Well, I'm taking Celebrex, and therefore, somewhat less percocet. My desire to barf everything up is gone and I'm eating more.

I ate some vanilla ice cream, angelhair pasta, with watery tomato sauce, scrambled eggs, white grape juice, and the usual assortment of otter pops and pudding cups.

I can only eat pasta if I have had percocet. Because after I've eaten it, I hurt so bad that I have to sleep for three hours, and while it's not prime rib, it's pretty good to me and worth a nap afterwards.

Tonight, Mike brought me in my small plate of pasta and I ate it and crashed and burned. I remember somewhere in there cuddling with Genny before she went to sleep. I never got to say g'night to Russell, though.

Today, though, he was angling on me hard that I was supposed to cook meals for him and he was all pissed off on some level that I wasn't dropping everything and making him food. He announced he was hungry for lunch and I quietly mumbled peanutbutter sandwiches. He started throwing a hissyfit that he had no idea where the bread was and came into my room several times in a huff. I looked at him, as I lay in bed and asked,"What am I supposed to do for you?" He stomped off, came back to tell me he found the bread.



Then I managed to get out to the kitchen and make myself a couple scrambled eggs and I didn't think to make more because my brain's just not functioning fully and he was really mad. Eggs are far worse than pasta, by the way, and I won't be doing that again soon.

Upon scent of my eggs, then my grizzly bear announced that he was starving to death and that I should take him to a buffet because he was starving to death. I said,"Please find something in the kitchen." He was absolutely furious because I could hear him stomping through the house.

So I talked, I mean raspily whispered, to Mike tonight and told him to tell Russell to knock it off.

I have no idea how that conversation went, but I'm of mind to thwap the boy, if he gives me any crap tomorrow.

I have several quicky meals -- frozen pizzas and stuff, but I can't even get that far to get them out and make them, sadly enough. I think I need to ask Mike to do something like that with Bear, so he learns some generic cooking skills. Or buy those single serve pizzas from Costco, that he can make in the nuker. Or yes, resort to physical violence involving a large weighted sock whilest I say,"homey don't play dat."