A pain in the…


I shook her awake.

“Whaaa…” she murmured sleepily. So I shook some more.

“What do you want?” she asked, flipping over onto her stomach, eyes still closed.

“Horrible stomach ache. Can’t sleep.”

“I told you not to have ice cream after dinner.”

“But you wouldn’t let me have it before!” I said.

Now she had buried her head deep into the pillow so I couldn’t make out her muffled response to this.

“What?” I asked.

“One. Should. Not. Have. Dessert. Before. Dinner,” came the slow, articulate, sanctimonious answer.

I let my body be taken by another spasm. After a pause, I said: “Is this the time to discuss this?”

“Is this the time to discuss anything?” said the pillow.

The pain was killing me. “Please!” I muttered helplessly.

She turned her head sideways and regarded me with her closed eyes. Then she brought her legs up, closer to her chest. She was about to sit up! Finally!

She raised her butt in the air. And let it stay there.

“Can’t you DO something?” I asked the proffered cheek.

She wiggled it vigorously. “There, is that enough?” she asked.

How do women do that? I mean, shake their butts without disturbing the rest of their sleeping parts?

“Listen, I beg you. Is there anything we have? Any medicines in the cabinet? Something I can drink?”

“Go to the kitchen,” she instructed, “open the fridge.”

I did as she told. “Okay, now?” I yelled from the kitchen.

No answer. Clutching my stomach, I returned to the bedroom.

“Open the fridge and then?” I yelled.

“This house follows a no-yelling rule!” said a voice from deep within the pillow.

It felt faintly ridiculous, this carrying-on-a-conversation-with-an-ass. Well, right now, the rest of her fit the description as well.

“I wasn’t yelling. Open the fridge and…?”

“And see if you can find a round yellow box with a green lid.”

Green-yellow box with a round lid. I looked everywhere but didn’t find it.

“Now what?” I called out.

“Okay, try a red box. Should be in the fridge door.”

Found it! I opened the box but the only thing it contained was a crumpled sheet of paper. Who stores notes in the fridge?

It was a prescription. Printed on our family doctor’s stationery.

“What the hell is this?” I stormed into the bedroom, waving the prescription like a matador’s flag.

She sat up. Gathering up her hair in a pretend ponytail, she stared at me a moment, then singsong-ed: “THIS is what you need to take, when you have a stomach ache.”

Grrrr! Take my prescription. Never, ever marry a woman with a sense of humor.


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