“Jon? Honey? Did you remember to take Wednesday off as a personal day?”

“Uh…No. Why? What’s Wednesday?”

Stunned silence.

“It. is. our. ANNIVERSARY.”

“Oh.”

“Our NINTH anniversary. We have been talking about this for a couple of weeks, remember? We were going to have time together instead of gifts? I got the kids taken care of? We are going to spend the day together in bed watching tons of movies and ordering in food and having lots of awesome “Relations” any and everywhere in the house? REMEMBER?

“Yes, but, um…”

“Um, WHAT?”

“Well, there’s a reason I didn’t ask for it off.”

“Yes?”

“The kids will be off of school after a half day. We can hardly relax around the house with them running everywhere.”

“I told you, I already arranged for them to play at my sisters after school and then they are spending the night with grandparents. So that isn’t a problem.”

“Um…”

“Um, WHAT?”

“Well, it’s…um…Our department Christmas Lunch…and…It was supposed to be last week, but they, um, changed it…”

“You mean a separate from the company Christmas party that we just attended on Saturday? You know, the one where I quelled my massive anxiety to perform with you for the people YOU work with?”

“Um…Yes?”

“But we had plans. I went over it and over it with you to see if you were happy with the arrangements. You have been coming home so late with all your consulting work that instead of gifts we were just going to spend time together. It’s not just some “Thing” or appointment, it’s our anniversary…”

“And it will still be our anniversary when I’m off of work.”

Silence. Horrible. Awkward, silence.

“I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

I know, I know. I hate it when people drone on and on about being Sick! Or Hacking Up Mucous!! Or having Leprosy of the Vocal Folds!!!

It doesn’t spare you. Nope, I’m a hater today. A hater of those who don’t struggle to breathe and phonate and who haven’t been sick for going on TWO WEEKS. At least I don’t have Whooping Cough. They called me today with the negative results. Still, whatever the freak it is that I am infected with is pretty freaking horrid.

I sound like a freaking dying emu. Ok, I’ve never actually heard a dying emu, (Or a healthy one, for that matter) but I’m sure that I am doing a freaking good imitation of one right now. I’m also sure that dying emu’s also use the word “Freak” a lot.

**Don’t we make a lovely pair?  Thanks, Photoshop Dave!

I.sound.terrible.

Don’t believe me?

CLICK HERE. I’ll sing you a little lullaby…

See? That was a GOOD TAKE! Aren’t you totally glad you clicked on that link to hear my sexy, infected tones? You can totally sound like me if you want too. Let’s make out later in the parking lot. You’ll be sounding like a two-penny whore in no.time.flat.

I even look like a two-penny whore lately. One of the few times I have been out of the house was an adventure to the grocery store. I was really too sick to be there. I.looked.horrible. However, I was so dehydrated and kept throwing up and the only thing in the world that sounded good was Dole Bottled Peaches.

I had no makeup on, two days of bed head, and was wearing pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt hoodie. Plus, I was pissed off that Jon wouldn’t go get them for me, so I was wandering the aisles having an argument with my husband. OUT LOUD. BY MYSELF.

The gaggle of teenage boys who were laughing their asses off at the crazy homeless woman talking to herself and pushing a grocery cart can hardly be blamed.

Oh, well. At least I got my damn peaches. And they are awesome. I have to go participate in their golden loveliness now and hack up my remaining lung.

Mmmm…Peaches…

Nom, nom, nom, nom, nom, <Hack! Hack! Hack!> Nom, nom, nom, nom, nom, nom

Mmmm….

So.

Does anyone know the best way to stop the 400,000 gallons of suds coming out of my dishwasher due to James putting in dishwashing soap instead of dishwasher detergent?

Help.