The Grand Plan today was for me to take the day off of work, run some errands in the morning, go to my annual lube and oil change at 10:30 (and no, I'm not talking about my car), and then meet my sister in Slidell to go to Mississippi and do Christmas shopping--with the hope that I would be able to finish up the majority of my shopping today.

I managed to pick up my cleaning lady on time and left her at my house, then did manage to get my car mostly cleaned out and vacuumed, but did not accomplish getting my oil changed (and yes, I am talking about my car this time) because the line at the Express Lube was long and they were not being very Express-y. Went to my annual checkup, had the usual ignominies inflicted upon me, was informed that since I am now forty I get some exciting new ignominies as well like getting my boobies squashed between two plates of glass, and then also informed that because I had come in with a specific complaint I needed to schedule an ultrasound because god knows I had not yet had enough foreign objects shoved up my nethers.

Anyway. Finally finished all of that fun and giggles, and went to pick up my sister. Since I had not accomplished oil change in my car, and since it is kinda overdue, I asked if we could take her car. She was fine with that, and so we headed to Mississippi.

We hadn't even arrived at our first destination, when my sister coughed. Then everything fell apart.

Okay, I have to back up a bit. On Sunday, while Jack and I went to the Saints game and my sister was being kind and generous and watching Anna for us, my sister managed to take a bit of a tumble down the stairs from her attic. She's been stiff and sore since then, but still generally mobile.

Until she coughed. Then she turned six shades of pale, and pulled over at the nearest possible opportunity. (General consensus was that she'd managed to finish breaking a rib with her ill-fated cough.) Needless to say, we did not continue our shopping. Instead I took her back to her house, where we ate chocolate and watched "The Devil Wears Prada" while Sherry tried to not move, breathe, laugh, hiccup, cough, or twitch.

Eventually my brother-in-law made it home, and he drove me back to my car (which had been left at my sister's office) and I finally made my way home. At home, I discovered that there were two Netflix DVDs in the mailbox: "Flight 93" which I did NOT pick, and "The Breakup" which I also did not pick, but which I figured would be a bit more entertaining and non-depressing than the 9/11 flick.

Jeeez, I though this was supposed to be a romantic comedy? This movie is a HUGE downer and not to be seen if you have even the slightest issue with anything your partner does. We watched the first hour of it without seeing ANYTHING that was funny, and finally turned it off, instantly feeling happier and more settled in comparison.

Finally I kicked both Anna and Jack upstairs and captured some time to myself. After I finish this entry I'm going to curl up on the couch with a book, and pretend that Christmas is not in six days and that I have presents for everyone, already wrapped and labeled.

I may need more alcohol for that last fantasy.