~Who Wants to Hear A Sick Story?~

       I think that my brain is on fire, and not in a good way.  Is there such a thing as good burning brains?

      My family has been suffering with this that and the other for the last two weeks and apparently I am not immune.  The good news is that after I put the Ikeman on the bus I can go back to bed.  And I like going back to bed.

    The bad news is that I have the pukes and a killer headache.  The killer headache and the burning brains reminded me of the first time that I said "Eff you!" to my husband.  You see, when we started dating we made the rule that we wouldn't say that to one another, ever, under any circumstances, and for ten years I followed that rule.  Oh sure, I flipped him off behind his back many times, and I muttered the words under my breath after I left the room--but I hadn't said them loudly and forcefully, as per our rule. (stop me if you've already heard it):

     Several years ago I was at my in-laws house in Missouri.  I woke up to the smell of pork being cooked, I rubbed my eyes and wandered down the stairs to find my husband at the stove with a big ol batch of pork parts sizzling in a pan.

     "Sausage?"  I asked.

      "And eggs" he replied.  (He would later use those two words as his excuse--he didn't actually say he was cooking sausage now did he?)

     In general I am not a breakfast eater, primarily because I am to lazy to cook breakfast, but when bacon or sausage or ham are being cooked I will gladly eat.  I like the morning meats; If you were trying to seduce me (And you know you are) you would cook me breakfast and then offer to rub my feet.

     We all set down to the table and Martin handed me a big steaming plate of scrambled eggs with meat in it.  I also got a biscuit, some hash browns and a cup of coffee.  I took the first bite and I thought, "Hm.  This seems a little slimy.  I am not digging this texture, is the pork not cooked enough?"

    My second thought was, "This ain't Jimmy Dean.  Must be butcher sausage that is lacking spices."

     My third thought was, "I am a freaking adult woman and I don't have to eat everything on my plate if I don't want to."

     After breakfast was completed and cleared away, Martin and I walked outside.  He was carrying a white container, such as one that you would get full of potato salad from the deli.  The container had a skiff of blood sloshing around in the bottom of it. 

    We were having a pleasant conversation about our day, "So what shall we do today?  Want to walk back to the pond?  Go swimming?  Lovely morning isn't it?  What's in that container?"

    Halfway to the garbage can my beloved said, "This is what the pork brains were in."

    I stopped walking.  "The who?  Brains?  Pork brains?  For why did you have a pork brain container?"

     "That's what we had for breakfast, pork brains and eggs."

     And that, ladies, is when I lost my shit.  I dropped the f word on him so many times he just stared at me in stunned silence.  "You effin effer--you gave me effing brains for effin breakfast and you didn't effin bother to tell me what the eff I was eating?  Are you effin out of your effing mind?  Why the eff would you effin do that to me you effer.  Eff you.  Eff you and your effing container.  Don't you ever effing do something like that to me again. Effer.  What the eff?  I wouldn't effing do that to you.  Oh man.  I think I am going to puke."

    And the tirade might have continued--I might have even puked--but my FIL walked out of the house at that time and I had to get myself under control, lest the in-laws think I was a savage.

   A non-brain eating savage.

    Anyway, that is my "brains on fire" story.  Isn't it much more entertaining then listening to me blather on about my poor sick self?

      

Comments

[Aunt Mary]

Me - I would have killed the effer and had his brains mixed into some scrambled eggs.