I write letters to Ellen DeGeneres. No particular reason. Just because I can.
My husband came home from work around his usual time. I was sitting at the kitchen table feeding my children a well-balanced meal consisting of meat, cheese, fruit/vegetable (depending on how one classifies a tomato,) and whole grains. What can I say? They love pizza. Pizza and pancakes are about the only things we can get them to eat.
Hugging and kissing each of the kids, my husband looked at me and smiled:
Husband: How are you?
Me: I don’t feel good.
Husband: What’s wrong?
Me: My head hurts, my nose hurts, my throat hurts, and my teeth hurt. I have really bad gas and I think something’s growing in my stomach.
Husband (chuckling): Could you be pregnant?
Me: Well that would explain the recent weight gain and compromised immune system.
Husband: But not the gas?
Me: No. I’ve decided the gas is a super power that developed late in life.
Husband (laughing out loud): Why do you say that?
Me: I let one loose in the basement earlier. Ten minutes later I went up to the second floor of the house and both the cats were on the floor of the hallway, unconscious.
Husband (shaking his head): How about the kids?
Me: They’re fine. They’re immune to anything that involves sleep. That’s their super power. Listen, I’m finished with dinner and I feel like crap. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go upstairs and die now. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of pizza left to get you through the funeral. But when you run out, you’ll have to order it yourself. The number is saved in our phone under the name “What’s for dinner?”
I wish I had more to say on this topic, Ellen, but I feel icky (it’s a totally legit medical term. I know because I made it up.) I’m going to bed.