Fun for the whole family! And I don't mean the Nyquil!

I'm find.

In "Friends" speak, that's fine ... with a d at the end, to clarify that I am not, in fact, fine. In actuality, I have spent the last two weeks (that's fourteen days, for all you mathematicians) sick. It started out as a sore throat when I was in Editorial, followed me back to News as a head cold, and just when I started getting better, it all went to hell. But being, well, myself, I couldn't concede that I was sick, so I forced myself to go to work Friday and Saturday even though I felt like I had been hit by a bus. And I'm sure that my kickass job as Late News Editor Friday night, as Hurricane Ike came ashore, two trains crashed in L.A. and Russia decided to pack up and leave Georgia, didn't do much to negate my co-workers' perception that I am suffering from some form of TB and/or malaria as I spent eight hours coughing Saturday.

After spending the entire weekend on the couch save for a trip to Gene Juarez to get my brows waxed and to buy orange juice (equally important tasks), I finally gave up and admitted I was sick -- and, even more shockingly, I actually stayed home Tuesday. It probably comes as no surprise to anyone that calling in sick is something I normally don't do unless I think I am going to die and/or am standing in front of a firing squad (usually in the form of Chris, staring me down until I agree to go back to bed).

Even so, being the Type-A person that I am, I can't just lay on the couch and recover. Nope, I have to work on baby-shower projects, or make a DVD of L&C music videos, or do beta work, or make endless to-do lists for when I am better. No judgment; it's not like I had anything better to do. Stupid SoapNet took away my crack ("Melrose Place") with no warning! Now I'll never know if Megan returned to prostitution and Taylor figured out that Peter was trying to morph her into his dead wife. Damn you, Comcast.

And yes, I'm sure some of you are thinking hmm, couldn't you have worked on a little something called "This Ain't a Love Song"? Oh yeah, that. Guess what? It's almost done! (Hey, it's my blog, I can lie if I want to.) No really, it will get there. I've sketched out the whole chapter, and written some of it, but getting to the hard part is, well, hard. I just need to sit down and do it, and not when I'm doped up, either. Drinking, though, may be another story. A bottle of Riesling sounds like just what I need to get through Chapter 17.

I went back to work today, and my day was pretty normal, save for getting all teary watching Julie cleaning out her desk to go on maternity leave next week. (I blame the cold medicine.) But when I got home, I had another reason to cry, but this one was from laughing. You see, Chris' birthday was last Thursday, and since I was sick, we haven't technically celebrated, aside from me giving him his presents, a North Face coat from Nordstrom, and "The Yogi Bear Show" on DVD. (Yeah, guess which one he was more excited about? Hint: It wasn't the coat. And thank god for Amazon, where you can order embarrassing gifts from the privacy of your own home.)

Anyway, while "Yogi Bear" is acceptable in my house, his gift from his parents is, uh, not. Now I know, a gift is a gift, etc. But seriously. Chris is 29, and that's about 20 years older than the target demographic for the "Franklin Park Stadium Baseball" game (ages six and up), of which the No. 1 selling point is that it "fits on most standard tables!" (Or so it says on the box.) Seriously, I could not stop laughing. Happy birthday, little buddy!

(Visual proof is a must: http://ak.buy.com/db_assets/large_images/743/202321743.jpg)

Now Chris, being a much nicer person than his Mad Dog wife, tried to tell me that it could be fun. But after I gave him the staredown, he admitted that it wasn't something he would have picked out for himself. Now, if only we can figure out where it came from, and maybe he can exchange it for a set of golf clubs, which is what he was hoping for to begin with.

After all, his gift may be "fun for the whole family!" but it came with no guarantee that it will get me pregnant.

Oh wait, I spoke too soon. Upon pointing that out a few minutes ago, my dear spouse informed me that while playing Franklin Ballpark is unlikely to result in offspring, my ever-so-thoughtful (and subtle!) mother-in-law has a backup plan for the First Couple of Reproductively Challengedville: A relaxing getaway to a FERTILITY RESORT in Arizona.

Now that I have calmed down and picked my jaw up off the floor, here's what I am thinking about her little "suggestion": A. You have got to be f-ing kidding me. B. Is she offering to pay for it? (Because otherwise, we can have sex at home for free.) C. Is it too much to ask that my in-laws don't think about me and their son in the biblical sense?! And D. I know I went to public school and all, but I'm pretty sure a bed's a bed.

You know, I'm suddenly really glad I have a nine-iron at my disposal.

After all, clubbing her may not be fun for the whole family, but I'd sure enjoy it!