Waylaid by bronchitis... Again.

We're rounding out Week Two of this season's epic battle with bronchitis (I actually went home early yesterday and proceeded to spend much of last night coughing, which resulted in my waking up this morning with my well-hidden abdominal muscles afire). I elected to stay home today, where much of my schedule was as follows:

1.) Take medicine.
2.) Sleep.
3.) Become conscious enough to realize I cannot breathe out of one side of my head.
4.) In state of half-consciousness, turn over.
5.) Sleep.
6.) Get awakened by my mother with things she's "heard" from other people, or ideas she's gotten from extensive internal reviews of previous weddings she's attended.
7.) In state of half-consciousness, agree with whatever she says (upon further review, this may come back to bite me huge).
8.) Bolt upright in bed and proceed to actually listen to whatever she's saying.
9.) Fall asleep sitting upright, because, surprisingly enough, this is the only way I can guarantee breathing from both sides of my face.

And so on.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go repeat steps 1-5 now.

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I still feel like I'm going to barf a little.

Okay, long story short, because I'm exhausted from this day. And I promise I will elaborate and include photos (assuming I can get the auto-focus on the camera right), but I just had to share this with you, dear friends.

Ben asked me to marry him this evening, and I said yes!

Now, I am going to try to sleep. Very little of that happening lately. Wonder why that is?

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This is probably how constipation starts in most people.

Today, I was being a dutiful daughter. My mom is going to participate with the church choir again after a year's hiatus, so she has started attending practices for the Easter Vigil mass. It so happens that these practices are on Monday nights, during the same time that Ben and I attend a class nearby. So, it only made sense for us to drop her off at practice, then pick her up after class.

Upon arriving at our drop point, my mother assured us that she would call me if her friend couldn't give her a ride home. I saw this as a moot point, since we would be out of class right around the time her practice would wrap, and I planned on driving her home, anyway. She insisted, however, that if her friend could drive her home, she would call me.

"I'm going to have my phone on 'silent,'" I warned her. "I don't want my phone to ring in the middle of class. I won't know if you've called until I leave the room."

"Well," she started as she got out of the car, "Don't you have a vibrator?"

Dead silence from Ben and me for a good twenty seconds. She continued to stare at me, with little to no affect on her face, waiting for my answer.

I looked in the rearview mirror, back at Ben, who looked as if he was going to either barf, start crying hysterically or pinch off the biggest loaf in the history of loaves.

---Sorry, no image available.---

"What?" was all I could eke out after the never-ending silence.

Now, Perla was getting a tad impatient. "You know," she said as she stood there, "Where instead of ringing, your phone vibrates to let you know you have a call?" This was said, mind you, with all the annoyance of one who is quite aware of such technology. It's quite funny, coming from the woman who is famous for hanging up the cordless phone, then pointing the same at the television in order to change the channel.


Seriously. You don't want to vex her. She will straight up bitch slap you.

"Oh, yeah," I replied, finally understanding what she really meant. "Sure. I'll have it on 'meeting.'" With that, she shut the car door and headed into her practice.

Within moments, I pulled away from the church to find parking for our class. Ben could hold his hysterics in no longer. I teared up a little from laughter, especially after we thought up some clever things I could (but never would) have said:

• "Don't I? Who doesn't?!"
• "Well, Ma, shit, does it really look like I need one at this point?" here, I'd be gesturing back to Ben, who would wave happily.
• "It's in the shop."
• "No, I put it in with our other donations to Goodwill."
• "No, not since you bitched about how high the utility bill was last month!"
• "Didn't you find it next to the gas mask and bottle of lube when you went through my shit last week?"
• "Not anymore. Ben's borrowing it. Right now. Give you three guesses as to where it is." Again, I would need his assistance in this scenario. Of course, it would end with "And honestly, at this point, I don't think I really want it back."

Just file this under the new label: Stories to tell the children grandkids absolutely nobody when we're older.

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Food coma and football related hypertension.

Today was just a big ball of pain and punishment. First off, I got up early to go to the Dirt Mall to get a new case for the phone, only to find that there apparently no people staffing their booths laden with open and easily accessible merchandise at 8:30 in the morning. This would not have been so terrible if I had not made a point to wake up early on a Saturday to haul my cookies down to the Dirt Mall in the Park (!), and hadn't gotten adequate sleep the night before.

After the unsuccessful trip to the DM, there was breakfast at Cracker Barrel, which is normally fantastical, except for the fact that I couldn't get a tea refill to save my life. Ben couldn't get his coffee cup to 1/3 empty before someone came by offering to top it off (something that actually irks him because it messes with his cream and sugar balance), but once he politely declined the 3,000th cup, the waitress decided that she didn't need to come back to our table for anything at all.

Now, if you know anything about my eating quirks, you know that I can rarely finish my food if I don't have accompanying beverage to wash it down with. Hence, my beloved double-side of hashbrown casserole could not be completely consumed.


This? Bountiful. Tea? Not so much.

Then, I went home, did some cleaning, then began watching the UF-Ole Miss game, which, if I talk about much here, will make my eyes start to bleed. Again. I'm just glad we have Mercy! Percy!, the one they call the Baby Rhino, and the littlest big man on kick returns, pictured below:


Brandon James, hauling ass 55 yards on a kick return. The player trying to give chase would then...


Tear at James' jersey like he was in a catfight, trying to shamefully expose his boob. (I mean, really now.)

Suffice it to say that I'm glad we came away with a win, it was valuable road game experience for the boys, and Urban will probably be tearing a whole bunch of people new assholes during practice this week because of all the penalties they amassed.

Anyway, after watching the first half at home, Ben and I made our way to Danhole's during halftime, where we watched the rest of the malady. From there, we headed to Sonny's BBQ, where we concurrently watched the Michigan-Penn State game (gah), the LSU-South Carolina game (double-gah), and the Michigan State-Notre Dame game (which, at the time was gah, but ended up being not-gah). The three of us then proceeded to go against all laws of decency and good digestive health and opted to get All-You-Can-Eat plates.

Did I mention that Sonny's will actually refill your food and drinks, and their drinks are almost the size of paint cans? And I was so happy that someone would actually refill my beverage with regularity, that my food consumption matched it?


You feelin' me, Murtaugh?

Oh dear, sweet, baby Jesus, that was hours ago, and I'm still hurting. And I'm burping up barbecue sauce like there's no tomorrow. The only consolation I have is that Danhole gave me the permission to smack him should he ever decide to break the his vow of "never ordering All You Can Eat again." Mind you, this is a vow he makes every time we go to Sonny's, and he breaks it, every time. I can't wait to go Baby Rhino on him.


No, Baby Rhino, despite your spirit and excitability, you can't do it for me. Otherwise,I'll have to tell his family how we managed to break Dan.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to go pass out.

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Agony, thy name is bronchitis.

So, it turns out that the horrid hacking, congestion, and lung spasms I have been enduring for the past week or so wasn't the black lung after all. Well, shit. A sick day from work (which I hate taking only three weeks into a new job) and a fabulous visit to the walk-in clinic later (where, no lie, the guy ahead of us in line was daubing at a wound on his knee with a paper towel, and looked as if he had fallen into three feet of water, as he was soaked from his jorts down so badly that one of the nurses removed the chair he was sitting in from the waiting room because the cushion was soaked through), I now sit here, full of antibiotics and possibly addiction-forming cough medicine, trying not to cough and pee myself at the same time.

(Looking back at what I just wrote, I apologize wholeheartedly for the above catastrophe of images. I mean, honestly: jorts. This is where I live, people!)

Anyway, besides neglecting the blog, I've been sick for the past week or so. I've spent all weekend in a haze of medications and being able to do absolutely nothing but hydrate myself and find the following gem, which was the result of stopping for but a second to link the concepts of jorts, mullets, Z. Cavariccis, and Tyler Benchfield:

HEART ATTACK
Tommy Puett
Singingfool.com

I know, I know. It's almost as if I'm trying to make you suffer right along with me. But honestly, if you can make it past the minute mark in that video, well, you are much, much heartier than I. And didn't he sing this on one of the LGO episodes, whilst attempting the Running Man? Christ, I need to get out of my head sometimes.

I'm off to plot the purchase of Life Goes On: Season One on DVD so that I may be able to cleanse myself of this ridiculousness and go back to when Kellie Martin was my hero.

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We're already wet, and we're gonna go swimming.

I know, it's been a while since I've posted a lyrical blog title, but I still have 13 Going On 30 on the brain from a few weeks ago. You'll have to forgive.


I have often found myself doing the same thing. Except without the really expensive dress. Or the bod. Crap.

Anyway, I've been spending the last few weeks thinking about blogging, so that should count for something. I've been otherwise occupied with trying to say my age without coughing uncomfortably, threatening to burn couches at a moment's notice, and fiddling with blog and MySpace layouts. Seriously. You know it's sad when I get all jazzed about changing the colors on my template and renaming everyone in my Top 20, and I still don't do dick about posting.

I should probably take a hint from Lisa and keep the MySpace layout simple. But the colors are so pretty!

Jesus, this dry spell is getting annoying.

Anyway, I managed to get through the birthday with thankfully little fanfare. I got some nice gifts, one of the greatest of which was a picture frame with four Gator Football photos: one of Tebow flying into the end zone, one of Reggie Fuckin' Nelson breaking shit up during the Alabama game, one of Urbs hugging Chris Leak after the MNC, and a black and white one of just Chris Leak. Ben did an awesome job of picking out the photos. I'll have to post a picture of it here later, so you can view it in all its glory.

I'm all over the joint, as usual. I can't focus for shit. This is probably why I can't put together a sensical post. My head is starting to hurt. I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a glass of milk and a few Peanut Butter Creme Oreos. Don't fucking judge me.

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I would be mad, but I can't be.

I had this wicked long post (with pictures) late, late Saturday night, after I got home from the evening's festivities, all about the championship game. It was exceptional. It was moving. It had pictures of stalwart football players.

It, for some reason, would not save on Blogger. Fahk.


"What do you mean, it won't autosave? Bastards!!!"

It's just as well. Posting it now means you'll read it in the order it was meant to be read, or something. Let's get to it!

I ended up at a tree-trimming party where, thankfully, the hosts were Gators, and the game was on the screen large. It saved me the trouble and tackiness of sneaking out to the car to listen to the game on AM. (Which, actually, I was doing on the way to the party for the first few minutes. I truly do prefer to do this even while watching the game, since the commentators usually covering our games --I'm calling you out, Verne!-- make me want to shriek violently in protest. And you don't want that.)

We started out well; Hetland actually made a field goal!

Poor, embattled Chris Hetland. When Mick Hubert announced on the radio that it actually went through the uprights, the collective reaction was "Holy crap, he made one???"

Then a little while later, my boy Chris Leak hurtled his hot ass into the end zone!

Please, no R. Kelly songs here.

And he managed to do his best Elvis while there.

That, or he was about to Fosse. It was really up in the air.

Follow that with the halftime update that UCLA beat USC, and you get the following:

That's right. A restroom full of male Gator fans, alternately shaking off, high-fiving, and washing their hands. And of course, the men's restroom would have complete coverage of other games. So, it was apparently like Joe and Suzanne's wedding, but with less good eats and just as much of Jim throwing gang signs. Word!

Of course, upon hearing this, the Gators immediately go into their nearly-patented Third Quarter Slump, which I will no longer dignify with mention at this point. In fact, thinking about it makes me not want to, so I will go ahead and leave it to the fellas at EDSBS to fill you in on the rest.

Hell, they're addicting, and they have even been so kind as to post another picture depicting "premature echompulation" and some priceless YouTube clips (not to slight our special teams highlight, but your shit will crack up when you hear Percy referring to his "buddy" Dallas about 45 seconds into the second clip).

But before you go off to read EDSBS goodness, let me leave you with the following:


I said it's GREAT...


To BE...


A FLORIDA GATOR!



Thank you, Gators. You have been crazy, frustrating, electrifying, and inducive of cardiac fits all season, but you've always come through, and you've done it with class. You represent the very best of the Gator Nation, and I know you will continue to do us proud in a month!



Now, I'm off to go calculate how much postage I'll need to ship myself to Glendale in a large box in time for the bowl game. And how many canteens I'll need for the journey.

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