I came down with the bubonic plague over the weekend. My symptoms include feeling as though I want to fling myself off a cliff and a permanent need to have my head on a pillow. I also appear to have whooping cough. I'm currently rotting my teeth sucking on cough drops to suppress my cough long enough to function like a human being.
Over the weekend, my husband worked and I did my best to attempt to care for our children. Mostly I let them destroy the house and occasionally fed them raisins.
At one point last night, I announced to my husband that I feared I was dying. He patted my arm and gave me the remote. We watched Bridezillas and he resisted the urge to comment on my endlessly stupid taste in television. Last night's episode was hard not to enjoy though. Chick's husband-to-be left her at the altar. He drops her off at her hair appointment the morning of the wedding and isn't heard from again until the next day.
The reception went on without him. Chick wandered around in her dress crying. She cut the cake by herself. She even went ahead and let the photographer do formal wedding pictures of her in the dress. By herself. Looking clinically depressed. I wouldn't have posed for the photos. I'm not even sure I would have agreed to go in the reception room. And I love me some wedding cake. That's assuming there's no open bar. Because if there was an open bar, all bets are off. I'd probably tell them to roll the bar right into my hotel room. Bartender and all.
The best part of the show was when chick's missing in action fiance called the next day and apologized. She did what any good Bridezilla would. She forgave him and eloped with him to Vegas that very day. Chicks are nuts.