Any minute now. Come on. Just one more second….

Sneezes into my open mouth. Coughs across my plate. Lingering green snotty face kiss.

Alright any moment now…. come onnn…..

Yes, good, the kids are all better, running around, wrestling, ready to resume all their 800 extracurricular activities I am stuck schlepping them to, which means in 3… 2… 1…

Boom.

I’m sick.

In the old days, I used to hate going to the doctor because they always insisted you have to be weighed. Apparently medicine only works when your self esteem is low, I don’t know how white blood cells work, but I’d get all nervous and sweaty about it, and then spend the next 20 minutes waiting in a room by myself having a panic attack that there’d be a sweat spot on the paper when I got up off the table.

End result? I never went to the doctor. I’d just take the kids, then at the end of their appoint the doctor would be all, alright, anything else, and I’d be like, oh yeah also I have a weird mole, vaginal discharge and probably sepsis could you call something in maybepleasethanks?

Thankfully, it’s the future and my doctor has an iPhone, so I spent yesterday in bed texting him things like…

Mucus waterfall in my throat.

S.O.S. Loose stool.

The tiny holes in my head where the hair grows out are screaming.

My face hurts when people breath on it.

Then I texted him a picture of something I coughed up into the sink that looked like a goblin from Labyrinth.

I think I had a twin inside me?

Alright enough. I’ve called something in to the pharmacy. I’m starting to dry heave.

After that, I spent the day largely drugged up in bed, sipping ginger ale through a bendy straw and reading.

I devoured Tiffany Reisz’s book The Siren two days ago. It was amazing. Like, the writing was insane, the dialogue was sharp and witty, and even though it took some WHAT THE FUCK THIS FEELS WRONG turns, I was hooked.

The sequel to Siren, The Angel, came out yesterday, and since I was up not breathing out of my nostrils anyway, I bought it at 6am. It felt like being in line for an iPhone only instead of an iPhone 5, I got kinky sex and mystery. Maybe if Apple had offered that instead of a new power connector, I would have ordered one. They know nothing about marketing and consumer demand.

I’ve been a bad girl, Siri.

May I suggest bracing yourself for a caning?

Andy can always tell when I’m reading something erotic, mostly because I’m holding my Kindle with one hand and he gets way more sex than normal. Which you would think would be a pretty good arraignment, but I think he got a little self conscious at first.

 Do you want me to like… spank you or something now?

What? No!

I don’t get it, you had me read these Fifty Shades books, and I don’t know if I should be worried that our sex life is boring you or what?

It was adorable. The fact is, for me, the most erotic thing in those books has nothing to do with sex. In fact, by the third Fifty Shades book, I was flipping through all the damn sex scenes to get to the plot. HOW MANY ERECTIONS CAN REALISTICALLY HAPPEN IN A ROW YOU GUYS!? No, the appealing part to me, in a very un-feminist fashion, was the concept that there was this guy, who ok, sounded super hot, that was very much in charge. Making all the decisions, both in the bedroom, and in life.

My whole entire day is decisions and worry. Work decisions. Parenting decisions. Personal decisions. What will we eat all week? What bills do I have to pay first? What clothes will the kids wear? Is it going to rain? Should I layer? How can I take care of everyone? How can I take care of myself?

Dude, it’s fucking exhausting in my head. Do I want to be spanked and handcuffed to a bed? No.

Ok yes, if it means I get to nap after.

But in principal, no.

I read these books because I’m a busy mom and wife and woman who sometimes wants to escape from a world where everyone is looking to her for some sort of answer, and she’s honestly just too fucking tired to give one right now and would really like some wine and someone to play with her hair for a while. And yeah, the sex scenes don’t hurt either, though my wrist could use a break. (rimshot)

The idea of giving up all that responsibility to someone else is like foreplay for my lady-brain. Now, Andy knows not to feel threatened or like he needs to manscape, and instead just gets to sit back while I pour over steamy books and he reaps the benefits in bed.

You know, when I’m not on medication that promises dizziness, nausea and excessive diarrhea.

 

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