2004-04-20 - 2:10 p.m.

Mondays. Why can't I ever get the hang of Mondays? You're thinking to yourself "But K, it's Tuesday!" and you'd be mostly right except that I'm having a seriously Monday-ish Tuesday. What's not fair is that I had a pretty Monday-ish Monday as well. Grump.

Warning, moderately graphic descriptions of bodily-fluid expulsion to follow.

Feast was fun, I didn't kill anyone, my feet hurt, had fun at Kynny & Freddy's party, ate too many chips, hung out with cool people but not enough.

Lessee. Sunday we got home late-ish and I was awakened at some absurd hour in the single digits of the morning to the sound of my husband inelegantly depositing the contents of his stomach into a porcelain receptacle. Hm. He didn't seem drunk when we came home. Perhaps just too many carbs after a long stint without? Then the sound of what I determine to be bailing. Bailing? Apparently our hero was caught with his pants down, literally - taking care of one need and suddenly needing to take care of another. Oh dear.

So, we opt out of dim sum with Moustache and the Countess (wah! Sadness and woe!) and go out to the site to get our stuff and the cooking gear, and the big O's car. Get home, talk to Moustache and determine that since we don't have wood for shop projects ('cause I failed on the informed shopping front earlier), that we won't subject Steve to a drive to Damascus.

So, we do minimal unpacking and loiter all day. O feels worse and worse. Bleah. Monday he feels horrible but heads off to work. I head off similarly when I hear a familiar thwapping coming from the engine compartment. I pull over, and yes, my ears did not decieve me, Iris has blown a belt *again*! (For those keeping track, that's three since I got back from the UK.... Grrr....)

Roadside assistance fu. Calling husband fu. Towing fu. Skilled tow driver who manages a three-point turn in a large tow truck with my van attached, on a fairly narrow roadway. We get the car over to a garage by DH's office (where he gets a discount even!) and then I'm off to the Metro. I was only two hours late to work.... Sigh.

(Keep in mind I've only been here a month....)

Work proceeds, I get stuff done, I Metro back to my beloved who by this point is quaffing Vanilla Creme Maalox by the quart and doubling up in pain every once in a while (say, every five minutes), has barely eaten all day and spent some time at work having quality time with the Porcelain Gods. Poor sweetie. I'd recommended trying to get a doctor appt but he hadn't managed it at work. We're now *very* glad we didn't visit anyone Sunday and a bit worried about the people we cooked for Saturday. At least we got the van back, and for not *too* much money.

So, I eat a burrito the size of my head for dinner, PS has water, and as we're getting ready for bed we discuss the trip-to-the-hospital concept. He manages to find a position to sleep in but that only lasts so long, so at 4:30 this morning we were off to hospital. Whee. He's now been to a GI specialist and they're running all sorts of tests and probes to figure out what's wrong. Poor, poor sweetie.

So, that's my Mondays. If we're not around much, that's why.

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