We’re laying on the couch (which means Bryan is sitting up and I’m laying on the couch with my feet in his lap).

Me: So then, I turned around and.. hey, what’re you lookin’ at?

Bryan, raising an eyebrow: I’m trying to see your nu-nu in that skirt.

Me: You can’t see my nu-nu. You’re probably mistaking the folds of thigh fat for labias.

Bryan: Please, I can see it. Your underwear is purple.

Me: What?

Bryan: Purple. It’s purple or gray. I can see it.

Me: I’M NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR.

After the last post, of which I meant every word, God decided to kick my ass. He does this from time to time, to remind me that I have no need to bitch and that I should take stock and count my blessings.

We stayed up later than normal, in order to catch the premier of Tim Gunn’s Guide to Style on Bravo!. (Quick consensus: love any show where the host tells the feature, “No, you’re still slutty. You’re just not AS slutty as you were previously.”) Then, when I got up to go to bed, my heart started POUNDING. As in, I thought I was going to pass out.

My pulse raced for a good two hours after it started, with me trying everything I could think of to make it stop. Deep breathing, pillows between my knees, laying on my left side, everything.. nothing helped. I was FREAKING OUT. Finally, I just fell asleep. (I know. It sounds like I was freaking out, doesn’t it?) I woke up an hour later with my heart still racing, but now I had that lovely heartburn to add to it.

I woke up again with a fever this morning. So I’m sitting on my couch.

The good news is that Tony’s still feverishly kicking (no pun intended). Whatever’s plaguing me doesn’t seem to have slowed him down in the slightest. I called the doctor’s office, and we’re keeping an eye on things. If things worsen, I go in. (I don’t want to go in.)

Oh.. and last night’s Top Chef.. why do you think they wouldn’t let Howie send himself home? Mia TOTALLY did it in the last season. A parting thought before another nap.