I'm feeling better enough to drag my sorry butt to work today, so I guess I'm done for now with lolling about in an over-the-counter drug induced fog. I think I've coughed up a lung in the past two days, but I'll carry on.
I've got the guilts, because I didn't entirely stay home and sleep all day yesterday. The Husband came in to the bedroom to check on me and told me he was headed off to an estate sale. 'Gee, it's really too bad you can't go', he said, 'it's in Mission Hills.' Well Homeboy didn't say it's in Mission Hills, which is sort of the Kansas version of Beverly Hills. And sorry to be so blunt, but when someone in Mission Hills kicks it, there's bound to be some good stuff at the estate sale.
So, I did my best sad face (not hard since I was already looking like hell), and the Husband kindly offered to wait for me to shower and get ready so I could go, too. I got it together in about 20 minutes and we were off!
The home was lovely, like something you would see in a John Hughes movie, circa 1985. They could have filmed 'Sixteen Candles' there. There wasn't too much I was interested in, though. I went to the kitchen first, but there weren't any good vintage cookbooks. Maybe they dined out a lot. We poked around a bit more, and I did get a U.K. version of Monopoly from the 1960's, and that was about it. The Husband didn't really have anything to show for his efforts, either. We dined in high style at Chic-Fil-A (I love that place!) and headed home.
Of course, the entire trip was the perfect opportunity for the Husband to use his newly acquired GPS thingie. Why, if he knew in 'real life' where the house was, did he have to use that thing and then argue with it all the way there because it was giving him the 'wrong' directions? I guess it's a guy thing, because I certainly don't understand it at all.