Everyone was hacking up a lung at work all week, but I was healthy Monday through Friday. No legit sick days for me. Heavens no. My cooties attack on the weekends. It might be due to the fella I keep on my computer screen. He's my trusty white blood cell Organ Donor. By the way, his backside is exposed, which gives many who walk on the other side a giggle.
This weekend the Manboy's in Warwick for the Warwick Pentath, a marathon cut into five races: half marathon, 4.6 km cross-country course, 5 km road race, 10 km ascent (to then up a large hill), and a 1.5 km sprint down the middle of town and back. I've been twice, but never to run all five. My favourite is the cross-country course, but no one else likes it. They run through a horse jump circuit (not the kind in a ring) and have to jump hay bales and other obstacles that horses jump. Great fun when you're knackered.
Bless their hearts, they got the dates wrong, on their masthead, but those who go, know. It's the weekend. That's all that matters. Manboy is just above the R in "Results"; he's wearing a blue shirt and yellow shorts. What you don't see is that those shorts have chillis on them.
What he doesn't see (yet) is that I embroidered little things on his undies where his tooter would be.
I'm alone for the weekend with great plans to do SFA (rhymes with "wheat truck haul"), but all I get are throat cooties. Suspiscious on Saturday, but convinced on Sunday. After I post this, I'll be on FaceTime with my mom, flashlight by my side. She's a retired pulmonologist, but if I tell her I'm sick, she demands to see the throat. Seriously. I used to take photos and send them to her. At least FaceTime spares me the "The light was bad. Do it again" emails back and forth.
At least I'm having a love fest:
It's hard to nap when ears need scritchin'.
Signing off from the fusty love fest:
But I do need rest, so it is time to take advantage of the boys' temporarly absence–sunning on the deck–for another nap.