A little ice cream will make it all better

Ugh.  I'm sick.  And it's kicking my ass.

Finally, I admit it.  Actually, I admitted it yesterday when I got to work and realized the place could run without me, and probably should run without me as my desk blotter was looking like a good pillow.

(I only drooled through two months.)

Anyway, on Friday, when I started feeling icky (thank you, Audrey) I whined a little to Mr W that if he really loved me, he'd get me some ice cream.  Because that is what a rational person wants when their throat is starting to hurt.

I figured he would get it and bring it to me.  On his steed, he'd go to Ye Olde Creamery and return with something decadent, and I'd not even have to lift my delicate head off the pillow to get my own spoon.  (Delusional, even before I took the Nyquil.)

But nooo-ooo.  No, he suggested we all go together, all of us, great, that's what I need.  To feel a little crappy, and take the whole family.  Whoo-hoo, sign me up.  I pointed out I was in my pjs, and he rolled his eyes at me as he started telling the kids to fetch their shoes.   I grumbled as I found my jeans.  Fine.  Whatever.

On our way to Baskin-Robbins, I remembered we were out of a couple of things and as the grocery store was right next door, maybe we could swing in and get them.  "But I didn't bring my purse, so I have neither money nor my savings card to the store," I pointed out.

"That's okay," he replied, "I have my wallet."  "But do you have the savings card?"  I asked, determined to save my fifty cents on milk.  "Yes."  I looked over my shoulder real quick to make sure no one was listening in before I  said "It's probably in there next to that condom you've been carrying around since you were 16,"  smugly, with a smirk.

"If I only knew ________"  he faded out, as he turned his head, and started chuckling to himself, pleased with a retort he didn't intend on sharing with me.  "What?  What did you say?" I demanded, mockingly.  "Nooo-othing,"  he insisted, giggling harder.

So I grabbed his arm and threw some punches at his shoulder, giggling too, "Tell me,"  and he still refused, continuing to get out of the van, rubbing his shoulder, muttering "bitch" under his breath.  (I hurt him.  Weenie.)  "What?"  I said to him, gesturing, half-joking, "there's nothing else I'd rather be doing, either?"  I came around to meet him, surrounded by the kids, who wanted ringside seats.  "I could be a doctor!  I could be driving a Porsche...with the Blaupunkt!"  as I gestured towards my well-used minivan, "and instead, I have this..." gesture towards kids, who are now not interested in me, and as if on cue, are jostling elbows and pushing each other, the picture of good behavior...just then Audrey decides to bend over slightly, wiggling her butt from side to side in the classic "stinky butt" maneuver, "I have wiggling asses in a grocery store parking lot!"  sweeping my hand over her for emphasis.

The teenagers standing outside the car next to ours probably thought I was nuts. 

Mr W, however, reached for my hand and pulled me towards him, "Oh, come on," he smiled, leading me towards the grocery store, our quail following us close behind.