I was not well over the holidays and quite sick this last week. It’s some kind of creeping crud the doctors say my husband may have brought back with him from his military-sponsored hiatus to Senegal, Africa. Whatever it is, it can’t be readily cured with anything known to “modern” medicine but I’m willing to bet there’s a woman in Conakry who knows just what plant to chew on to make it all better.
This illness has cost me its weight in Puffs Plus and other sickness-related sundries. I can’t imagine the uncivilized person who still uses Kleenex. So have my three children and husband been sick all this time, but not all at the same time. That would’ve been, the gods of illness and maternal devotion decided aeons ago, too convenient. Instead, they were sick one at a time with bits of overlap so that I was off from work for the better part of the past three weeks. And I wrote virtually nothing.
This is lucky for anyone who meandered my online way as my perspective of the world over the past few weeks was at best, askew. My fever broke just in time to find out Pat Robertson had served himself up yet another plate of foot. I tried to make an article of it but couldn’t seem to get past the idea that everyone on the planet should get together and smote him. Smat him? Smate him? Whatever. It didn’t work. I put the article through Microsoft Word’s spell and grammar check only to be met with something I’d never seen before: a pop-up of a deranged animated figure of my late Mother (may she rest in peace) asking me what in the world I thought I was doing out of bed and that I’d probably burn in hell for my syntax. So I crawled back under the covers and tried to keep Mom out of my fever-induced nightmares.
The last of my ailing children rose from bed yesterday and has since joined her siblings and her father in what my husband calls “getting out of Mom’s hair.” This is to say they all decided to leave before having to do for me the many not-so-wondrous things I did for them while they were sick. But I’m not bitter. The pen is mightier than the sword. I’ve decided instead to tell the world about my loving and caring family who, in my hour of need, ditched me like a little sister in the middle of a neighborhood snowball fight. Better still will be my trip to the Scwabengallerie here in Vaihingen later this afternoon, an excursion that will not include my ungrateful brood but will include a stop at my favorite cafe to see the hot Italian guy whose smile could charm the sun from the sky. He loves my American accent and my dainty eyebrow ring. He makes eyes at me, and a killer cup of cappuccino with just the right amount of foam accompanied by a delightful ginger cookie he and his uncles made from scratch. In his broken English he’ll tell me he hasn’t seen me in a while. I’ll tell him about everyone being sick and how I cared for them even though I was sick myself. He’ll take my hand into both of his and kiss it tenderly. He’ll stroke my face and he’ll say he would never abandon me in my hour of need. Sigh.
What! He does make a great cappuccino. My fever may be coming back. Maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow to get out and about.
To sleep, perchance to swoon.