This blog post was supposed to be about the Bachelor because I just watched my first three hours of it ever and I have some Things. To. Say.
But instead its about a sick boyfriend who needs pats on the head and gatorade with-a-straw.
Boys are quite possibly the most pathetic of the ill. I am pretty terrible at being sick, but stoicism has never been my strong suit. Boys puff up their chests and show us their tail feathers until they have a temp-a-ture and a yucky tummy. Then it is all sleeping and wallowing in the biggest ocean of self pity that can be found.
So tonight its disinfecting the entire house, keeping the cat from making too much noise and putting the ginger ale on ice.
On the bright side, I got to be a part of this conversation:
After telling me he didn't want anything besides a single piece of bread, he looked at me for a minute, "Um."
"Yeah, what do you need?"
"Um. Are there, like, stomach flu shelves?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, you know, to sort things."
"To sort things?"
"Yeah, to, you know, sort things for your stomach flu."
"To sort things where?"
"You know. In bed."
"That's a thing?"
"No. Sorry. That is not a thing."