I went to sleep feeling that dry itchy thing in my throat.
I woke up after having a billion scary devil dreams feeling like someone had beat me about the head and shoulders with a baseball bat.
Usually, when I have one of my devil-possessing-me dreams (a left-over from seeing The Exorcist when I was only twelve years-old), I will roll over and grab one of my wife’s tits for security. It always wakes her up, but she’s kind enough to go back to sleep while I play with my ‘snuggie’ until I feel better and can sleep, too.
I didn’t do that last night, though. That’s how I know I’m sick.
I get up at six as usual and get on the computer and do my ebay selling and posting, then look at Facebook and drink my cowboy coffee. I like coffee so strong it can stand up without the cup. I only drink one cup this morning.
That’s clue number two that I’m sick.
I get the dogs fed and watered and outside for their business. Then I feed Asscat and I don’t even yell at him when he yells at me.
Clue number three.
I take three ibuprofen.
I put on a load of laundry and yell enough that my daughter finally gets dressed and brushes her teeth. I drive her to school and drop her off and forgot to say “I love you.”
I get home and switch the laundry to the dryer and put on another load and lay down on the laundry room floor for five minutes.
The linoleum feels so cool and good against my cheek.
I get up and take my temperature.
By this time I’m shaking, so I head up to bed and even though I’m sweating, I’m freezing cold, so I climb under all the covers. I lay there until I know I can’t sleep.
I reach over to the nightstand for a book.
I grab blankety-blank’s book “The blank blankety blank.” (I don’t want to type her name because she’s a damn good writer and iconic and powerful and could crush me like a cockroach under her big boot.)
I won this book of hers off Facebook several weeks ago. She had a contest about ‘I’ve been writing a book for three weeks, guess my word count so far.’ I won because I guessed the closest. It’s not that I’m all that lucky or anything, it’s just that she had posted about a month ago that she always writes about 1,500 words a day, so all I had to do was multiply and hope she was hitting her average.
Anyway, I got this book, now I’m going to read it while a fever ravages my brain.
I’m not very far into it before there’s a really hot sex scene. Two strange women are doing it in a bathroom. Sorry, the women aren’t strange. I meant to say they’re strangers. Well, they might be strange, too, but they don’t know that about each other because they’re strangers.
Temp is at 103.
I read the sex scene again, because… well, you know I may have missed something important. Some foreshadowing or something.
That’s when I see it. She wrote the words “distended clit.”
That disturbs me on so many levels.
I mean, I totally think I know what she means, but is distended really the right word choice here? I find it disturbing. Totally disturbing.
I look the word distend up in the dictionary.
To expand by stretching, as something hollow or elastic.
Ow! is all I think about that.
Or definition number two: to spread in all directions. As in “The sea distended around them.”
Now that would be one humongous clit. I’m not so sure I want a clit to distend around me and drown me.
Still 103 degrees.
Now, I’m worried about my own clit. Does it distend? Wouldn’t I know if it did? Do all clits distend and I just haven’t noticed in all my 30 years of love-making to women?
I think about calling my mom to ask her if the doctor said anything at my birth about me having a malformed clit. Then I realize it’s noon and that means my mother is probably at the casino and I don’t want to make her yell stuff about my clit over the sounds of the slot machines.
I decide to text my friend, Saxon Bennett. I type, “Does ur clit distend during sex?”
Non-plussed, (that’s what I love about Saxon, she’s never shocked) she types back, “I dunno. I’ll ask the little man in the boat and get back to u.”
Okay, that was funny, but it didn’t answer my question.
Next, I call my wife. She’s at work, so I’ll go into stealth mode and call her cell phone instead of the office landline. I don’t want this conversation taped.
“Hello, baby,” she answers. “How’re you feeling?”
“My fever is 103 and I’m deeply disturbed about my clit.”
“What?” she asks, dropping her voice to a whisper.
“Will you tell me the truth about something?”
“Uh huh,” she says like maybe she will and maybe she won’t.
“Is my clit normal?”
“What d’ya mean?”
I panic a little bit because it sounds like she’s just buying time to figure out how to tell me my clit needs to be in the sideshow at the carnival.
‘ “I mean… does it distend during sex?”
“Distend?” she asks loudly, then immediately drops her voice down low again, “what the hell does distend mean in that context?”
Okay, good, I’m not the only one.
“It’s normal, though, right?”
“Yes, baby, your clit is normal.”
“Okay, I’ll see you when you get home.”
“Layce?” she asks quickly before I hang up.
“You’re not writing while you have a fever, are you?”
“No, of course, not,” I lie.
“Okay, love you, bye,” she says.
I check my temp. 104.
I turn on the tv and spend two and a half hours totally absorbed in the shopping channel. By the time my fever breaks, I am the proud owner of a limited edition hunting knife with a buffalo carved in the handle, a twelve pack of shamwowies, a cubic zirconia toe-ring, and a purse organizer.
I may have been sick today, but I wrote a blog and got a head start on all that Christmas shopping.