Brad is sick. Like, really sick. Like, his butt has not left the couch since Friday night sick. I don't blame him, because every time he gets up to do anything he starts coughing, gets dizzy and flushed, and then has to lay down again. He stayed home from work on Saturday, thinking he would feel better on Sunday. Sunday he felt worse. Monday, he felt like death warmed over, so I got out of bed early to call and see if any of the local clinics were open. None of the clinics that actually take our insurance were open, but I did find a non-insurance-taking clinic about a block away from our apartment open, MLK be damned, so I stuffed Brad in the car and drove him there.

(There is one part of this story that I am leaving out so far. The truth is that I had a minor tantrum when I couldn't find an insurance-taking-clinic, and stomped around the house for a good fifteen minutes until I got the bright idea to call Blue Cross directly. Apparently the entire BC/BS staff got the holiday off to march in an MLK day parade or something just when I needed them most, which induced more-house stomping and one cell phone throwing incident that shall not be mentioned ever again. In my cloud of irritation, I suddenly remembered the clinic down the street, but I couldn't remember the name of it. More house stomping and one unproductive call to 411 later, I finally stomped into the bedroom, griped at Brad to get in the shower, stomped to my car, and drove down to the damn clinic just to read the name on the sign. After some deep breathing at the stop light and a skinny tall mocha from Starbucks, I felt calm enough to return home and retrieve my sick boyfriend, whom I had to apologize to profusely. I'm sorry your girlfriend's crazy, baby. You don't deserve it.)

It turned out that Clinic Down The Street would see (and hopefully fix) Brad for approximately $37, which seemed like a deal to me. At this point, I would have been happy with a doctor wearing a rubber chicken around his neck instead of a stethoscope, as long as he/she would give us drugs. Our doctor turned out to be a very nice man who looked exactly like the little bald dude on Monopoly (yes, the board game) with the dialect of Boomhauer on King of the Hill. From what the man said, Brad apparently does not have Strep (I think), but the only words I could make out were "prescription" and "hydrocodone cough syrup". Brad and I both perked up our ears a bit at that, and the doctor laughed a little and said, "If you have any left over, you can always take a double-dose for pain." Right, Dr. Monopoly. That's what I keep codeine on hand for. "Pain."

$92 dollars (92! Dollars! Later! Apparently it cost quite a bit to stick a Q-tip down someone's throat to test for Strep. We would have brought our Q-tip had we known. I mean, $92 dollars is not a lot of money in terms of Brad's health, but compared to the $15 co-pay we would have paid had Martin Luther King not needed his own whole Monday off, 90! 2! Dollars! is a lot of fracking money.) and two $5 dollar perscriptions later (thank you, co-pays) and we were back at home, Brad was back on the couch, and I was deciding whether or not to steal sips of his hydrocodone cough syrup. (I didn't, by the way. Yet.)

The ammox hasn't really helped yet, I don't think, since Brad is still coughing, still lying on the couch, still winded when he stands up and walks ten feet to the kitchen. Up to this point I've managed to NOT catch his cold. I am fighting it with a one-two-six punch of Emergen-C's (little packets of vitamin C that fizz in water like Alka-Seltzer), Source Naturals Wellness Formula, Zinc, oranges, cloves of garlic, and all the water I can drink. It's worked pretty well so far, but I can feel a headache coming on, the dull throbbing I-might-be-getting-sick kind of headache. Now I'm left with hoping fervently that I am spared the ass-on-couch disease. I spend enough ass-on-couch time already, I don't need my immune system claiming real estate there too.

I asked Brad yesterday if there were any comfort foods that I could get him, as I need popsicles and Spaghetti-Os STAT if I am expected to get over a cold. Brad's list of comfort foods? Pecan pie with whipped cream, frozen pizzas, and potato chips for his scratchy throat. Mmm-hmm. (You try figuring that last one out, and let me know what you come up with. My head hurts just thinking about it.) Tonight I went to the store and bought all the usual stuff - salad greens, broccoli, squash, and bananas (some people call this produce, our refrigerator calls it "Great, more stuff that will rot before you get around to eating it") chicken, eggs, orange juice, shrimp, pecan pie, whipped cream, potato chips and frozen pizzas. Which of these things are not like the others? A woman actually stopped me in the chip aisle to tell me that the low-fat Lays taste just as good as the regular ones. Woman, I know my ass is big, these potato chips are for my boyfriend's scratchy throat, okay? OKAY.

Brad is moaning from the other room. Must be time to refill his potato chip bowl. Hugs! Kisses! Love!

Lucy loves you |