The one positive thing that comes of being sick over a weekend is that I get to rule over Netflix streaming.
Netflix is my homegirl. She knows that I enjoy depressing political documentaries just as much as I do Ron Burgundy (and she cheats on me a little by suggesting G-d awful computer nerd documentaries for Bub). Only because I was pathetically sickly (and Bub was working in the other room) did I get to enjoy my horribly depressing documentaries in peace.
Cut to me watching "Children Underground". Basically, to bulk up the working class not-too-many-moons ago a dictator in Romania made abortions and birth control illegal. Now (or at least in 2001) there are horrendous amounts of homeless children living together in subway stations (imagine little orphan Annie if you took away the singing and made her huff paint). It's all subtitled, depressing, and not the thing I need to be watching before this particular Tuesday. This led to Bub looking up from his computer screen long enough to shout "Jesus, woman, I can't even understand a word they're saying and I'm depressed".
And on that note - your manly fact for Monday, Bubba is the worst nurse, like, ever.
Granted, I am not always the easiest patient. I have no idea why, but if you give me a large mountain to climb physically or emotionally I will instantly turn into robo-woman, start playing eye-of-the-tiger in my head and get. that. shit. done. (Case in point - if you count egg retrieval, I've had 3 surgeries in the last seven months and tossed in an HSG just for funsies. Didn't bat an eye).
That being said, should I injure my thumb cleaning a wooden spoon - as I did a couple of weeks ago - this will lead to me thrusting said thumb under Bub's nose saying "I don't believe you're not more appreciative of the fact that I'm practically dying".
So my illness this weekend may or may not have resulted in me hurling my face into his lap in the least sexy way imaginable and saying "No, seriously.. Go on without me, live your life.. But should you insist on getting re-married when I'm gone, please make sure that woman always feels second best to the saintly dead wife and don't let that bitch touch any of my stuff".
Sidenote: my Grandma has a clause in her will, apparently, that says that should my Grandpa get married after, woman number two is not allowed any of her stuff. I'm with her.. Should I die I'm not going to say shit about 'get re-married and be happy'. I want Bub to get all Biblical and hurl himself off a rock into a holy river.. is that so wrong?
In other news, several friends who I thought for sure would be murdered have not been.
Mr. T., the gay husband, has arrived back from a gay cruise for a few days before he gets travel crazy for shows. Now, if we listen to the gospel according to Dateline (as I do) cruises are not in fact romantic getaways but where you go if you're trying to murder someone. Seriously - every other weekend it's some newly widowed man-woman looking into the camera with a glint in their eye saying "prove it, asswipe, prove it".
I made sure to point out before he departed that should his husband, or any guy for that matter, suggest a 3 AM stroll around the boat that he's not being romantic, he's trying to shove you off the side. (Even in Titanic, for chrissakes, Rose is clearly a murderer because if she really wanted to save Jack she could've have done something crazy like I don't know... shoved over on that door, a bit). Pleased to announce that Mr. T is back on dry land.
My darling friend Jessica went to Paris, Spain... and a few less safe places. Places where a woman needs to wear a Burka, and she has a mouth on her like I do. (Suffice it to say I will be never going anywhere where a Burka is required.. because I would be murdered). She has arrived back in NY.
Last but certainly not least, my snazzy bad ass sister-in-law, Bubella. On Sunday morning Bubella left me a panicked (and hilarious) voice mail because she was home alone, she and a friend were upstairs, heard a noise, came down to investigate, and all the cabinet doors in her kitchen were open and stuff was moved around. Turns out another friend had been dropped off in the morning, saw that the front door was unlocked, and played a trick on her (Bubella was home alone for the weekend).
My first reaction was to laugh, and then I went into what the fuck are you doing with the front door unlocked?
Now granted, she lives in a good neighborhood but Bub and I's first apartment was a mile or two away - and in the ghetto. Seriously. I had neighbors slash my tires, there were break-ins, and every time I went to the local 7-11 I had a homeless man try to wedge himself into my car.
So I did my best to scare the crap out of her, and explain to her quite rightly that there are literally men in her neighborhood who drive around non-stop with their willies out, Friday through Monday, looking for teenage girls home alone. And if I ever hear she forgets to lock the door again I'm going to come light her hair on fire.
Man, I'm such a good sister.
As I have mentioned before - we have a friend relationship. I'm not parental or authoritative in any way, unless of course she starts injecting heroin into her eyeballs. I figured long ago, should I not die a Burka-related death and poor Bub be forced to hurl himself off a rock, most of her life we're going to be adult-friends. Case in inappropriate point, my handy work when she visited last summer:
That's a vulva with wings on her forehead in case you were wondering.
Could not love this girl more. Oddly enough, if you count all my siblings - biological, in-law, whatever - I technically have 4 (all of whom could legally marry each other, by the way). Bubella is the only one I never shared any genes or upbringing with, and she is by far the one I am closest to and the most similar to.
My fantastic, wildly creative, unfuckingbelievable sister-in-law Miss Bubella has started a blog. I'm so excited I don't know if I'll be able to stop shaking long enough to light her hair on fire if need be. Go, Read, Follow, Encourage, Tell her of the willie-men.