What I’m about to say may angry a few thousand people, predominantly women. The thing is, I can’t change what is the truth. Sometimes, as ‘they’ say (and I don’t know who ‘they’ are but ‘they’ exist and ‘they’ have a lot to say about things), the truth hurts. In this case, the truth does not hurt me but it may hurt the reader, unless you are a man and you are straight. Even then it may hurt you if you are married and find out that your wife has been lying to you for however long you’ve known each other. OR, you could be a married man with a bitchy wife. Either way, I see that you will likely be hurt too.

The truth is, my husband is hotter than yours.

There. I said it. I PROVED it, for heaven’s sake, ↑ do you see that? Or that? → It’s ridiculous! Ryan Reynolds? Who’s that? Deal with it. It can’t be changed (unless you throw acid in his face but then you’d go to jail and I’d still have the satisfaction of knowing that once my husband was hotter than yours, but do we really need to think like that people?). Geesh, this has not gone as well as I had hoped. It was only meant to be a confessional, so I could get it off my chest and let you all know that you’ve been mistaken but it’s not your fault; rose-colored glasses and what not.

Now carry on with your ugly attractive but not most attractive husbands.

This post is two posts in one, because the first part is a bit shameful, although really it runs into the second anyway.  Remember when Noah got sick and two days later Hot Joe got sick too but without the fever?  Well his cough progressively worsened to where he could barely catch his breath, his eyes were red-rimmed and constantly tearing, he could smell and taste nothing, his lungs felt like they “belonged to a six-year-old girl” and he kept yelling, “IS THE T.V. TOO LOUD?” because he couldn’t hear anything.  Talking got him out of breath and he had a headache that settled in with no plans to leave.  How do I know this?  Because my beloved – much like many other husbands – gave me updates on his symptoms at regular intervals until I stopped being nice.  I finally convinced him that it was obvious to anyone who looked at or listened to him that he was not a well man and he finally agreed to stop trying to convince me and started believing I cared when I pointed out the medicines and hydration I pushed.  I also told him, “Enough.  You’re going to see a doctor.”

Yesterday at 12:30 while Noah was hanging with the grandparents Hot Joe and I headed the 30 minutes to Kaiser Woodland Hills, walking into entrance 4 (Urgent Care), saving a $70 copay were we to walk into entrance 3 (Emergency Room).  When checking in, the woman in front of us kept coughing into her hand (no, no, no) rather than her elbow or just grabbing a mask to her immediate left.  Then she proceeded to touch absolutely everything she possibly could, from the entire counter to the plexiglass to two different pens and then the pièce de résistance:  She actually picked up the credit card machine – the whole machine – touching every single surface.  Hot Joe then did his thing as daintily as possible and tripled-up on the anti-bacterial soap on the wall before grabbing a mask for himself.

We checked in a little after 1:00.

Hot Joe (and I) were called back after a lengthy wait and the doctor eventually examined Joe, but his pulse oximetry (what they put on your finger) was 100% (rare) and he had no lung sounds.  It didn’t fit.  He looked exhausted and uncomfortable and he was short of breath.  The doctor ordered an x-ray and this is the best part of the whole week:  He found a smallish area in Hot Joe’s right lung that looked like it could probably be pneumonia if not for sure bronchitis so he asked for the radiologist’s read.  The radiologist sent it back with two arrows pointing to a smallish area up higher in Hot Joe’s right lung that was probably pneumonia but could be bronchitis.  In other words, Hot Joe has double pneumonia and I am a total bitch for saying, “I know, you just told me” 46 times.

To celebrate, and because it was after 6:00 when we left and no lunch was had by either of us, we decided to get a bite to eat before relieving my parents of their grandparent duties.

PART TWO

Several months ago (34 weeks actually), Carri Brown posted this picture on her Instagram:

Now, Carri lives really close to me and we frequent a lot of the same establishments, so I was all over her on the what, where, what’s your number, here’s mine, oh my god I can’t wait to go regarding that luscious-looking hot dog.

While still at Kaiser last night I texted her where I was and told her that I needed to know immediately where the hot dog joint was.

Holy Everything, that joint rules the world.

This is what I had:

A BMS.  A turkey dog with swiss cheese, grilled mushrooms and bacon, all sitting on the mayo and mustard and nestled in the bun.

Hot Joe got the #4.

L.A. Street Dog, a 1/4 pound Vienna all beef, bacon wrapped, grilled bell peppers and onions, garlic mayo and pico de gallo.

Because that’s barely enough food to feed an infant, we also shared a large side of sweet potato fries with garlic mayo dipping sauce.  Seriously.  Garlic mayo.

When I tweeted about Hot Joe’s pneumonia, Carri tweeted back that at least I was getting a hot dog, to which I responded, “On our way!”  Carri tweeted this back:

Here’s to you, Carri Brown, from Hot Joe and me:

I can’t sleep.  Yes, it’s only 9:59, but ordinarily I’m jerking awake, putting my book aside, closing my glasses in the case, turning off the light, and rolling onto my side so Luke can adjust himself to the back of my legs and Snickers between my feet.  Then I reach down to give Allie one final pet before falling back to sleep.

Tonight I lie on the couch, TV still on, full glass of wine three-fourths gone, Allie at my feet and Luke probably with Noah.  Noah still has a horrific cough productive of possible signs of infection, and he’s been getting nose bleeds once per hour.  I may have to call the doctor after all tomorrow, but that would result in more missed school.  Maybe I’ll just go the urgent care route.  Hot Joe has developed the beginnings of what Noah has and was in bed by 7:00 tonight with a still-dry cough that takes his breath away.  So far he has managed to avoid a fever, although he has experienced the freezing sensation that usually precedes a fever, so maybe he had one during the day when I couldn’t check on him and somehow avoided the usually inevitable night fever.

When Hot Joe went to bed he told me he had taken the last Advil Congestion.  When I put Noah to bed I gave him the last of the Mucinex.  Walgreens and CVS are closed.  Ralph’s is open until 1:00 a.m. but I’ve almost finished a glass of wine.  So now what?  Neither of my two loves have medicine for tomorrow.  Granted, my husband has ibuprofen and acetaminophen but that will only help if he has a fever.  A headache may not be touched by those if it’s caused by congestion.

What do I do?  Do I chance the half-mile drive?  Do I sleep on the couch and let my husband rest in peace while I get up every hour to pee and let myself rest in case he has a case of the coughs that start at his toes and leaves him short of breath?  Do I climb into bed so he doesn’t feel bad, worried that he’s keeping me up when in reality I don’t want to disturb him?

GOOD NEWS!

I have just done a quick check and the CVS opens at 7:00 a.m.  Ralph’s is much, much closer and open at 6:00 but I think my chances of finding what I need are higher at an actual pharmacy.  So tomorrow (or today for the majority of you reading this) I shall heroically get up when I hear my husband stirring and run to CVS to pick up all of the pharmaceuticals my family could possibly need, including cough drops (thinking ahead).

I have no headache, I’m not cold, none of my muscles ache, my throat doesn’t hurt and I haven’t coughed, so I feel confident that I will be avoiding the illness that has struck down my family, although if I were to get it, right now would be good since I don’t work Friday or Saturday.  Funny, I’m the one kissing and squishing and touching and sharing the space of Noah while he’s sick.  Hot Joe’s at work.  Yet HE is the one who got sick.  The carpenter, who does really intense strong manly things all day with a belt of heavy tools around his waist and comes home with a white face in the shape of goggles and the rest of his face dark with dust.

And he got sick.

But I shall heal him.