Cold/flu/sinus medications mess with my head. In a bad way. When I'm stuck at home all day in a haze of medication and Judge Judy reruns, weird things happen.
It started this morning, when I heard Cade's alarm go off at 6:30. Of course, I'd been up all night because my throat felt like I swallowed a hedgehog, so I barely registered the alarm and went back to sleep. Unfortunately, Cade did the same thing, because the next thing I knew he was vaulting out of bed and I heard a strangled "IT'SSEVENTHIRTYANDI'MGOINGTOBELATEAAAAAAGH."
I was conscious enough to text my boss and tell him I felt like I was dying, and fell back asleep. But then, not even ten minutes later, I heard those fateful words:
"I can't walk the dogs. I'll be late to work if I do. I know you're sick, but can you walk them for me?"
Apparently Cade took my anguished gurgle for an affirmative, because he left me with a vaguely reassuring "I'll be back to check on you at noon. Take more Nyquil if you start feeling bad again." Then, silence.
I made it maybe fifteen seconds before I heard it, that high-pitched keening that means Sunni, our oldest Dane, has to pee. It's fine tuned to be a perfect combination of pathetic and annoying, and it's just loud enough to keep me from being able to fall back asleep. Fine. I rolled out of bed, threw on a coat and walked them both. To their credit, they didn't take long, possibly because the awful, rattling noise I made every time I breathed scared them as much as it did me.
By the time I got them both inside, my lungs were on fire and I didn't think I could physically make it to the bed. I collapsed on the couch and passed out again.
The following things proceeded to wake me up at least every fifteen minutes for the next four hours:
Singe, my sociopath cat, playing with the blinds
My phone ringing
Duke flopping onto my stomach and sending me into a coughing spasm
Lou, the retarded cat, biting my face
A particularly loud commercial
I was grudgingly awake, but alive, when Cade made it back for lunch. He seemed surprised; I guess when you spend the entire night curled into a ball and softly weeping, your significant other assumes that he'll meet something other than a furious, frustrated, exhausted she-beast when he comes home for a sandwich.
He only made the mistake of asking if he could turn it off the Angry Beavers marathon once. The glare I gave him in response was enough for him to hastily apologize and go back to eating. I think he was secretly glad to leave, for fear I'd lunge at his throat if he said the wrong thing. I love Cade, I really do, but after 24 hours of feeling like death, I was not in the best of moods.
As soon as he left, I fell back onto the couch. This time, though, there was not even the pretense of sleep. I just laid there, staring at the carpet, the ceiling, the moth on the wall, whatever happened to catch my eye.
Then I saw the love seat and I cringed.
For whatever reason, in my Nyquil-drugged state, I suddenly realized that the slipcover had not been washed in forever, and it was most likely a festering, disease-ridden monstrosity just waiting to infect whoever touched it next.
I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it, but I couldn't get the thought of that filthy slipcover out of my mind. I was almost sure that I'd open my eyes and it would be advancing, ever so slowly, to smother me in a microfiber-lined layer of swine flu. With a groan, I sat up and yanked the slipcover off the love seat as fast as I could, then I shambled to the washer and threw it in, resisting the urge to smile with satisfaction at what I was sure were millions of tiny germs suffering in their death-throes.
On my way back to the couch, I had a thought. The dogs might try to crash on the love seat, like they usually do, and then it would be just as nasty as the slipcover I took off of it. I had to grab a sheet to throw over it, at least temporarily. I staggered to the closet and hunted for a sheet.
Then I saw it.
My fuzzy Viking helmet, the one I bought weeks ago and 'lost' about three days later. Despite my swollen, scratchy throat, I gurgled with glee! Finally, a bright spot to this otherwise horrific day! I immediately put it on and instantly felt so much cooler than I did before.
I'd completely forgotten about the sheet, and of course by the time I got back to the living room Sunni was passed out on the love seat. I gave up on that idea pretty fast; a sleeping Dane weighs at least three times as much as an alert one, and in my current state moving what equated out to a furry Triceratops was just out of the question. Cue couch-collapse again.
Eventually the slip cover was clean, and I coaxed Sunni off the love seat with dog treats and thinly-veiled threats. Of course, I had to move the love seat away from the wall and scoot the coffee table next to it in front of the door so that I could maneuver the dang thing on, but at the time I thought was the biggest accomplishment ever.
Until a coughing fit that stemmed from sick-exertion lasted so long that I got nauseous and barely made it to the bathroom in time to keep the day from getting any worse.
...and that's why when Cade came home, the coffee table was in front of the door and I was curled up in the bathroom floor wearing a furry Viking helmet.
It started this morning, when I heard Cade's alarm go off at 6:30. Of course, I'd been up all night because my throat felt like I swallowed a hedgehog, so I barely registered the alarm and went back to sleep. Unfortunately, Cade did the same thing, because the next thing I knew he was vaulting out of bed and I heard a strangled "IT'SSEVENTHIRTYANDI'MGOINGTOBELATEAAAAAAGH."
I was conscious enough to text my boss and tell him I felt like I was dying, and fell back asleep. But then, not even ten minutes later, I heard those fateful words:
"I can't walk the dogs. I'll be late to work if I do. I know you're sick, but can you walk them for me?"
Apparently Cade took my anguished gurgle for an affirmative, because he left me with a vaguely reassuring "I'll be back to check on you at noon. Take more Nyquil if you start feeling bad again." Then, silence.
I made it maybe fifteen seconds before I heard it, that high-pitched keening that means Sunni, our oldest Dane, has to pee. It's fine tuned to be a perfect combination of pathetic and annoying, and it's just loud enough to keep me from being able to fall back asleep. Fine. I rolled out of bed, threw on a coat and walked them both. To their credit, they didn't take long, possibly because the awful, rattling noise I made every time I breathed scared them as much as it did me.
By the time I got them both inside, my lungs were on fire and I didn't think I could physically make it to the bed. I collapsed on the couch and passed out again.
The following things proceeded to wake me up at least every fifteen minutes for the next four hours:
Singe, my sociopath cat, playing with the blinds
My phone ringing
Duke flopping onto my stomach and sending me into a coughing spasm
Lou, the retarded cat, biting my face
A particularly loud commercial
I was grudgingly awake, but alive, when Cade made it back for lunch. He seemed surprised; I guess when you spend the entire night curled into a ball and softly weeping, your significant other assumes that he'll meet something other than a furious, frustrated, exhausted she-beast when he comes home for a sandwich.
He only made the mistake of asking if he could turn it off the Angry Beavers marathon once. The glare I gave him in response was enough for him to hastily apologize and go back to eating. I think he was secretly glad to leave, for fear I'd lunge at his throat if he said the wrong thing. I love Cade, I really do, but after 24 hours of feeling like death, I was not in the best of moods.
As soon as he left, I fell back onto the couch. This time, though, there was not even the pretense of sleep. I just laid there, staring at the carpet, the ceiling, the moth on the wall, whatever happened to catch my eye.
Then I saw the love seat and I cringed.
For whatever reason, in my Nyquil-drugged state, I suddenly realized that the slipcover had not been washed in forever, and it was most likely a festering, disease-ridden monstrosity just waiting to infect whoever touched it next.
I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it, but I couldn't get the thought of that filthy slipcover out of my mind. I was almost sure that I'd open my eyes and it would be advancing, ever so slowly, to smother me in a microfiber-lined layer of swine flu. With a groan, I sat up and yanked the slipcover off the love seat as fast as I could, then I shambled to the washer and threw it in, resisting the urge to smile with satisfaction at what I was sure were millions of tiny germs suffering in their death-throes.
On my way back to the couch, I had a thought. The dogs might try to crash on the love seat, like they usually do, and then it would be just as nasty as the slipcover I took off of it. I had to grab a sheet to throw over it, at least temporarily. I staggered to the closet and hunted for a sheet.
Then I saw it.
My fuzzy Viking helmet, the one I bought weeks ago and 'lost' about three days later. Despite my swollen, scratchy throat, I gurgled with glee! Finally, a bright spot to this otherwise horrific day! I immediately put it on and instantly felt so much cooler than I did before.
I'd completely forgotten about the sheet, and of course by the time I got back to the living room Sunni was passed out on the love seat. I gave up on that idea pretty fast; a sleeping Dane weighs at least three times as much as an alert one, and in my current state moving what equated out to a furry Triceratops was just out of the question. Cue couch-collapse again.
Eventually the slip cover was clean, and I coaxed Sunni off the love seat with dog treats and thinly-veiled threats. Of course, I had to move the love seat away from the wall and scoot the coffee table next to it in front of the door so that I could maneuver the dang thing on, but at the time I thought was the biggest accomplishment ever.
Until a coughing fit that stemmed from sick-exertion lasted so long that I got nauseous and barely made it to the bathroom in time to keep the day from getting any worse.
...and that's why when Cade came home, the coffee table was in front of the door and I was curled up in the bathroom floor wearing a furry Viking helmet.
Ugh... I feel your pain. My whole fam has been sick the last few days. House arrest stinks. :(
ReplyDeleteNice to meet you, anyway. :)