So there I was, sitting on a couch with Michael Keaton, who was moonlighting as Santa Claus.

We had just returned from a terrifying sleigh ride through outer space, during which I nearly fell out several times. He was fist-bumping me for scoring $10K designer suits for my husband at $200 apiece; we snickered like two villains in a cheesy Batman sequel.

Then I had to rush off—apparently it was a matter of life-or-death —to tell a colleague I hadn’t seen in 15 years about my new website.

He was so excited his head exploded like a piñata, showering me with candy corn and cash. Which I didn't find weird at all, as I quickly scooped it all up.

I do love me some candy corn...

Now, here’s the really weird part…

Reality lately has been stranger than anything my subconscious could conjure up.

While I was riding shotgun with Michael Keaton's space sleigh, in reality I was flat on my back in bed with a raging fever.

I spent days sweating through sheets, praying for death, and missing out on a long-planned trip to see Ron White.

I’m a terrible patient; let’s establish that now.

It always starts with denial. You wake up at two in the morning thinking, I’m not sick. My throat isn’t sore; it’s just really, really dry.

Then the fever comes, and within hours you're wondering if this is the one that finally takes you out.

I'm not a demanding person, even when I'm sick. I don't want to be fussed over or ring a little bell for my soup. I really just want to be left alone.

This is a public service; I know I'm unpleasant when I'm sick, so I hide to protect the innocent.

Unfortunately, my family was still bickering over chores, dessert, and breathing the same air, every argument punctuated with shouts of "Bro!"

Meanwhile, my husband, bless his heart, kept trying to open the blinds and “let the sun shine in” while I hissed from under the blankets like a vampire.

But he, the saint that he is, ignored my hostility and made homemade chicken soup. Actual chicken, veggies, herbs, and broth he made from scratch.

(Yes, I’m bragging. Marry someone who cooks with love; it’ll change your life.)

He brought our "sick bed” table upstairs so I had a place for my food, phone, laptop, and even my Xbox.

None of which I asked for, by the way.

He rearranged the power cords so I wouldn’t trip, adjusted my blankets, and fluffed my pillows. Five-star care for a one-star patient.

Looking back, I probably could've been less cranky.

Sorry, baby. You took excellent care of me.

You always do.

I spent a week inside a blanket cocoon, sleeping, sweating, and playing Fortnite like a twelve-year-old.

When my fever finally broke, I made the classic mistake of thinking I was cured. I swung my legs over the bed, walked about ten feet, and my body said sit yo ass back down.

Eventually, I made it back to my desk in real clothes, surrounded by throat lozenges and sounding like the chain-smoking grandma who always sits alone at bingo.

Physically, I was improving - and so was everything else.

Months earlier, I had this feeling that certain things were about to change for the better. I couldn’t explain it; I just knew.

Some people call it discernment or intuition. Whatever it is, I just wish it worked on stocks and lottery numbers.

The first sign was that the long, exhausting custody battle was finally coming to an end. Conversations that used to go nowhere were now going somewhere.

Not far, but somewhere.

Still, it was peace; I had no idea how to handle that.

And maybe that’s why everything feels like a fever dream right now. Things are better. Nobody is yelling, and my fever is gone.

I'm even wearing pants again.

I still keep waiting for that proverbial other shoe to drop, but you can't spend all your time anticipating disasters.

Pretty sure the next shitshow knows exactly where to find me.

CTA Image

It never gets less weird, by the way.

Subscribe