Tom is sick.
It sure is fun to be around a grown man who whines about not being able to breathe out of his nose.
It’s just a ball of laughs to hear “I’d love to, but I’m sick,” for every request I give him.
For example: I asked him to entertain Natalie while I made dinner.
“I’d love to, but I’m sick,” he replied while stretched out on the couch. Which is another thing: I never get to stretch out in the couch when I’m sick.
“Tom, give the cat some food,” I said.
“I’d love to, but I’m sick.”
I was close to smothering him with the couch pillow, let me tell you.
He’d also stretch out his words in this horrible whine. Like when we were eating dinner (which, by the way, he made a big show from getting up from the couch—he lifted his body up and made this loud moaning sound) he was all, “My throat hurttsssss so muchhhhhhh.”
At this point, I had enough. So I said, “I imagine your throat does hurt Tom. You know what also hurt? When I felt as though my stomach were about to rip apart and I pushed out a HUMAN BEING.”
This shut him up for a little bit.
Then he shuffled to the computer to play his game. He speaks to other plays via a headset and he sounded perfectly fine to me.
I was grateful when he announced he was going to bed around nine. Finally. Some peace and quiet. I went upstairs to say goodnight and his hands started to roam over my body.
“Excuse me? I thought you were sickkkkkk,” I said, slapping his hands off my breasts.
“I’m never too sick for sex,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.
I can’t believe he didn’t even worry that he’d pass the germs onto me. If I’m sick, I don’t get to lounge on the couch. I still have kids to tend to. So I can’t afford to be sick.
So I looked at Tom and just said, “I’d love to, but I’m sick,” before rushing out of the room.