This is what I breathed in when I woke up on Sunday.
I sniffed and then realized that it was cinnamon rolls baking. Normally I wouldn’t mind. But I had told Tom a few days earlier that I planned on making them for our Sunday lunch. I realize that sounds a little odd but hey, it’s an easy lunch. This means I don’t have to scrounge around and find something to make.
When I had told Tom that I was making the rolls for lunch, he had laughed and said, “Those aren’t lunch,” and patted my head as though I were a child.
“He doesn’t listen!” I shouted as I sat up in bed. This was when I realized that my neck hurt and that I couldn’t turn it without a pain shooting through my body. Great.
I went downstairs and found Tom on the couch.
“You made the cinnamon rolls!” I accused, keeping my neck very straight.
Tom blinked innocently at me. “Yup. Is there a problem?”
At this point he had been home from work since Friday so I was losing my patience. A part of me longed to run outside to the neighbor’s house and say, “Excuse me? Sir? Would you mind taking my husband off my hands for a few hours?”
“Yes Tom, there is a problem. Remember I said that the rolls for lunch?” I said this through clenched teeth because not only was I irritated, but I had accidentally shifted my neck and a spasm of pain had gone up my face.
Tom waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Rolls aren’t lunch, sweetheart.”
“Yes they are! They can be lunch! There are no rules!” I shrieked, keeping my head still.
Tom raised an eyebrow at me. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like…you have something wedged up your butt. Why aren’t you moving your neck?” Tom stood up and came over to me.
“Because I’m annoyed!” I insisted.
Tom raised an eyebrow at me. “You’ve never yelled at me without moving your neck before,” Tom said.
“Fine. My neck hurts,” I admitted.
“You know what’ll help? Cinnamon rolls!” Tom said cheerfully and went into the kitchen to pull them from the oven.
I slathered mine with the frosting. Tom seems to think that two small pats of icing is enough so I always have to add more.
“Gee. Do you want some cinnamon roll with that icing?” he joked.
Later, the neighborhood kids starting ringing the doorbell. I still couldn’t move my neck.
I heard a crash coming from the garage a few minutes later and stomped outside to find a bunch of my plastic totes knocked over.
“What’s going on out here?” I demanded. I pretended that my neck wasn’t killing me because children latch on weakness.
A bunch of kids spoke at once.
“Well Tanner was—”
“She was climbing on—”
“Someone pushed me into—”
“Why do you look all stiff?” an older kid inquired, gaping at me.
I feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You look weird,” he said bluntly. Apparently his parents forgot to teach him the lesson of tact.
“My Mom doesn’t look weird!” Tommy cut in.
Aww! My boy, coming to my rescue. Isn’t that—
“She just has a bad neck!” Tommy continued.
Blabbermouth. My kid is a blabbermouth. I swear all the kids started leering at me.
She’s wounded! Get her!
“Just...be careful in here,” I quickly said and practically ran inside. Running with a sore neck is not easy, mind you.
Thankfully I was feeling better by the evening. And Tom went to see Inglorious Bastards so I had the house to myself. Well, sort of. The kids were there but they were sleeping.
When Tom got home he said, “They showed a scalping in the movie!” He looked totally enthused over this. I’m wondering if I should be worried.
“That’s gross, Tom,” I said.
I’m surprised he didn’t break into a song about blood and gore, to be honest.