Ladies and gentlemen, that was the sound of Jay taking off her bra.
What a day!
For the past week I have had hardly a moment to myself because Jason has been home. Constantly. In theory, that always seems like a good idea; when I don't see much of him I begin to fancy that I 'miss' him or something, and I think it would be nice to see him, spend time with him, have him around.
Yeah, I should know by now: not so.
There is such thing as too much of a good thing, if it was ever a good thing to begin with. And I say this because Jason was home sick. Jason is the whiniest, most pathetic sick person you will ever meet. I tried to run away from home twice, but the sound of his whines just paralyzes me.
Every ten seconds he emits this tiny little cough to prove how sick he is, but I can tell it's fake. Of course it's fake! And each sniffle he has to magnify ten fold to prove how congested he is, as if this cold has him knocking on death's door.
"Jay, is it time for me to take some more cough syrup?"
"Jay, does my forehead feel hot?"
"Jay, do I look dehydrated?"
"Jay, could you bring me something good to eat?"
"Jay, I can't remember where I left the kleenex."
"Jay, do you think I should take some Tylenol?"
"Jay, do you think a shower would loosen up the phlegm?"
Oh shut up.
There, I said it.
I was sweet and sympathetic and wonderful for the first 3 days, but after that, give me a break.
He's finally out of my hair today, and thank goodness. I don't think I've taken in one full breath since the last time he was at work, and that was 7 days ago! I've been so busy catering to his every need that I haven't kept up with my usual housework or my dedicated 'me' time. Instead, I fluff his pillows, bring him drinks, fetch his warm fuzzy socks because his toes are cold, and then take away the warm fuzzy socks when he has overheated...I give him backrubs and watch dumb movies and quite frankly, I can't stand it anymore. Whether he felt like it or not, I was kicking his butt out of the house this morning.
So of course I spent the whole day scouring the house, picking up trails of his grody kleenexes (if that's not love, I don't know what is), washing 2 loads consisting solely of hundreds of pairs of Jason's warm socks, and I even made him a big pot of swedish meatballs, which would usually mean that I am in store for some big-time lovin tonight, only I'm not sure if I'm too enthused considering post-nasal drip and the dry wheeze of his lungs are not exactly turn-ons for me.
I didn't really get around to the 'me' portion of my day: I didn't go for a walk, or work out, or read any of Moll Flanders, or visit anyone, or even bake. But hopefully after spending 11 hours at work, where no one cares if his toes are cold or his glands feel swollen, he'll come home having completely forgotten that he's been sick, and it will be business as usual.
Unless, of course, I get sick. In which case, I have but one word:
Sweet, sweet revenge.