It seems I caught the plague from Stacy on Wednesday night, as I woke up Thursday in a dreadful, dragged through the dirt state (without the dirt). So I did something that I've never done before: called in sick after 6 am, after I'd eaten breakfast and showered and was about to put on perfessional clothes. It was a good move, as I spent the day schlumping around in crocheted bunny slippers and feeling a tiny bit sorry for myself. It's not a bad deal, really: since the Boy split the scene, my parents have been extra solicitous and kind whenever I fall under the weather, and they let me abscond with 5 cans of ginger ale and a bag of salt and vinegar chips when I left their house to take the Blake to school. Sweet. Or, rather, sweet and also salty.
Despite being struck down by God's judgement for having fun on a weeknight, I wouldn't trade it for anything. Besides simply being with Stacy, which remains awesome after all these years, my lily was gilded with a spectacular and fiery green curry, the opportunity to buy a new Flashman book, and a baby-gram. I've started paying Mason a retainer so that he will deliver Sage to me whenever convenient, and Wednesday night I was innocently gulping down curry when someone sat down beside us and started talking. It was Mason! And my boyfriend Sage! The best part is that the retainer part was a lie, but everything else was true. I will accept deliveries of scrumptious babies at all hours of the day.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*