Lori and Danny, our best friends and neighbors, are over this morning to help us finish unpacking.
I’m pretty sure Lori must have completed some covert training last night because she seems to be off basic patrol and is now on the F-Bomb Special Forces.
I accidentally move the coffee table on my toe while trying to roll a rug out under it, and, well, it really hurts. So, maybe I let a tiny little F-bomb fly.
Quietly.
Lori glares at me. “Jade, really?”
“Fine. I hurt my freaking toe.”
She smiles at me.
But, later, when I hammer my finger—rather than a nail—into the wall, I might say the F-word again.
Because, ouch, it hurts.
Apparently, I am not skilled at home improvement.
Lori scowls at me and covers her stomach with her hand. “Seriously? Did we not just talk about this?”
“Lori, I just hammered my, uh, fricking finger into the wall, and it fricking hurts. Shouldn’t you be offering me some fricking sympathy?”
“Um,” she says, “I really don’t think fricking is appropriate either. Can you picture sending a child who says fricking to preschool?”
No, I can’t really picture that, so I come up with a better idea. “Okay then, how about, I hammered my effing finger into the wall?”
She scowls at me. “Do you really think that’s better? Effing? Are you kidding me? You can’t say that either.”
So, I do what any sane person with a hammered finger and a sore toe would do at this point. I become extremely frustrated and throw my hands in the air. “What the freak am I supposed to say then?”
She glares at me.
“What? I can’t change the way I talk overnight. I also find it very hard to believe that you’ve stopped Danny from swearing. He’s the freaking king of the F-bomb!”
“Well, I’m working on that,” she says with a slightly maniacal grin. “See the rubber band?”
I glance over and notice a skinny blue rubber band around Danny’s wrist. “Uh, yeah?”
“Every time he cusses, I snap him, and it hurts.”
“Isn’t that like husband abuse?”
She laughs at me.
“Where’s your rubber band?”
“I don’t need it. I can control myself.” She digs a rubber band out of her pocket and dangles it in front of me.
And I’m like, “No.”
And she’s like, “Yes.”
“This is bullshit, Lori. Sorry, but it is.” I’m gearing up for a big fight, but Danny stands behind her, begging me with his eyes to let her put the rubber band on.
And I’ll be damned, but I do it. I must be a really good friend.
Later, he’s like, “Jay, come help me figure out where you want this … blah, blah.”
I don’t even hear what he says.
He might have said blah, blah, but when we are both upstairs, he goes, “Thank you for not arguing with her. After the whole bleeding thing, seriously, Jay, no stress for her, okay? I think she gets some wicked little pleasure out of snapping me with the band. Like I’m in the pregnancy boat with her or something. She has had a time with it. Constantly sick and then the spotting that scared us to death. So, just try.”
“Fine,” I say, hanging my head in defeat.
He gets his Devil Danny grin. “Call her every dirty name in the book if you have to, just do it all in your head.”
“Is that how you’re surviving this?”
“Well, that, and I’m being trained.”
“Danny, I’m sorry. I love her, but this is bullshit.”
He leans over and snaps the rubber band on my wrist—hard.
“Oww! That hurts!”
He grins at me. “Yeah, I know.”
“Then, why did you do it?”
“’Cause you said bullshit.”
“Oh, really? So did you.” I snap him back.
Pretty soon, Danny and I have our rubber bands off and are shooting them at each other, having a rubber-band war. I manage to nail his arm just as he’s trying to duck behind the kitchen island.
But then the Fun Nazi comes upstairs. “What the hell are you two doing?”
Danny and I share a smirk.
“Um, Lori, do you need a rubber band, too?” I giggle.
“No,” she says. “What I need is for you two to grow up.”
Then, we all just laugh. This is sort of ridiculous.
After she goes back downstairs, Danny gets the sneaky look again and pulls a little flask from his hoodie pocket.
“Oh, you’re bad,” I say.
“How do you think I’m surviving this?”
We do a shot together.
Lori is downstairs, fluffing—whatever that means—my bookshelves.
Phillip ran to get us some pizza since we have zero food in the house.
So, instead of Danny helping me maneuver the mattress pad and sheets onto our big, new bed, we are back to our rubber-band war.
Every time he hits me, he makes me do a shot. I’ve gotten hit a couple of times, but he’s a good friend, and he has been drinking with me.
But no food and a few shots is not a good idea.
When Phillip gets home with the pizza, I quickly scarf some down.
It tasted great, but now, I’m feeling a bit nauseous.
Next thing I know, I’m throwing it all up, and I don’t feel well.
At first, I thought it was from the alcohol, but I’m feeling achy and feverish. I must have the flu.
