'and when I fall asleep, i don't think i'll survive the night (the night)'

So do you know what happens when you don't leave your house for five days?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Which explains this post, which is about absolutely nothing.

Because I've got nothing.

Actually, I do have something.

I still have this kick ass upper respiratory zombie virus. Of course, that's not the AMA's offical term for what I have. The doctor I finally saw nearly an hour after my scheduled appointment last Friday called it, and I quote, "a bummer."

Let me save you all a $20 co-pay and tell you there are no quick fixes when you come down with a case of The Bummers. What you do is you take a lot of really pointless over the counter medicines and you spend a lot of time dislodging what feels like pieces of brain matter through your nose (you'll know you've achieved that when you think "My kids would be so grossed out and yet fascinated by this if I were to show them!") as you blow into an ever-increasing pile of discarded tissue, and you rock a low-grade temperature that leaves you huddled up on your couch in a Not An Officially Trademarked Snuggie slanket and arm warmers on a Friday night, watching Legends Of The Fall on Oxygen, and just as you're shivering and feeling super sorry for yourself, and wondering what your husband might look like if he perhaps grew his hair long the way Brad Pitt wore his in said movie (sidebar - le sigh...get on me, Tristan), your fever will break and your body will start sweating in places that have never before emitted liquid, and you'll toss off your slanket and arm warmers and hike up your nightgown, and blow streams of raspy air down your cleavage, and you'll think, "Great! This is just totally great! First the bummers and now MENOPAUSE!!"

Then, if you're lucky, it's time for another shot of NyQuil Nighttime and you'll drift off into fitful dreams, which is what I did last night, and often those fitful dreams are fantastic, but I woke up around 3 a.m., from a hacking cough and the thought that I could hear voices murmuring around me in the dark and that? That was not cool, because my exhausted brain immediately went to that whole demon possession thing I'm apparently fixated on at the moment (see previous post) and while part of me realizes that the sound was just my breath as it wheezed it's way out of my lungs, through my throat and out my nose, I was semi-convinced that I heard the words, "You're ours, now!" a few times. Awesome. So I employed my patented way of warding off The Possession - I clamped my eyes tightly shut and I thought, "Nope. Nope. Nope," until I was eventually able to fall back to sleep. Oh, The Bummers, in addition to incontinence, have given me crazy ass dreams.

To say I need to get out of the house is clearly an understatement, so I did yesterday when I went to work, but as soon as I walked in the door, two coworkers told me I should immediately go home because I looked like death (I'd like to think it was just because I didn't wear make up for the first time there ever, but I imagine that, even when I do, I still look like death, but with a rosy glow to my cheeks) and later that evening when I took the boys to Dairy Queen for supper (if you run into Tool Man, please don't tell him, OK, because we're in the midst of this whole Dave Ramsey Financial Peace thingy and this was not in our very scary budget, even though one of the kids ate for free, so score!). I was hoping the kids would give me some fodder o' the blog while they wolfed down their meals, but the most I got out of them was my youngest son's declaration that he hates Demi Lovato, and I said, fine, but when I write about that, I'm going to insert the video of her big yapper singing from Camp Rock, and that means my teenage boyfriend is going in (hello, Joe), but by then, the kid was just about scoring his free Dilly Bar.

Myself, I'd have gone for a Reece's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard, but, alas, that was not in the budget.

So basically, what I've done in this super wordy post, is give you nothing, and because of my mind freaks at night, I'm exhausted, so I may just say sorry, and then head up to bed after downing the placebo that is the sudafed I've been taking for the past five days. If you care to just wipe this post out of your memories, might I suggest clamping your eyes tightly shut and muttering, "Nope. Nope. Nope," over and over again until we meet again in what I hope will be far less germy circumstances.

********************

Before I go, I want to say that today, I'm celebrating Cynical Dad Day. To honor Chag, the man behind Cynical Dad and one of my longest blog friends, as he celebrates his 39th birthday, I had planned to pull off a heist in his name. Sadly, being laid up with The Bummers has really impeded my efforts to pull together a capable heist team, and because we've all seen that opening bank robbery scene from The Dark Knight, you know you don't mess around with a team of backstabbers all looking for their cut ("So why do they call her the Joker?" "I hear she wears make up." "Make up?" "Yeah, so people at her job at the bookstore don't tell her she looks like death when she shows up, ready to work hard for her money."). So instead, I want to share a thinly veiled love letter I wrote to Chag last June when he asked me to guest post on his blog. Heists and hearts, Chag! Heists and hearts. Happy birthday!