Sicko

Ugh.

I have finally caught whatever it is that Stacey's been battling for the last week-and-a-half. It seems to be just a common cold, but it doesn't feel "common" when you're so congested that breathing underwater seems like it might be easier, or when your ears feel like you forgot to remove the Q-Tips after you cleaned your ear and accidentally jammed them in further with a clawhammer, or when your Kleenex tissues disappear quicker than Robert Downey's drug supply.

It's not a pretty scene around here, folks. Our house looks like somebody without OCD has suddenly moved in. (Hey, I have OCD, I can say that...you can't!) There are dirty dishes that I should have washed today that are piled up in the sink; there are papers, CDs, and other odds and ends stacked up on every available flat surface; I haven't even made the bed — this being clearest indication that I'm not feeling very well, because having an unmade bed makes me itch in a terrible way, even if it's in a hotel room and I'm checking out.

Forgive me, because tonight I do not feel like entertaining anyone with funny stories about how Connor will say, "What's up, baby," when he sees you, or how he likes to strut around the house with his toy golf club slung over his shoulder like he's a mob hitman, or how he'll hit Murphy when he's mad and then look at me like "What choo gonna do 'bout it, jack?"

Instead, I'm going upstairs to feel sorry for myself. I like to have private pity parties when I'm sick. because I may feel like crap but I'll be damned if anyone is gonna know about it.