I never feel less like a slave then when I'm sick. I get all grumpy and touchy and angsty. Being sick triggers bad memories and brings out a lot of tjhe dysfunctionals sides of me. I've been down with a bad cold this whole week, and Mistress' has been a saint about it. I still can't shake the grumpiness though.
And I feel like a failure because I don't do anything useful at home. And she doesn't find me sexy (for some reason snot and a fever is not a turn on it seems) nor does she want to hurt me or play with me. She just manouveurs around me, where I'm slumped in a corner of the couch surrounded by used tissue papers.
Or well, I have been doing some things this week too, ironically a lot more than I ever did the whole of last year. I've vacuumed some of the floors, I've left and picked up the kid at pre-school, and I've managed to get dinner on the table for her and the kid (okay, once that was arranged by me calling ahead to the local pizza-place and she picking the pizzas up on her way home from the bus stop, but still - I orchestrated the process).
And I've made ice-cream two days in a row, but I'm pretty sure that doesn't count since I only made it for myself because well, I don't really think anyone should eat something I make right now unless they intentionally want the cold virus from hell, and I also ate it all both days. But then again, it meant I ate something, points for that.
This morning Mistress had made her usual heroic morning routine and served me tea and sandwich in the living room. This isn't even a special "oh my poor baby is sick" kind of thing, it's our standard morning routine (I'll blog about our mornings one of these days...). Anyway. The sandwich today was for some reason white bread with cold meatballs and mayo.
As the first thing in the morning. When I have a sore throat and no sense of smell nor appetite. And don't even like meatballs in the first place, if they're not homemade, and never cold and never ever on a sandwich.
We haven't had time to discuss it, and I'm honestly afraid to ask, but I guess she had some kind of idea behind it. If she was inclined that way I would have guessed it to be some sort of sadistic, hard-ass test of my obedience. But she doesn't have a habit of doing those kinds of things, and my being grumpy sick and sniffling doesn't really bring forth the creative sadist in her. I think she just had meatballs left over, wanted them eaten, and had one herself and made one for me.
Anyway, I had no idea what to do. I mean, there's no really recommended way to say to your Owner "Hey, I don't like this sandwich, make me another one!". The obvious would of course be to discreetly go and make another one myself. But there's a reason I get served breakfast on the couch, and that reason is four years old and grumpy and clingy in the morning.
Everything goes much easier if I serve as kid-anchor and make sure she gets something inside her, and in the meantime Mistress gets to eat breakfast in peace in the kitchen and usually works at the same time. The whole point of feeding us in the living room is so that she can have some uninterrupted peace and quite with her breakfast and her computer. Me going out there making noise and either having the kid in tow or having her yelling loudly to me from across the apartment would kind of negate that.
I could have just eaten it of course. But no, really, I couldn't. I'm sure Mistress could have made me eat it, no doubts about that, but of my own volition, just because it was laying there beside my cup of tea? No. No way.
In the end Mistress popped her head in to check on us presumably when she had finished her breakfast, looked at me, looked at the sandwich, looked at me again in a way that made my inside kind of cringe, and said "I'll just go make you another one, should I?" And she did, and I happily ate the cheese sandwich she brought and felt more than usually sheepish.
And no, I don't think I'm much of a slave when I'm sick, nor much of a housewife or for that matter not all that great as a wife either, on any scale. But the good thing is that that doesn't matter. Because no matter what, I'm still her property, and that I'm amazingly awesome as. Even when my nose is running and I'm a picky eater.
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