So, Mrs. F is feeling better...much...and now she's absolutely batshit insane from sitting around taking it easy. For those who haven't had the pleasure, she's one of those type-A, corporate Manhattan crazies who goes at a hundred miles an hour every waking minute. Personally, I'm surprised it took her so long.
So, I get home from work today and she's standing at the top of the stairs with a look on her face I know well. "I'm tired of this shit," she says. "I'm tired of lying in bed, feeling like an invalid. I want to go downstairs and sleep in my own bed. I want to use my own shower and shave...finally."
Me: "You know what the doctor..."
Her: "Fuck him, it's been three weeks since the surgery."
Me: "Three weeks tomorrow..."
Her: "Shut up."
Me: "Maybe you should wait until you see the doctor next week?"
Her: "Fuck you too."
Me: "I'm going to empty the dog."
So now it's forty five minutes later. She's been downstairs, showered and shaved (I stood by while she did that), and in and out of the waterbed with no problem. So I guess we're moving back downstairs...sigh...
You know I ain't the CO in this barracks.