Take Two of These and Call Me in the Morning

I was feeling rather puny with a sore throat and possible fever. I grabbed a thermometer lying on the counter and stuck it right in my mouth. I immediately noticed an awful taste and realized I had forgotten to use a plastic thermometer cover. “That tasted like ass,” I remarked.

Brantley was standing nearby and hadn’t been paying any attention. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The thermometer,” I told him.

“Oh, sorry I left it laying out. I took Luke’s temperature earlier. I know it’s gross, but I couldn’t find the probe covers so I just stuck it right in his booty. I was going to clean it with alcohol but I got distracted.”

I suddenly felt worse, but it soon passed along with the aftertaste. It’s amazing what you’re able to get over when you’re a mom. Somewhere along the way I developed an immunity to the grotesque. Years ago this would’ve landed me on the bathroom floor, calling to the porcelain gods. Instead, I just shook it off and brushed my teeth, hoping that I used the right toothbrush.

Although I was unable to legitimize my illness with an actual fever, I didn’t let that stop me from whining. I went straight to my sick day catch phrase: “I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
Hearing this, Brantley rolled his eyes.

I laid it on thicker, “If I don’t make it, I won’t you to take all my stories and…”

“Set them on fire?” Brantley asked.

“No. What the hell? Why would you even say that?”

“I was just trying to finish your sentence.”

“Well you didn’t. Never mind. Just forget it. I changed my mind. I’m no longer bequeathing my stories to you. Consider yourself un-bequeathed.”

With a disgusted look on his face, he remarked, “Oh, that just sounds nasty.”