Julia

Zing

If there is anything better than being in a state of not forcibly and simultaneously ejecting, well, anything, from both ends of my digestive track I do not want to know about it. All day people asked me, Julia, why are those bluebirds carrying the edges of your little cape, but I merely smiled beatifically at these friends and well-wishers and continued to trill a silvery song. Gladsomely. 

The eternal bright side of being disgustingly, albeit temporarily, ill is that when you no longer feel like putrescence you burst with goodwill. If I could kiss each and every one of you on the lips right now I would do so. Not that you want me to, of course, I am just describing my mood. I am in a lip-kissing mood.   

I am also in a blog writing mood. I feel like writing about sex and not having another child and my mother flipping the toilet paper around again and the long-overdue chicken recipe and my thoughts on wheat berries and the old Navajo rug Steve bought me for Christmas to hang on our bedroom wall that clashes so hideously with the despised (say that despise-ed) duvet cover that even Steve winced and agreed we will have to get new bedding and Patrick's speech therapy experience and the weird new language he has just started that is frankly creeping me right the fuck out and... oh lots of things. But first I have to drive Steve to get new tires for the new car (did I mention we got a new car a few weeks ago? we did) and then... and then... and then he is going to have his cast taken off and hopefully replaced with a bandaid or something. Huzzah.

But I will make it back this afternoon and write something definitely.

Oh, I am in need of a new oversized mug for my bedtime soup (the sole survivor of this category in our house bears a John Deere logo) so I started looking around online for one. And I decided to get one that will let me print my own message on it, it occured to me that I would very much like a good sized mug that reads, in old typewriter font, "be silent. silent like an e." As long as I am getting them done I thought I would see if you want one too. Lemme know. Back later.   

House of Sick And Fug

I have been sick. So incredibly sick. Stomach virus sick. Sleeping on the bathroom floor with a hand towel for a pillow sick.

Steve started it. He got up Monday morning... excuse me, he failed to get up Monday morning but instead lay there like a gaffed salmon and told me he thought he had food poisoning. Don't tell any boss I ever had during my I-can't-come-in-today-I-have-food-poisoning-completely-unrelated-to-the-SweetTart-shooters-I-was-imbibing-a-mere-four-hours-ago days but actual food poisoning is incredibly rare in this country. I do not have the exact figures at hand, seeing as I am a housewife who does laundry all the goddamned time, but I believe that the numbers for honest to God food poisoning incidents are very small. So I doubted his assessment but felt his head and determined that he did actually have a fever. I asked if he wanted any tea or anything but he just groaned so I left him in bed and took Patrick to his swim lesson (Patrick got all uppity about starting swimming lessons again. the child who swore he hated them began asking after Christmas when he would be going back to the pool. after he flopped on my bedroom floor last week and began twisting his arms in a pseudo-backstroke and said, "I guess I am NEVER going swimming again in the WATER", I enrolled him. sarcasm works with me.)    

Steve was still in bed when we got back from swimming and I offered him some Tylenol. Then Patrick and I had to go back out again and take my mother to the airport (which in retrospect I never should have done, I should have kept her here as a domestic hostage.) On the way I home I called my brother and mentioned casually that Steve was ill. My brother instantly became very worried and reminded me that Steve had just had surgery and that he could have some horrible infection that even as we spoke was turning his insides to goo. So I called the surgeon (ha ha ha. wouldn't that be a miracle? no, I called the receptionist for one of the offices from which the surgeon bills and she connected me with the outpatient care center) and they suggested that I take him into his primary care physician. I called the primary care clinic and asked to speak to a nurse or Steve's primary physican's assistant. The phone nymph said I could leave a message and when I paused and asked if the message would be returned soon she said it depended upon how many people have left messages ahead of me. I said, ok, my husband has recently had surgery and he is throwing up with a high fever, should I take him to the emergency room or urgent care, what did she think? And the nymph got quite snippy and said that I should have told her it was an emergency and immediately connected me to the emergency nurse line.

Now, I don't know about you, but I would have felt like an ass blurting out "It's an emergency!" to whomever answered the phone at the clinic. If it were a real emergency I would have called 9-1-1. As it was I was simply looking for some informed guidance, hence the request to speak to a nurse. Was I wrong?

Good grief I am still typing and I haven't even gotten to ME yet. I type too much.

The emergency nurse line nurse brought us in right away and Steve's doctor looked him over. They gave him two IVs full of fluid while Patrick and I killed time at Borders and then went out to dinner. As I was driving him home (Steve at this point being gray but more lucid) I observed that I felt like I needed to throw up. Steve said, "Don't steal my thunder." From the back seat Patrick squealed "My tummy hurts!" and looked like he was about to hurl. I increased my speed to LIGHT and got home without incident. Patrick had fallen asleep in the five minutes it took to get home and actually stayed asleep while I carried him to bed, undressed him, put him in pajamas and tucked him into bed. Then I tucked Steve into bed. Then I fed the cats, locked the doors, turned on the security system, put on my pajamas, read two pages of my book and fled to the bathroom where I proceeded to vomit for the next ten hours.

So we have

1 - violently ill me

1- marginally ill Steve with added disability of cast and crutches

1 - slightly ill Patrick (so far)

It is ugly around here, folks.

Hope you are better than we are.