The past two days were spent trying to weather a 101.2 degree fever, which is rather steep for little ol' 97.1 degree average me. My doctor sternly told me to stay home from work until it was gone. It's still in the 99 range, but fuck it. The last thing I need is to be out of work for a week wiff a fee-fer. Because, y'know my boss would totally buy that.

"Yeah, you're a big wuss. Get yer ass in here."

Those Venue pages aren't going to get themselves built on their own, that's all I'm saying.

The fever gave me wicked dreams, stress dreams amped up to $100 million blockbuster proportions, the sort where I would wake up and take a minute to realize I was in my bed, in Albuquerque, that I didn't have to retake algebra at my old high school at the same time as I was supposed to be at work. Naked. Because what's an anxiety dream if you're not naked?

And right now, I'm still convinced Juan Pablo Montoya's move to NASCAR was just a fever-induced hallucination. I'm not going to believe it until Bob Varsha starts gossiping about it on Sunday. When Bob says it is so, then I'll know.

Until then? Fever.

Adam repaid my kindness over the last two weeks by doting on me hand and foot, draping my feverish brow in wet dish cloths, feeding me pizza, keeping my sippy cup filled with water and making sure there were a string of seriously crappy movies in front of me. Seriously, this is what they were talking about "in sickness" in those vows.

Actually, thinking back, I'm not sure we covered the sickness/health and financial aspects when we got married. The rent-a-minister was more concerned with making us pledge our love to each other until the galaxies spun themselves out and the universe recompressed itself. I am not making this up. I've promised to love Adam until the next Big Bang, which opens itself up to a lot of mistress jokes, but maybe that was the point.

ANYWAY.

In other news, I'm so happy to report Adam brought my iPod back from the dead and we've redubbed it the zombiPod in honor of its renewal.

I can't tell you how glad I am to have the zombiPod back. I'd grown so used to, so dependent upon having all of my music at hand at all times. It was weird only hearing stuff in the car or on the days Adam lent me his iPod to fill the void. And while it was awesome to be entrusted with his iPod, it wasn't quite the same, y'know, given his Pearl Jam habit verses my U2 obsession. And, while listening to all of his music on shuffle, I made the unsettling discovery of two Creed songs, which made me ask if his having Creed was a deal-breaker this late in the game. Though I know he's equally disturbed by the miniscule amount of modern hip-hop I have on my iPod.

And now I've just realized I spent too much time working on this entry, when I meant to look over the pages I churned out while I was Thermometer Girl! and make sure I had written something of substance and not sixty pages of "2na0-b0w-a'rhnanthgrpqergnbn awnbtortrd."

My money's on the gibberish.

I'll take two Advil and talk to you in the morning.