I spent most of the last four days on my back. My rump is killing me. I can feel my muscles flattening by the second. A couple of days ago, I got off the couch and did a few squats, in an effort to prevent myself from going completely to seed.
And then I fell back on the couch.
I feel like a bug in a mayonnaise jar. My sister had her baby on Thursday (I think; I've lost all track of time), and I haven't been able to see him. Due to a sick husband (who gave this thing to me, thank you very much) and two sick children, I haven't been out of the house since 2004.
I have watched so much television I am about to sprout antenna. I am an expert on just about everything, from the end of Jen and Brad's marriage (very sorry about that) to the inner workings of Amber Frey's mind from every day from December 2002 to the present. I cried my eyes out with John Travolta and Joachim Phoenix when Oprah eulogized Mattie Stepanek.
I tried to play along with Jeopardy, but I kept answering questions in the "F-Words" category with words that start with "O." Peter said he knew it was getting bad when I waved back to the staff in a commercial for a local jewelry store.
The offspring are up and watching infomercials. Child One, in particular, gets all fired up by infomercials for cooking implements. She's addicted to cooking shows. She sat through Paula's Home Cooking with special guest President Jimmy Carter at least twice.
I must get something to eat. Robitussin on an empty stomach was really not such a good idea.