02 Oct 2025 6 min read Memoirs

Living the (Fever) Dream

So, I was sitting on the couch with Michael Keaton, who was moonlighting as a temporary Santa Claus. We’d just survived a terrifying sleigh ride through outer space where I nearly fell out several times, and he was fist-bumping me for scoring $10K designer suits for my husband at $200 apiece.

We snickered about our finances like two villains in a cheesy Batman sequel (though honestly, aren't they all a little cheesy?), but 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 candy corn and cash all around me. Which I didn't find weird at all as I quickly scooped it all up. I do love me some candy corn, after all...

Now, here’s the really weird part…

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

You see, while I was riding shotgun with Michael Keaton doing barrel rolls in Santa’s sleigh, in the real world, I was flat on my back with a raging fever.

I spent days sweating through sheets, praying for death (I’m a terrible patient, let’s establish that right now), and missing out on a long-planned, very real trip to see Ron White.

It always starts with denial. You wake up telling yourself, I’m not sick. My throat isn’t sore, it’s just really dry. That's the lie I woke up at 2 a.m. with last week.

And every time, I somehow wonder if this ailment might be the one that finally takes me out. (Like I said, cranky sick person. Very cranky.)

But I’m not actually a nightmare patient unless someone tries to drag me into stupid drama (e.g., kids bickering over chores, the last piece of dessert, or breathing the same air, every argument punctuated with shouts of "Bro!").

I just want to be left alone to suffer in peace cause I know I’m not good company. This is me doing a public service: I'm hiding from you to save you.

My husband, bless his heart, kept wanting to open the blinds and “let the sun shine in” like we were filming a ding-dang vitamin commercial.

Meanwhile, I’m hissing from under my blankets like a vampire; just close the blinds and back away slowly, I implore you.

But the Balkan Storm, saint that he is, pressed on and made me homemade chicken soup. Not the canned stuff but actual chicken, veggies, and herbs - even his broth is always made from scratch.
(Yes, I’m bragging. Marry someone who cooks with love, it’ll change your life.)

He even set me up with our “sick bed” table—you know, the kind you see in hospitals that rolls up over your lap so you can eat Jell-O in bed? Yeah, we have one of those. Don’t ask how we got it.

He gave me a space to eat, park my phone, laptop, and Xbox, which I never get to touch anymore. He also rearranged the power cords so I wouldn’t trip getting out of bed. He adjusted my blankets and fluffed my pillows. Five-star care.

It almost makes me want to fake being sick sometimes, just for the extra attention. Almost.

Looking back, I probably should’ve watched the crankiness. Now I feel bad. Sorry, hon. You took really good care of me. You always do. mwah.

So there I was in my blanket cocoon, alternating between napping and sweating, playing Fortnite like a twelve-year-old, and jotting down snippets for this piece in between matches.

When my fever finally broke, I half-expected normal life to return to normal. Instead, it felt like reality had warped in my absence, only this time, in a good way (except for the illness. Screw that noise).

First is the false hope you get when you start feeling better, and you wake up thinking, 'I’m cured!' You climb out of bed, and immediately your body says, “Sit yo ass back down.”

Next comes the painful realization that I’m not 20 anymore, and I don’t bounce back in a day, no matter how much I take care of myself.

Please tell me it’s not just me.

I haven’t worked out at all in a week, so my stress management has been…well..this, to be honest. Just writing, plotting, and lurking in my blanket nest like the mole-person I am when I’m sick.

But today, I’m finally out of bed, at my desk in real clothes, surrounded by a pile of throat lozenges and sounding like the chain-smoking grandma who always sits alone at the bingo hall.

Anyway – on to actual good stuff.

Months ago, I had this gut feeling that certain things were about to take a turn for the better. I couldn’t explain it; I just knew it.

Some people refer to it as discernment, while others call it women’s intuition. I don’t know what it is; I just wish I had this kind of clarity about stocks and lottery numbers.

The first sign of real change is that the long, exhausting battle over the kids that’s shaped so much of our last few years is finally, almost unbelievably, transitioning toward a kind of peace I’d forgotten could exist.

For once, conversations that used to feel like brick walls have become tentative new beginnings. The bridges aren’t yet fully built, but instead spun out of spider silk, glinting beautifully in the light, but one hard gust away from snapping.

How’s that for a cheesy metaphor?

Everywhere I look, little changes are showing up in places I didn’t expect. Nothing final that I can write yet (but it’s coming, I promise), but enough to tell me the tide is finally turning.

And maybe that’s why even real life feels like a fever dream right now. Seasons of toxicity are dying, and fresh, optimistic ones are sprouting from that cold, barren soil.

I am on fire with these cheesy metaphors.

The problem is that even though I somehow knew it was coming, it still doesn’t feel like peace yet. Not for me. For so long, life has been about bracing for the next shitshow that this current season of calm feels more like that silence before the jump-scare in a horror movie.

Or like checking your email after ignoring your attorney bills.

But honestly, it isn't just me. Right now, the whole world feels like it's running its own fever; restless, irritable, waiting for the next hit of bad news.

Politically motivated violence is escalating, and experts keep warning we’re in a “vicious spiral” (Reuters).

Congress just shut down the government because it can’t agree on whether water is wet, and cities are prepping troops like they’re an hour away from The Purge.

Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban are getting divorced after 19 years. (I don't care much about celebrity gossip; this is just the byproduct of doomscrolling in bed. But still, a reminder that even decades-long marriages are never immune to a moment that changes everything, no matter how perfect it seems from the outside.)

It's hard to trust the calm when everything else is running hot, but faith is a muscle I’m still working on, and I feel it all the same.

I’m tired, but quitting has never once made problems go away, has it? So even when you truly want to just chuck it in the fuck-it bucket, you keep on going.

That's what UB has always been about. Not pretending crazy-hard stuff doesn’t happen or end just the way want, but talking about it, making sense of it, and getting a little stronger for the next round.

If my daydreams have taught me anything, it’s that I can build a world inside my head, but I still have to wake up and thrive in the real one.

And if my fever dreams have taught me anything, it’s that even in dreams, I’m still in the fight, and apparently, always bargain hunting.

Hey—
You’ve made it this far into my fever dream, which means either you’re a saint or you’re just as stubborn as I am. Either way, if you nodded along, you should probably hit subscribe.

Why? Because subscribers get first dibs on the parts I can’t always throw out on the open web. Think behind-the-scenes drafts, posts I regret almost immediately, and the kind of side stories I only share with the inner circle.

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