Chicago Hopeless

I’m sorry Mr. Right, but if everyone got two fluffy pillows, there’d be chaos, wouldn’t you agree?

Worst. Weekend. Ever.

Germ Boy asked for some orange juice at one point. Sounded like a request I could handle, so I foraged about kitchen. That’s the room with fridge, right?
Found some frozen concentrate and tried chopping it up in lukewarm water to speed things along. Heck, sick people can’t taste anyway. Only two ingredients, one of them water. I can handle it. Kind of.

I pour him a big glass over ice so he doesn’t notice my speedy delivery of something that didn’t exist a minute ago. He drinks it and heads back to bed. I head to the kitchen again to put Peach Schnapps in my glass before adding ice and juice. Whee! This is a party.

This reminds me a very funny thing that happened in Key West. One night Louise begins peeling an orange and offers me some. “Oh! Where did you get that?” I exclaim, thinking I missed some roadside stand or the fruit-laden tree right outside our room. “I brought it from home”, she replied. “Let me get this straight… you brought an orange all the way from Wisconsin to Florida??” Guess I’m just lucky she didn’t make me roll down the rental car windows so we could fling them out yelling, “You’re home! Be free!!”

So I spend all day Saturday on the couch (having slept there Friday night) depressed and fearful of contamination. If he stirs, I can always use a broom handle to push some more Thera-Flu through the doorway. Around noon I offer him some soup that I’ve been simmering on the stove all morning. Ok, more like held up a can of Chunky vs. Wolfgang Puck and asked if he had a preference. Do you have plain chicken noodle? he asks, being difficult. With an exasperated sigh I find some generic chicken noodle and microwave it.

I don’t even read. I just watch TV. What a waste of two days. I think I slept eleventeen hours. The absolutely only redeeming thing I can say about the whole weekend is I learned exactly what makes a Hemi a Hemi is by watching a DVD about great Mopars of the past. I think my favorite is the 1970 Challenger T/A. Burnt orange would be nice, that bronzy color.

I spend most of Sunday boiling the bedding and washing it with bleach and sterilizing toothbrushes and toilets, etc. And being bitter. Very, very bitter.

Oh, sure, he offered to go on Sunday. Yes. A two-hour train ride, just what you need honey. Let’s infect the general populace. And train toilets are such fun! Yeah. Never mind.

About now I’d like to point out that HE’s the one who got the flu shot this year. Now I’m convinced the government is using them to kill off the elderly who are using Medicare benefits. There’s something in them that MAKES you susceptible to the flu. Or at least ruining your spouse’s life. I missed Pompeii, and the exhibit is now touring Tokyo. Great. I missed seeing ancient people and dogs preserved in the fetal position by volcanic ash to watch the husband spend the weekend in the same contortions.

Tomorrow: Tales of Meet the Authors at Borders! Or, why you should feel sorry for people who write soul-barring literature and have to put up with weirdos who just show up hoping for how-to-get-published tips.