When I walked into work on Thursday morning, Liesl sat back at her desk.

“I can see the GLANDS in your neck from HERE.”

She glands as though it were goiter or pulsating alien egg sac. I put a hand to my neck and grimaced.

“I know. I woke up this way. Last night, I couldn’t get off the couch.”

By mid-morning I went to see my BFFs at PrimaCare where the silver-haired doctor with the claymation face told me I had strep. And the flu. I wondered if there was going to be a bonus round. Scarlet Fever? When I told him my throat didn’t actually hurt, that I simply appeared to be farming extraterrestrial life forms, he smiled one of those smiles that said, oh, you poor silly thing.

“It will.” And then he wrote me a mouthful of prescriptions.

And boy howdy, he was right about the hurting. By evening I was a big dopey vicodin mess on the couch (I’d been a big dopey vicodin mess on the floor a few hours earlier in The Great Faint of Oh Nine, an important lesson about painkillers and stairs), while the Boy fetched popsicles and generally looked very sympathetic.

Pestilence and disease sorta killed my weekend – which was meant to be taken up by packing and cleaning my apartment. And instead, even after the throaty business had subsided I was still effing exhausted. I spent most of the last few days either lying down or leaning – on counters, walls, big dogs… really anything that would be still. Pathetic. And moreover, I did not get to go see The Fast and The Furious: The Sexy Reunion like I had intended. Which is the biggest tragedy of all.

There’s no pill for that kind of bitter disappointment.

Me: Honey, while we’re waiting, I think I’m going to go upstairs, run the vacuum in the bedroom and maybe tidy up the bathroom.

Him: Whoa.

Me: …?

Him: That just really turned me on.

This weekend, we added an extra six inches to our bedroom life. And what do you know, I’m still not satisfied.

The dog, he likes to be on the bed. Not when we’re on it, mind you, but on it just the same. And it wouldn’t be such an issue – I could probably be convinced to look past the hair (my GOD, so much HAIR) – if he wasn’t getting up there in years and all his body parts were functioning properly. First there was this gland thing. Which came with lots of licking and oozy juices and… skid marks. Are you feeling ill in your tummies? Yes? Good. Me, too. We sort of solved that by throwing a gigantic, thick blanket down before we leave. But then there was the day that either he was pissed (my GOD, so PISSED) or so out of control of his bowels that he took a gigantic 75-pound-dog dump on the bed, pushed the covers over the mess and LAID BACK DOWN on it. Have you ever had to scrape smooshed dog poo from the duvet cover because your sweet, loving boyfriend who would otherwise gladly have cleaned up the mess won’t be home for several hours? No? Well. It’s pretty much the exact opposite of awesome.

Me, I had a meltdown.

We weighed our preventative future meltdown options. Shutting the bedroom door. That one quickly got shot down – Sir Hal is not one to be where you want him to be at any given moment and say he was hiding under the bed when the door got shut. He’d be without food and litter box all day. Do not want. Baby gate was the next option considered, along with bed risers. Bed risers! That’s perfect! The dog is old and has a hard time managing the bed as it is. Six extra inches would do the trick! So, off we went to Target and then an ungodly number of bed & bath places in search of extra long dust ruffles. Oh, so many miles we put on our feet and the car, but we were victorious.

The Boy went off to play with friends and I settled on the sofa with a copy of It Sucked and Then I Cried. And some Chubby Hubby. Because this is how we celebrate victories. After a while, the dog, who normally makes a very noisy production of gallumping up the stairs and heaving himself onto the bed, made his way up and soundlessly to sleep. I ASSUMED on his DOG BED. But I would be making an ass of you and me because when I went upstairs thirty minutes later, I found that dog, having sailed effortlessly onto the now very high bed, deep in a very drooly sleep. Mocking me.

First I frowned. Then I rolled my eyes and chuckled.

I firmly but kindly (I learned this skill from Frauline Maria) asked him to dismount – which he did – and then I petted him for a good long while and scratched his tummy because I’m training myself to love him so much I can’t possibly resent all this bed shit I’m going through with him. Because sometimes, I really feel resentful. Like when I lie down at night in and imagine poop juices leaking onto my pillow. GAH. I’m trying so hard to see this from the Boy’s point of view – that having a dog for twelve years and allowing him twelve whole years of unrestrained bed time is difficult to undo. But this is where I sleep. Not where I practice my veterinary skills. I want it to smell like fabric softener and the Boy’s shampoo and not dog musk and gland gunk.

So, bed riser fail. I guess that leaves the baby gate. And I swear to god, if he pulls some spontaneously growing opposable thumb crap, I’m going to lose my mind entirely.

Flying monkey weather again today. If this lasts any longer, The Dork Lord is going to come home one evening to find that all the fixtures have been fit out with full spectrum light bulbs – the whole apartment ablaze with light and, me, laid out buck nekkid on the coffee table. Me, I’m a survivor.

On Saturday, the Boy and I have planetarium plans. And I’m disproportionately excited about it. Four dollars, people. That’s all it costs here to catch a show on the dome. I remember the last time Sarah and I shared some planetarium magic, I was forced to live on a steady diet of Marshmallow Mateys and (generic) canned chicken noodle soup. For weeks. But I also remember that it was narrated by a yummy-voiced Robert Redford, and that Sarah and I spent the entire show moony-eyed and drooling, “Mmmm. Spaaaace. Sexy.”  I’m betting the four buck version doesn’t have Robert Redford. Maybe someone a little more low rent like, I don’t know, someone from the cast of Charles in Charge. Or Dustin Diamond. Ooh, that would be awkward. But still, four dollars. And I’m poor and therefore far less picky about my voice overs.

Speaking of voice overs: the other evening, the Boy and I were sacked out on the couch watching some naturey program about blue whales having illegitimate babies with finn whales and the moment that show came on, my P.I. radar went off.

“Is that Magnum? Oooh, Tom Selleck wants to tell me about whales. I’m in!”

“That’s not Magnum. It’s some old guy.”

“Click the info button.”

“It’s not Tom Selleck.”

“Hit the button!”

Vindication. Sure, he’s sounding a little older (he’s sixty something, for heaven’s sake), but baby knows her Magnum. I dream of those jogging shorts every night.

Fast forward to last night when my ears perked up during the crazy starfish episode of Planet Earth.

“Is that Ripley?”

“You mean Sigourney Weaver?”  the Boy laughed. I gave him a face that said, you heard me. RIPLEY. After he’d forced me to sit through Aliens, Ripley and I were well acquainted. 

“I’m not sure. But I’m not really in a position to challenge you on voices.”

I confirmed my suspicions with the cable guide, laughed and said I liked how this was going. If all goes according to plan, it won’t be long before he’s not in a position to challenge me on much at all. Total domination! Because that is how all healthy relationships operate.

Feeling grumbly and tired, I was sitting here at my desk wondering how I could get my hands on a desperately needed a doctor’s note to get out of gym class life today, when I happened up this Facebook status:

Lori is going to go get a cup of coffee and try not to punch anyone in the face.

And then I chuckled into my computer screen because, well, it’s like the calls are coming from inside the house. The elastic waistband of my slip is too tight, the dog crapped in the house and my complexion bears a remarkable resemblance to Pizza the Hut. So it’s no surprise that during this morning’s rainy commute I found myself in a climate controlled temper tantrum, hurling insults at my fellow commuters*. Karen Carpenter tried her damnedest to soothe me but only succeeded in making me feel sad and angry that my 3.8 mile commute was taking longer than an episode of Two and a Half Men. Seriously, even when Karen’s singing a happy song you can’t feel anything but sorry because of how things turned out. I know. I saw the movie.

A conference call, some bad customer service and oh my god, this gloomy weather (I fully expect to see flying monkeys within the hour) and just getting up out of my chair to grab a cup of joe seemed like a very risky venture. But then Lori made me laugh. God, this misery loves her company. It’s kind of pathetic, but sometimes just knowing that someone else is feeling stabby, too is all the talking down I need. You, too, huh? Honey, I’ve got a flask in my purse. Meet me in the bathroom in 5.**
 

*Road rage freaks me out. I mean, on the list of useless emotions, it’s right up there next to buyer’s remorse and Ben & Jerry’s guilt. So, in an effort not to indulge my own futile behind-the-wheel anger, I limit my outbursts to “You’re a really bad driver!” and “Burn! Take that, Honda Accord!” It doesn’t take me long to feel foolish rather than feisty.

** I once had a boss who would, on occasion,  roll a joint and make a pitcher of margaritas. Two words: employee retention.