Update

I have been meaning to post a really witty blog.  Maybe even post one of the BOM stories that have been accumulating.  There’s even a story about my BOM stories!

Alas, today is not the day that it’s going to get posted.  I’m sorry.  My excuse heavenly reason?  Well.  I spent all day Sunday on the beach.  I kid you not when I say ALL. DAY.  As in, I got to the beach even ahead of my boss who was supposed to be there early to reserve our beach spot.  From 7 a.m. to 5 p.m.  In the sun.  With sunblock of course.  I know, I know! This isn’t sounding like the excuse that’s going to necessarily break out your little violin and cry tears of sympathy for me.  But…wait for it.

So I spent all day Sunday at the beach, under the sun, with sunblock, SPF 50 mind you.  I even put the sunblock on my face even though there’s the little note that says, “non eye irritating” which we all know, of course, means “don’t put anywhere near your eyes unless you want to go momentarily blind.”  Had I read “Old Wives Tales, Chapter 3″ I would’ve known that a full day of sun + non-eye irritating gunk = instantaneous stye.

Now, I’d love to put together the witty blog that is rattling around up there in my mind about all the interesting things that I’ve been up to, but this stye of mine has effectively given me a headache for the past 48 hours.  48 hours is kinda my cut off limit.  So off to the doctors office I go.  “Warm compress,” he says.  “And antibiotics twice a day, for 10 days.”  I am totally psyched to get these antibiotics as it means that I may not have the ickyness so associated with styes.

So here I am, a little over 30 minutes later, and I’m not feeling so hot.  Actually, I’m miserable.  My eye throbs EACH and EVERY time I blink or close my eyes.  The throbs have blurred together to gift me with a relentless migraine.  And the migraine is now in turn making me nauseated.  I wish, dear readers, that instead of complaining, I would’ve wanted to spend the time putting together the ever so promised witty blog.  But that isn’t true.  I want to cry and complain like a rotten, spoiled child (not mutually exclusive, btw).  I want to throw a tantrum and clutch at my eye while I incoherently babble about my misery.

I want…ugh.  Nevermind.  I call uncle.  It hurts even to complain.  Witty Blog soon.