baby got back (and it hurts like a bitch. plus it's my actual back, not my ass. sorry for any confusion)

I spent the bulk of this past weekend laying flat on my back in bed with my legs thrust in the air because I:

• tripped over a pile of dirty laundry at the foot of the bed and took a tumble onto the mattress
• saw the face of Jesus in the popcorn ceiling and spent the next 48 hours repenting for my sins
• thought it would be fun to recreate honeymoon sex
• developed back spasms Friday night and fell instantly incapacitated

If you guessed the last one, you win! I'd like to say I was stricken with the spaz after a week that included:

• ninja fighting
• 'rasslin' gator
• recreating honeymoon sex
• busting intricate yoga moves

However, none of that would be true. Especially that one about recreating honeymoon sex, because I, for one, didn't spend that week completely flat on my back! Oh no, not this girl! When part of your honeymoon is spent in the Sherwood Forest Room of the now-defunct FantaSuite Hotel in Muscatine, Iowa (en route to the Wisconsin Dells, my friends, because my new husband was all about treating me like a princess!)(p.s. did you know there's not much to do in the Wisconsin Dells in the middle of October?), you damn well spend some time upright so you can take in the lush fake foliage around you. Multi-task, if you will.

(As someone who knows, I highly suggest you keep your eyes open to both stare lovingly into the eyes of your beloved, and prevent slamming your forehead into the 'tree limbs' your bed rests within as you go about your honeymoon business because it will be fun to see your loved one laugh at you when you realize that concrete tree limb is right there just as you are just about 'right there.')

(Additionally, I am making a plea to each and every one of you to consider spending the night with me in a FantaSuites hotel because OMG, I want to stay in this room! (GRR! The link is supposed to take you to the Happy Days Cafe room. Go. Do. It helps the pun I'm about to drop...) Actually, I'd willingly pay cash money to spend the night in any of them - seriously, go kill an hour taking the panoramic of any of those for they are The Awesome - but I truly want to stay in the one I showed you because I would annoy the hell out of you by constantly asking, "Are you trying to slip me your big bologna or is this a sandwich bed I'm laying on?")

(Oh, and for calling your bologna big? You're welcome)

Anyway, where the hell was I? Oh, yes. My bad back. You know when people say, "I've got your back!" and you totally think "Well, that's a nice sentiment, but when am I really going to need your back?" Well, the answer is when you have back spasms! I'd take somebody's back in a heartbeat! I have no idea what evil lurks within it, I just know it crashed into me Friday night when I got up from the kitchen table after supper, and encased me in a death grip. I have given birth to two children who's rip-roaring, no time for drugs deliveries into this world didn't cause nearly as much pain and physical discomfort as these back spasms have. Tool Man, being the honeymoon planning love of my life, walked past me at one point as I was holding onto the kitchen counter for dear life and crying, oh, the crying, and said, "I guess this means you're not going to the grocery store, huh?" and then I was miraculously cured thanks to the roundhouse kick to the nads I gave him.

Except I wasn't, and he wasn't a total heartless beast, either, because he doped me up on the ibuprofen and heated up a gel pack and placed me gingerly in bed, where he lifted up my legs to prop upon stacked pillows and helped me remove my clothing, and TOTALLY GOT IT when, through tears and white-knuckled death grips upon the headboard, I screeched, "Does this remind you of anything?" and he replied, "Yeah. Our honeymoon."

(only on our honeymoon, the roles were reversed...)

That right there is why I've been married to this man for 14 years, my friends. Not just because he took me to the House On The Rock (aka - "That place where I'd go crazy because seriously! The stuff! All the stuff! And the dusting! The dusting that would need to be constantly done!") three days after making me his wife.

Tool Man even tried to get me a prescription for something to knock me out, but he called my doctor's office 20 minutes before they were closing Friday night and, even with me wailing like a cat in heat in the background, they insisted there was no way they'd prescribe narcotics unless first seeing me in the office, and Tool Man was all, "Don't you hear that? You're going to make me put up with that ALL WEEKEND?!" God bless that man.

I've not been out of bed much in the past 72 hours. When I have ventured out, it's been physically taxing. Three basketball games Saturday and a potluck tonight has me defeated. It's taken me three hours to peck this post out because I'm presently propped in bed and trying to balance my laptop upon my legs which are, again, thrust up in the air. What's that? Will I marry you? Yes. A thousand times, yes!

In my convalescence, I have finished two books, started another (none of which were in the Twilight family, because, well, as you might recall from just a moment ago,the doctor refused to prescribe me any drugs), and made the decision that I'm going to start using the phrase "cheeky bastards" as often as possible in daily conversation. When not using that, I believe I'll try to toss in the phrase "Avenge me, boy! AAAAVENGGGE MEEEEEE!" whenever possible.

Example: "Avenge me, boys, you cheeky bastards!"

FYI? This is all brought to you by the power of 800 mg of ibuprofen. Can you imagine what it would be like if the crying had worked and I'd gotten a prescription for a muscle relaxer? I'll tell you what it would have been like. It would have been like honeymoon sex - awesome, slightly uncomfortable, exhausting, and perhaps requiring stitches.

Now, how about giving me some sugar, you cheeky bastards!