her hotel, the Amish came spilling out in droves.  I passed four buggies on my way home.

Well played, Karma.

Sigh.

Saturday morning came with more hacking, more coughing, more sniffling, more ickiness.

I called my mom to set up our plans for the day and again, we had this conversation:

Mother:  "Are you sick?  You sound sick.  If you're sick, I don't want to see you."

Me:  *coughcoughcoughcoughHACKcough*  "No, no... I'b fide..."

Saturday was spent touring the North Country with my mother in the backseat, both windows open, head hanging out the window like a golden retriever, frantically avoiding my hideous death germs.

A fabulous time was had by all.

Sunday I just couldn't fake it anymore.

Our conversation went like this:

Me:  "I'b sick."

Mother:  "Don't come near me."

Me:  "Hurricade's a'cubbin... Are you sure you don't want be to cub get you?"

Mother:  "Don't come near me.  I'd rather face the hurricane than your germs."

I spent Sunday in a face-plant on the couch, praying for death and that Frankenstorm Sandy wouldn't stop planes from flying out of Syracuse so that I could just die in peace without the judgmental stare of my mother blaming me for trying to kill her with my germs.

Monday my mother braved the elements and my disgustingness to come and sit 10 feet away from me in my living room.  She power-drank Airborne and tea with honey, counting on the antioxidant qualities of both to prevent her from catching my lungcancer/braintumor/whoopingcough/pneumonia/tuberculosis.  As she eyed me warily from across the room, she inquired accusingly as to whether or not I take vitamins.

Me:  "Sometimes..."

Mother:  "You need to take extra C, cod liver oil, and use Listerine Breath Strips.  I haven't been sick in years since I started taking that."

Me:  *because I have a tendency to be snide... shocking, right?*  "If it works so well why are you so afraid I'll make you sick?"  *cough*

Mother, not finding me funny:

Me, thinking I'm clever, cute, and hilarious:

Okay, maybe not exactly like that, but close.

Truthfully, as much as I enjoyed seeing my mom, all I wanted to do was sit on the couch in my yoga pants, drink hot tea with honey, sip NyQuil through a straw, and watch crap tv.  

Because I felt that shitty.

Meanwhile, you're probably wondering:  Where's Dan??  Why isn't he figuring prominently in this blog, waiting on you hand and foot in your hour(s) of need?

I'll tell you where Dan is...

Dan is in Las Vegas.

I'll give you a minute to digest that.

Here's the timeline, to help you out:

Monday, October 22nd:

Dan gets sick.  He commences dying.

Tuesday thru Monday, October 29th:

Dan lies around and whines endlessly about how horrible he feels.  He writes his will.  It's all very sad.   Even though I'm sick, too, he is so much sicker that my sickness goes unnoticed. I wear black and practice being a widow.

I may or may not contemplate putting him out of my his misery.

Humanely, of course.

Tuesday, October 30th:

Dan is miraculously heeled and leaves for Vegas, conveniently on the same day that my mother flies back to California.

My yucky flu takes a turn for the worse.

I begin coughing like it's my job.

I have no energy.

I spike a fever.

Dan arrives in Vegas in record time and calls me from the hotel.

Me:  *cough cough cough cough cough cough cough*

Dan:  *happily*  "Hi baby!!  I miss you!!!"

Me:  *cough cough cough cough cough cough*

Dan:  *not really sounding interested*  "What's wrong with you?"

Me:  "I'B SICK, DABBIT!  YOU BADE BE SICK!!"  *COUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGH*

Dan:  *cheerfully*  "You are?  Sorry.  Okay, well, I'm gonna go eat, drink and be merry!  Have a good one!  Don't go dyin' on me!  Ha ha ha ha haaa!"

(Yes, he actually said that.)

Anyhoo.

Flash forward to today:

I spent last night coughing up a lung and surfing WebMD.  As it turns out, I have Black Lung Disease.  Or possibly Typhoid.  Either way, it's dire.

My final wishes are as follow:

I want Misty, from Misty's Laws to prosecute Dan to the fullest extent of the law for making me deathly ill.  I think the death penalty would be fitting in this case.

I want Jen, from "Jen" e sais quoi to write something clever and witty for my headstone, like "That'll do, pig... that'll do."  (Only not that.  Something not involving the word "pig.")

I want Mandi from Atypically Relevant to write my eulogy.  I want it liberally sprinkled with words like "douchebaggery" and "fuckery" and something about "sand in her vagina."

Oh, shuddup.

I will go kicking and screaming into that good night.

And coughing.

And probably butt first.

And wearing ratty underpants and no bra.

I'll see you all on the Other Side...