skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Thursday, 23 June
Last night the wife had mentioned a couple times that her throat was a little sore, and fretted about possibly catching something from the little germ-bombs she minds each day. Despite my best efforts to tune out her complaints in order to read the fiery "New X-Men: Wolverine Buys New Pants," some of her ramblings sneaked into my brain. I mumbled, "Well, you'll feel better tomorrow. It's your mutant power." "What?" she said, but when I didn't answer, she went to bed.
But sure enough, when I got home from work today, there was my gal, bundled up on the couch, looking pretty miserable. She honked a greeting at me. "My baby!" I cried, running over to give her a kiss on the forehead, making sure to lay down some plastic wrap on her skin first. "You stayed home today?"
"Yezz," she said, huddled in her robe. I felt terrible, and said so.
"This is terrible," I cried. "We really needed the money. But if you're too lazy and sick to go to work and earn your keep, I guess it's my job to pull up the slack." She stared weakly at me, saying nothing, and I sighed, feeling terrible about everything. "My girl," I cooed. "I guess I need to take care of you, huh?" She nodded sadly, and so I pushed her roughly off the couch and fluffed up some pillows and lay down.
"Well, I'll need my strength for this shit," I said. "And that means napping. In an hour I'll get up and go get you some of those discount throat lozenges from Latvia that you like. Remember? The ones that don't usually make you throw up? But right now I need rest." She honked again forlornly and crawled over to the baseboard heater to huddle against it, and I fell into sleep.
An hour later, I awoke feeling pretty rested. Time to tend to my gal! She was still lying on the ground clinging to the heat register; she really looked like she could use a hug, but she was pretty sweaty by now, so I just poked her with my foot. "I'm going to get some food," I said. "I'd make something here, but all we have is a box of Mike & Ike's." "That sounds good!" she said, perking up. "No. Those are mine," I replied. "How about some soup?" "Okay," she said, drooping. "Whatever you want!" I cried heartily. Sick people should be coddled.
So I wandered up to Broadway, where there is a perfectly fine Vietnamese pho joint. Pho, for the uninitiated, is a spicyish soup dish with rice noodles, onions, scallions, basil, bean sprouts and whatever happened to be slow enough to be caught and slaughtered that day. I ordered a couple small bowls to go, making sure to request "extra tendons" for the wife's, reasoning: tendons are funny. (If you're wondering about the "small" order portions, let me just say that pho places have their own ideas about serving sizes. "Small" means "you will piss for hours!" and X-large means "renal failure.")
Returning to our apartment, the wife cried out happily as I served up the soup. "What are these thick noodles?" she wondered as she slurped up tendons. "They're really al dente." I didn't tell her they were tendons; specifically neck tendons. I was using the "like treats like" medical reasoning, figuring that the neck protein would clear up her sore throat. (I saw this on a documentary once . . . I think it was called "Dr. Quinn, Frontier Medical Gal and Her Dancing Jesuit Bears." Something like that.) Also, I had thrown in of Vicodin into her bowl and dissolved them, because Jesus, how long did I have to listen to this bitch complain? She had already cost us a day's pay.
After a little while, having slurped up a good quantity of soup, the wife declared that her sinuses were feeling a lot better. "That's good!" I said happily, and then she pitched forward face-first into her soup. Boy, was she hungry!
Whoops, no, she was drowning. Soup bubbles gurgled up from the bowl and around her cheeks, but she was out. That would be the Vicodin. I hauled her skull out of the bowl by her hair, and winced as the broth spattered the carpet. Christ, that's going to stain, I thought, but dismissed it as unimportant. When the wife healed up, she could scrub that stuff out no problem, or just replace and install new carpeting.
Well, the poor thing was obviously done for the night. It was time for bed. I dragged her by her ankles into the bedroom and dumped her on the mattress, making sure that no part of her crossed the midline that I had drawn some months ago with Magic Marker (in case she forgot, my side of the bed reads, in large block letters, "SKOT'S SIDE"). I secured her leather restraints just in case she got some case of night-thrashes and intruded on my side of the bed, and then kissed her gently on the forehead, using a fresh piece of plastic wrap again for sterility. Poor thing.
I went into the kitchen and stacked up the dirty dishes neatly next to the sink for the wife to clean the next day. Usually I'd be a little irritated with having to do the chore, and I never like to go to bed knowing there's a dirty dish in the house anyway, but come on. She could always do them as soon as she feels up to it.
Tonight she needs her rest.
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That was hilarious! Please tell your wife that she needs to replace my keyboard after she is done scrubbing the stain from the rug and doing the dishes. I spewed diet Pepsi after reading the entry.
On a serious note, I do hope that the dental dam and boundary line kept the germs away from you Skot!
*sung to the tune of Delta Dawn*
It's heartwarming, it really is. Mine just pretends to be sick too so he can get out of nursing.
What I wouldn't give for the tender touch of an ankle drag..
You big softie.
The sad thing is this entry sounds almost exactly like my EX-husband and I. I did however find it hilarious. Happily, Karma came back and bit him in the ass....
Holly crap, I got a hernia trying not to wake the baby up with my laughing. May you suffer the next kiddie disease vector. xxxoo.
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