Ok, I told you that story (N is for Nookie) to tell you this:

I have the flu.  It’s the kind where you basically lose your tummy along with you lower intestines, spleen, your will to live, and anything else lower down.  My shoes maybe.  Perhaps the meal I ate last Thanksgiving.  Not sure.

My husband, in solidarity I guess, has lost his ever loving mind.

You see, the sweet man, misguided as he is, read my last post (thoughtful! supportive! involved!  wary!) and so, I guess, got hopeful.

I used to have a bird dog who would try to help my dad hunt (he had all heart, not the best brains) and then would go NUTBALL over anything that had been dead and decomposing for over a week – roll in it…  play with it… embrace it…  full on carcass LOVE, I tell you. That dog was… misguided.  We had to whack him a lot with a rolled up newspaper.

So is my husband.  I am seriously considering taking him outside and just hosing him down.

You see, here I am, lurching about, moaning, sort of a zombiefied version of Momsie, desperately in need of a shower, a bucket as accessory,  and please just some Sprite, and the man decides to…  (wait for it….) flirt with me.

I whacked him with a newspaper.

But…  I kinda think it’s endearing.  Misguided, yes.  A bit psychotic, true.  But endearing.  I mean, this is LOVE I tell you (or desperation).

He wants to hook up with Linda Blair.*  That’s commitment.

Happy Thursday ya’ll.  I’m going crawl over to the tv and put on some Caillou.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

*And no, I’m not posting any pics. Nobody needs to see that.  YOU google her.  I’m not gonna do it.

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