Mr. Lane was going to post pictures of me in the bathtub on the blog. Why would a husband want those types of photos on the internet makes no sense whatsoever, unless you’re Mr. Lane. Lucky for me, and you, the camera was out of batteries. Seems that a certain daughter of ours used up all of the juice taking pictures of herself and the cat.
My old man wasn’t trying to share my nudity with the World Wide Web. He was simply trying to make fun of me. Kind of like what I do to him on a day-to-day basis. This is all linked to why I haven’t blogged in so long. Mr. Lane came home from a road trip. He was gone for about a week. When he arrived, he was “suffering” from a cold. He whined and complained, claiming death was coming for him. By the way, he had no fever or any other major symptoms other than those from the common cold.
Mr. Lane has always been a big baby when it comes to these things. Plus, he blamed me and the kids for giving him our germs, which he always does. I kindly reminded him that none of us were sick. I also reminded him that he was gone for a week and traveled to Iowa, Minnesota, Indiana and Michigan. I suggested that perhaps he picked the bug up somewhere else. He insisted that his pending death was the result of us “germ-infested mongrels” whatever. So I did what I always do, I made fun of him. Later that night, he gave me a big fat kiss.
A side note is needed here… do old married couples make out? I mean, at some point don’t we save French kissing for very passionate moments? Am I a prude or is this normal, I really don’t know?
Anyhow, that man stuck his tongue down my throat. Tonsil hockey at it’s best, all for the sake of sharing germs. He is an evil little man. And of course, after his little stunt, poetic justice was on his side and my words came back with a vengeance and kicked my fucking ass. I was sick all week. Really sick, whistling through my tits wheezing, thunderous head ache and sinus pain like I haven’t had in years. My throat and body ached and it felt like little tiny garden gnomes were standing behind my eyeballs knocking on my optic nerves with trowels. Not fun at all.
As shitty as I was feeling, I would have rather cut out my own tongue than admit to how lousy I felt. He would have won the battle and war had I said anything. Suffering in silence is not my strong suit. But a couple of days into the mother of all colds, Mr. Smartass called and said, “Wow honey, you sound really stuffy. Are you feeling okay?”
Lying my best I said, “I sneezed before I answered the phone, but I feel great.”
Disappointed, he said, “Oh.”
Lying to him over the phone was much easier than in person. When he came back home, he could clearly see the dark circles around my bloodshot, teary eyes and my raw nostrils from blowing my nose nonstop. And there was certainly no mistaking my need for a two hour bubble bath. I always need that when I feel like crap, and he knows it.
While filling the tub, I reached for my bubbles. I opened the bottle and poured them in, but it was coming out slow, so I gave the bottle a little squeeze. Next thing I know, I squished out a third of the bottle into the tub. With the jets on, the bubbles exploded into mounds of billowy fluff. I don’t think my old man ever saw anything funnier. He laughed so hard he had to sit down.
Trying to act like I meant to do that, with bubbles clear up to my chin, two feet over the tubs edge, I tried to not laugh with him. But stifling your laughter with a cold is not such a good idea because snot bubbles can come out, which by all rights could cause one particular husband to laugh so hard he can’t catch his breath.
Now aren’t you glad there was no photographic evidence of this event?
