So, as I'm sure you gathered from the other 4 previous posts, I'm sick. "So, get in bed, dummy." Factoid: once I'm up, I'm up. There is no going back to bed for me. Trust me--this has been tested for decades, and with only one result--futility.
Weef has confined me to the downstairs. Her exact words were, "You are to go downstairs, do NOT come upstairs until 11, get some rest, and I'll make sure the girls leave you alone."
So I've been sitting here, staring at the screen. Weef came downstairs with a HUGE glass of V8. "Here. Maybe this will help you feel better. I'm going to make some eggs in a bit. I'll bring them down to you."
Isn't she sweet? I sure do love that girl.
Music for the Masses
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1 comment:
she is such a great wife, lucky you! Are you better yet?
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