OK, common cold. You win.

(DayQuil -- fighter of the NyQuil! Champion of the sun!)

Nightman: What's wrong with you? You sound like hell.
Me: Oh, I'm fine. I'm not sick. I just can't breathe.
Nightman: You call a doctor yet?
Me: No! I'm not SICK. I just can't breathe.
Nightman: I don't know, Jacque. To me, "not being able to breathe" is something worth seeing a doctor about.

Monday is my cutoff. If I still can't breathe by Monday, I'm finally sucking it up and calling the doctor, where I'll lose $20 and about four hours of my time for her to see me for three minutes and write me a prescription.

I thought I was coming out of it, but in the last couple of days, my breathing capacity has severely diminished. And I'm back to the DayQuil and NyQuil. In a moment of genius yesterday, I became convinced I had allergies and went out and bought Claritin.

I'm clearly not a doctor.

Maybe it's stress. Maybe it's just the lack of an idle weekend at home. I traveled for something like four weeks straight -- Cincinnati, New Martinsville, Harrisburg, Hershey, Morgantown -- and although each of those trips were fantastic and fun, it didn't leave much time for rest with a cold that developed BEFORE I went to Cincinnati.

This weekend I've "grounded" myself. I'm not going out unless it's necessary, except for the gym. I know, I probably shouldn't even be working out, but I'm on a good streak lately and I feel bad when I miss it. And I love my gym. If you're one of my Charleston readers and you want a gym that you'll be in love with, I suggest Capitol Fitness. I giant heart how it's got great Pilates classes and it's never crowded. It also smells really nice, which was quite different than what I experienced at the Y on Tuesday night. Ick.

So, the grounding begins. I'm going to spend it on my couch watching movies in glorious high-definition quality and working on my show.

Speaking of my show, some very, very exciting new developments are in the works and it's HUGE! I don't want to talk a whole lot about it right now for fear of jinxing it, but it's VERY good and we're beside ourselves. Or, as co-host Jeff would say, we're "shitting rainbows."

Or, like my favorite Demotivator says: "Teamwork: A few harmless flakes working together can unleash an avalanche of destruction."

But now, I go fight the post office. Again. I f-ing lost a roll of stamps, and I'm still mad about it because I'd used TWO. That's $41.00 right out the window. Gah!!

My newest obsession

Dear Santa,

Please get me a drum set for Christmas. My co-workers would much rather have me in my house beating on these than beating on my desk with chop sticks while I listen to the White Stripes or the Foo Fighters.

At night, Santa, I dream about having a drum set. In my dream, I'm wearing my Yoda t-shirt and ripped jeans and I'm part of a band. It's not a girl band ... it's a band with normal dudes but I'm their drummer.

When I was in Morgantown a few weeks ago, I met someone who said he was (among other things) a drummer, too. In a drunken state, he asked me to play some sort of pattern on his arm. I failed. Of course, my hands aren't sticks and his forearms aren't snares or toms and a lot of vodka had been spent between the two of us.

But, Santa, I think I'm ready to show the world my drumming prowess. You remember back in fifth grade when I wanted to join the band? I wanted to play drums, but my Mom and Dad weren't too key on having that kind of noise in the house. They directed me toward the clarinet. I pushed for the saxophone.

I still love my saxophone. I love the saxophone, the flute, the trumpet and the trombone I have in my basement. I could have a one man band ... I'm just missing the drums.

So, if you could see fit, I'd love a drum set for Christmas. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I've been good this year, so if you could award me honesty points, I'd be grateful. I've not been good, just good at it. Whatever "it" is.

Thanks, Santa. You're pretty kick-ass.

Love,

Jacque Jo