Monday, November 28, 2011

As I Lay Dying: And Other Inconvenient Things

Morning Readers,

     As some of you may have noticed, I didn't post on Friday. Through the magical gift of airborne illness, I was presented with a vicious stomach flu late Thursday night. I just want to clear up what the rest of the neighborhood may have mistaken as Gary Busey wandering through my house at three a.m, shouting, "Make it stop, brother." Unable to leave my bed, Friday, I clung dearly to life, while Husband bravely held down the fort. And he did an excellent job...which is good because I was having a rough time...

     At about nine a.m., Husband peeked in. "How're you feeling?"


     I rolled over. "I've made out my last will and testament. Just know I'm not leaving you my baseball card collection because I never started one. Wait...you're not Aunt Hester. The fever's done taken my sight.."
     "I've got everything under control. Just sleep."

     Clinging to my pillows, I proceeded to stare at the ceiling. Doctor's don't mention it much, but the leading cause of death by sickness is boredom. After forcing myself to sleep, rather than count the dirt spots on the ceiling, I proceeded to run through fields full of wildflowers, singing select Carpenters Christmas carols and weaving my own underwear out of willow branches. That's when the fever really escalated..

     Somewhere around ten a.m., Husband came back in. "What are you doing? Take those pants off your head."

     I quit jogging in circles. "I finally figured out how to get my Jeggings to fit. What the manufacture doesn't put on the label is that these are actually a hat, not pants. I think I'm going to write a strongly-worded letter suggesting they rename them Hat Pants."

     "I think you need to lay down."

     "Ok, Abraham Lincoln. Or do you prefer Honest Abe? There are no instructions on this penny."

     "Uh.."

     I passed out for awhile, but Husband maintains he walked in on me laying under the bed.  When asked why I was talking to myself beneath the bed skirt, I replied that Joan Rivers wouldn't agree to meet anywhere else, and, "If you really want that recipe for turkey curry, you'll get the hell out."

     After being dragged out and tucked firmly tucked back into bed, I wore away the rest of the day in and out of consciousness, fighting off chills and wondering why rooms need paint, why Madonna won't just stop, and whether or not the people who named palm trees really thought they looked like a hand. Later that night, when my fever broke, Husband gave a nod of relief. "Glad you're feeling better."

    "Me too."

    "Before you head to bed tonight, I want you to know that the Civil War ended a while ago, so you don't need to worry about "rebels in the nightstand".

     I smiled. "I know."

     "And I managed to smooth things over with the neighbors. Bob says he's willing to forget you banging on the windows yelling, "I've got the last golden ticket,"... if we will."

     "You're the best."

     "Oh, and what was that you were saying about the dishwasher being a portal to Narnia?"

     I patted him on the shoulder. "Did the babies drag a faun back for you? I guess I've never really told you what they do during the day..."


Anybody else get hit by a killer bug...with or without theatrical hallucinations? Would anyone actually want Hat Pants if I hot glue gun some together?

Until Next Time, Readers!