I feel for my adored Rick and all he has to put up with. Whether it’s me sharing some of my erstwhile mental imagery at midnight when he’s trying to sleep, or making him cart my giant heavy weighted blankie from one room of the house to the other, or going along with one of my crazy ‘Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?’ ideas. Rick’s a saint. Not without his flaws, but a saint nonetheless.
And his visage takes on the mostly saintly glow of suffering when I don’t feel good. Today there’s a wildly varied buffet of fever, chills, body aches, allergies, and general ‘fuckin oh my goddess, where is the light, I don’t see the white light and I’m starting to be concerned about that.’
Rick, without missing a beat- “I don’t know what you’re worried about, for you, it’s not gonna be a white light anyway, it’ll be gold.”
Who can argue with that kind of logic?
Here’s an abbreviated list of the kind of crap poor Rick has had to put up with today while laying in bed this morning and trying, without any noted success, to sleep in.
Me- Hey, do you hear that?
Rick, listening intently and trying to puzzle it out- Is that a car or Zoe snoring?
Me, in a wail- It’s my stomach!
Rick, trying to stroke my hair.
Me- DON’T TOUCH ME!
Rick, lifting his hand gingerly and looking for somewhere else to pat comfortingly, starts to move towards the injection arm.
Me- NOT THERE WHAT ARE YOU DOING
Rick, pulling the blankie up over his head- Fine, not touching anything.
Me- STOP IT I’M HOT ENOUGH AND YOU’RE BREATHING UNDER THE COVERS AND MAKING IT HOTTER
Rick blinks.
Me- YOU’RE BLINKING TOO LOUD
And I’m not the only one giving Rick grief. His dog, a little tiny puff of floof likes to perch on his shoulder and bathe his face to make him get up and get her a treat. This little canine parrot parody will run this play over and over from 5am until Rick decides to give up on the idea of sleeping in altogether, and it doesn’t matter if he DOES get up to get her a treat… after fifteen to twenty minutes, she’s totally okay with starting the whole game over again.
Rick- Jaina, no!
Me, speaking for Jaina- Get up, Daddy, I need my treat. And before you think this is some sign of affection, I want to remind you that all I’m really doing is basting you right now. If you don’t get up and get me my T (we can’t say treat in this house without an explosion of puply excitement), I might just decide to start chowing on you instead.
Rick, sighing and glaring at me- She would, too.
Me- Probably.
Jaina got her treat.
Poor Rick.
Curiouser and Curiouser 