Dr. Wookie's Prognosis: A Summer Cold

If that doesn't sound like a complete crock of redundancy, I don't know what is. But that's what wook's estimated call was last night as I plopped onto the couch last night, begging for some chicken noodle soup, a tranquilizer, and lots of blankets. I just wanted to pass out and wake up better. Too bad the illness fairies don't work like that. Damn illness fairy union.

Yesterday wasn't all torture. But the hours did seem to drag on as I was praying for 5:30 to hit. Then I went to Kmart for some Nyquil because I refused to be awake for another night of tossing, turning, post-nasal drip, and such. I also increased my stash of men's handkerchiefs (because, well I soaked through the 2 I had in less that 24 hours. How's that for a faucet nose?). And I also got some Kleenex with lotion. And so more throat lozenges (in lemon lime!) since I left the other pack on my desk.

But then I forgot wook's Twizzlers. Woah is me to forget that boy's candy when I want to be run over by a Big Rig on a runaway path down the Siskiyous. (And for note, he didn't have any gruff about the candy, it was more me that I forgot to get them for him.)

So I stop by Farm Fresh (supermarket) to pick up some chicken noodle soup, some bread, and those elusive Twizzlers. Campbell's soup? Check. Bread? Check. Twizzlers? Nope. Only "pull-and-peel."

And then I had a familiarity of home.

Apparently while standing in line to check out, I must have looked so miserable and sick and just wanting pajamas, a couch, and a frying pan to the skull, that the Starbucks guy waved me over to ring up my purchases. And oh my, was he cute. And 17, he says. And gay. My very own Bradford. So adorable. And he even let me in one the new releases for travel mugs of Starbucks. I'm so in! I would have shook his hand, but let's face it...I'm apparently ill at this point.

Fast forward after a full belly of chicken noodle soup, a full dose of Nyquil an hour earlier, and I'm starting to fade. Thank goodness. Relief. So I text my mom that I'm crashing for the night, and crawl my way upstairs.

But then the inevitable happens. I wake up. At 3:something. Nyquil worn off. Freezing! Dying. So I go downstairs for not 1, but 2 allergy pills. Some of those lemon lime throat numbing lozenges. Go back up to bed. Then I hear my damn phone making the "I'm dying" beeps. Ya, you and me both, phone. So back downstairs I trek. Still cold as a popsicle. Phone's now plugged in. I crawl back into bed. I try and steal feet heat from wook, but that's a no go. Instead, he makes a move down to the couch. Apparently I was roasting, a tossing and turning, and gagging on drip that he couldn't handle it anymore. So he moved. I go from feeling awful to worse. The poor boy who has an early start time too can't get a wink of sleep next to the snoring, sneezing, wailing Ging.

So now it's 20 minutes before I have to be out the door myself for an early call time too. And the hair's still wet. Still in pajamas. Still cold despite having blankets all up on my feet and legs.

I need to get moving. But I'd prefer it be towards the back pasture. With the farmer following. Double-barrel shotgun in hand.