It all started in the kitchen.
"You should totally check this out," Brandon said, and then there was his forearm, a nasty red welt, and an angry red line angling upward to his heart. There I was minding my own cute little business, rinsing off a Granny Smith and slicing some cheese, when suddenly my husband was about to die. And hey wait a minute! I'm knocked up here! My dating prospects are about to be super limited! How am I supposed to snag me a rich second husband in this condition?
"I wonder if it was a spider bite?" he mused, completely unconcerned that I am no longer a hottie and that I will have to find me a catch using just my sparkling personality.
And then I rolled my eyes.
"Do you know the last thing I need right now is for you to die on me? You are going to QuickCare."
"It's probably nothing."
"Get in the car."
"Maybe it's a pimple?"
"Okay! Only if you come with me."
And then I rolled my eyes again. But also I was really excited because, Adventure!
On the way to the QuickCare The Holbs took two wrong turns, because he is a spiritual driver, meaning he goes where ever the spirit moves him, which usually is in the wrong direction. And then he has to turn around and say, "I don't know why I'm going this way?" as if it is some grand mystery. The grand mystery is why I ever let him drive places to begin with, but you know, redheads live by their own special rules.
"Why did I turn here?" The Holbs asked in the UHaul parking lot while I stole a quick peek at his suspicious infection.
"You know, that's definitely a problem," I said in my best Mom voice. (It's getting really good!) "You're probably going to need a prescription for an antibiotic. Hey, maybe we'll get to go to the Walmart after this!"
And then I did a little dance in my seat, because, whatever, entertainment is entertainment.
And then The Holbs rolled his eyes.
And then we were there.
We walked through the glass doors to the reception area and I put my hand on my Holbs shoulder and told the nice lady behind the counter,
"This is my husband. I think he was bitten by something. He has streaks,"
to which the nurse nodded her head and said,
"That will be a $20 copay."
I paid and signed while The Holbs shuffled his feet on the carpet sheepishly.
What is is about doctors that turn grown men into little boys?
What is it about little boys that is so infectious unto me?
Red-streaks-toward-my-heart type infectious?
The waiting room audio system played "A Whole New World" and I got to practice my stellar skillz in the fine art of lip synching to my captive audience, The Holbsfection, who sat there and scratched his arm helplessly.
Then I looked around the room for something to do.
"Hey, don't touch anything, you'll get the baby sick," The Holbs admonished as the doctor led him into the bowels of the QuickCare monster.
Twenty minutes and a few aimless text messages later
"What's taking you so long in there, Spiderman?"
The Holbs returned.
"Well, we definitely get to go to Walmart," he announced.
Then I did an I Told You So dance, and you know what you would too.
While the pharmacist pushed buttons and looked exasperated with current technology, I suddenly became aware that I had my Holbsy's FULL ATTENTION. Attention is like a drug unto me, potent and not to be mixed with heavy machinery. And then I found myself performing silly-type things under the blue-green gaze of my Holbslover, wiggling around a little and batting my eyelashes ferociously and letting my stream-of-consciousnesses erupt out of me like a giggling volcano. When my Holbshunk looks at me I just turn weird, is all there really is to it. I was starting to feel ultra cute and interesting when the pharmacist announced it would be twenty-five minutes, and I realized I could wander the cereal aisle and inspect the $5 movie bin WITH MY HUSBAND, and that HE COULDN'T RUSH ME OUT, because TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES IS A FINITE SPACE OF TIME, and suddenly I was really quite pleased with this little Adventure we were on. You would be too, you know, if you were me and you lived in Moscow (pray that never happens).
We analyzed the new Willy Wonka chocolate bars in the candy aisle.
We pondered the Justin Bieber and admired Robert Pattinson's lipstick in the poster aisle.
We played a little volleyball with the giant bouncy balls aisle.
Brandon asked me if I could swing hula hoop very well and you know what? I can't.
I asked him for his opinion on a brown leather bicycle seat, he said "Very Nice!"
We pushed buttons on the plastic Buzz Lightyears in the toy aisle.
I momentarily lost Brandon to a giant pair of big screens and watched his eyes glaze over in pure, manly bliss.
And then I locked eyes with a body pillow and heard heavenly choirs of sleepy angels.
Twenty-five minutes later, there I sat on the pharmacy bench with my five-foot body pillow while The Holbs entered birth date information and paid for his drugs.
"Ooh! Should I have my blood pressure tested?" I asked.
"No." The Holbs is so authoritative when he is infected by bug bites or possible arm pimples.
Just then two little boys wandered into my sights and one of them fell deeply in love with me. He was about three, with a devastatingly exotic complexion and two deep black pools for eyes. I gave him a little smile, and he blushed a deep rose.
"Hi," he said shyly, kicking the linoleum floor with one toe.
"Hi," I said back, completely smitten.
Then I waved at him. I was totally flirting.
His parents rushed him off, but not before I heard him call out to me,
Which was puzzling.
"That little boy just fell in love with me," I told my Holbsy, who had seen the whole thing go down but should really be reminded every now and then what a saucy little minx he's got. And then I smiled, because even though my Holbsy wasn't about to die, at least I still got it with the five-and-under crowd.
I mean, at least I still got it.