Sunday morning, I came home from recertifying my CPR, and found my husband, Wayne, laying on the couch with THE LOOK.
Ladies, you know what look I’m talking about.
It’s that “I’m sick” look.
I. Hate. That. Look.
It’s not that I’m saying don’t be sick.
I’m just saying, don’t look so pathetic.
You have a stuffy nose, not herpes, smile for goodness sake.
But I don’t say anything.
I let him wallow in self-pity all day Sunday.
I watch as he drags himself into the kitchen to make soup.
Probably nothing bugs me more than seeing people make soup when they’re sick.
It’s soup. Not the fucken elixir of life.
But again, I don’t say anything.
Monday he goes to work.
I point out that he’s sick.
And I know he’s sick because he’s still got THE LOOK.
This means more soup when he gets home.
Tuesday morning, he comes to me before leaving for work.
He’s showing me something on his Blackberry.
I’m like, “What?”
He’s like, “…grunt…”
I’m like, “What?”
He’s pointing at an email on his Blackberry, and “…grunt…”
I’m like, “What? What?” not in my nice tone
He’s like, “…GRUNT…” not in his nice grunting tone
Essentially he was showing me something completely insignificant, but he wanted me to see that he had lost his voice, instead of just whispering to me, “I’ve lost my voice.”
BUT he’s still dressed for work.
He’s going to fucken work.
I say, in my nice tone again because I’m really a nice person “You can’t go to work if you feel this badly. I’ll call the doc’s office and see if I can get you in.”
He grunts an “ok.”
Notice how it had never occurred to him to call the doctor’s office himself…?
Fast-forward to later in the day, because I’m pretty sure you don’t want to hear how I had to stiffle my foot from flying up his ass as he was shuffling out the door to his doctor’s appointment, Mr. Grunter returns with antibiotics and renewed hope.
He will live.
However, now, we have graduated to the stage of the illness where he wants to talk about the symptoms he’s been enduring these past three days.
….BECAUSE APPARENTLY I MIGHT NOT HAVE NOTICED THEM!!!!
I am now privy to a play-by-play of his sinus pain, his sore throat, his runny nose complete with tissue count.
“I’m sure I went through an entire box of Kleenex,” he tells me proudly.
And still I have not inflicted any pain on him.
Still I am
ignoring him remaining calm.
But then…then…he brings me a pack of pork chops and says, “Can you cook these up and make that sweet and sour sauce I like. We can have them for supper.”
What about the soup? Where’s the fucken soup now???
And then…then…he returns from the bathroom and describes his bowel movement to me.
Buddy, it’s the flu! You have the flu! People shit when they have the flu.
And then…THEN…he makes a snorting sound, ensuring that the phlegm rattle can be heard by everyone in the household, and says, “Oh. That’s new.”
Know what else is going to be new?
The pillow I’m going to be holding over your head later tonight because I can’t take it anymore!
So I must say farewell to you all.
Because I’m not sure I’ll have access to the Internet or my blog when I’m in jail for manslaughter.