The clerk at Michael’s, the clerk at Rite-Aid, and the kid at Del Taco all call you “hon”…
Your friend tells you a miracle cure for the crud and you cry because it means you have to go to Rite-Aid again…
The dogs follow you around the house to sit on your feet…
You warn your editor you have a cold because you’re afraid your e-mail had germs…
You go to your room to lay down and watch TV and give up on TV because laying there with your mouth open sounds so much more fun…
The cats tap you on the face to make sure you’re not dead…
The kids join you in your bedroom to watch DeadPool without a word for all the inappropriate language…
Your husband stops the sexual innuendo with one look at your face…
You both plan for when you take your NyQuil, because you grew up on the Denis Leary adage “Don’t make any fuckin’ plans.”…
Your husband (bless him) also buys the orange juice with the pulp because he knows it’ll make the kids stay the hell away…
Finishing one deadline is celebrated by going to bed and not starting on the other two…
Good night!
