Stir Crazy


Last night as we were convalescing,  (see how classy I made that sound? WAY better than saying, “Last night as we lay immobile in a cesspool of empty soup bowls and snotty kleenexes…”) Adam turned to me and said, “Man I could really go for a cappuccino right now, do we have any decaf?”

Except, due to his cold it sounded more like “Mab, I coulb really go for a gappugino righ dow- do we hab any decab?” and the one-two punch of his adorable stuffy-nosed pronunciation and the hopeful look in his eyes as he turned to me broke down my defenses enough for a tiny smirk to cross my face for a mere MILLISECOND as I answered, “No,  no decaf. Sorry sweetie.”

Adam’s no fool.

Even through a thick haze of NyQuil and mucus he could see something was afoot. He examined my face for another telltale smirk before turning to his favorite method for extracting information, one that sits right below water-boarding on the torture scale. 

It’s a vicious technique that his entire family employs to great success, and involves a playful, gentle sort of tickling interspersed with surprising, unpredictable pinches to the most sensitive parts of your anatomy, like the tender flabby ethio-Oprah skin of your inner upper arms.

When done correctly, your method should elicit a sound from your victim something like this: “Ha ha ha ha ha ha OUCH! Ha ha OUCH! Ha ha *giggle* ha ha ha OUCH!! OK, that one seriously hurt!!”

At this point you must deliver the final blow: When your victim complains of actual pain you must affix them with a stern look and say in an affronted tone, “Oh come on, that didn’t hurt!”

His whole family does this.

I had no idea, until I saw his older sister deliver this technique in stealth mode, absent of tickling, just a sharp sneaky pinch to his arm and as Adam started laughing and rubbing his arm she cackled “Oh come on Adam! That didn’t HURT.“ 

I’m not ashamed to admit that I observed this go down with with dual sensations of horror and absolute fucking GLEE that he was on the receiving end.

Anyway, obviously given The Treatment, I cracked.

“I HAVE DECAF!” I cried between peals of laughter and squeals of pain, “I’VE BEEN HOLDING OUT. I have decaf! Stop! Stop. I have decaf.”

At this point I should say that our Tassimo addiction is out of control. Seriously, Mom I blame you- YOU DID THIS TO US.

My naturopath gave me a serious side-eye when I told her how many coffees I was drinking, and as I stammered excuses and half-hearted promises to cut down (“It’s just been so busy at work and I mean we JUST got it for Christmas so I was just trying it out and I mean I KNOW caffeine’s not great for me but I just thought that maybe one a day wouldn’t be too bad and I totally meant to stop last week but then I haven’t been sleeping well and I just….I know. I know. Okay yes…I’ll stop. I can stop.”)

(I couldn’t stop)

Internet, I kicked my lipbalm addiction, I haven’t eaten a jar of salsa con queso in MONTHS (okay A month. But still.),  I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life, and I rarely drink. Isn’t a girl allowed even ONE vice in this crazy messed up world?

I couldn’t stop, so I started buying decaf. But then we started drinking TWO coffees a day, one regular in the morning and one decaf at night. The pile of empty pods kept growing and growing and even though we’re recycling it felt wrong, it just felt totally wrong, I couldn’t handle it.

So I solved the problem. LIKE AN ADULT.

I started lying to my husband.

I told Adam that I stopped buying decaf, but really I just started hiding them in the cleaning cupboard, which I don’t even think he knows exists.

And even though The Treatment illicited a confession from me, I wasn’t going to give it up that easily. I made him search, if only to see it, a junkie looking for his fix, blowing his nose in between scouring the cabinets, the whole while laughing and repeating:

“Where’s the expresso Madeleine? Where did you hide the expresso?”

Guys, the fact that he was pronouncing the non-existent “x” in espresso only solidified my resolve even more. 

So if you had peeked in my kitchen window last night you would have seen two grown ass adults in various states of pajama-clad dress, shuffling around the kitchen deranged with laughter, one on his hands and knees rummaging through cabinets, the other rubbing her war wounds and gleefully cackling “You’ll never find them! I’ll never tell!”

I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’ve gone mad. INTERNETS HELP US WE’VE GONE STARK RAVING MAD.

I’m still not feeling 100% but cold be damned, I’m going back to work today. I’m terrified to see what I’ll become if I stay in this house any longer.

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