Somehow I managed to pry myself off the leather couch bathed in healing sunshine where I’ve spent most of my time the last few days, beverage at hand, toes wiggling in the sunshiny delight, book propped on my belly, and dragged myself up to the computer. Our house has been struck with The Crud. Joe has been sick for nearly two weeks now, and I had been cheerily nursing him for most of that time, grateful every day that the plague slipped by oblivious to my presence. Then a couple days ago it seized me by the throat, applying slow but steady pressure, filling me with thick poison only a violent spell of coughing can ease. Between the two of us, with the coughing and fitful fever-sweats, sleep is elusive, at best. Joe is better, and he’s put the nursing uniform on, (think sexy male nurse—not that we actually have a nurse’s uniform. Yet.), but it’s more like we’re taking care of each other now. We’re so polite and full of pity and thanks for the other: “Would you like a cuppa tea?” “Oh yes, that would be lovely, thank you.” Weak smiles all around.
I’ve learned from his experience that sitting absolutely still and quiet is the most effective way to combat discomfort, so the house has been filled with an absence of noise; zen-like in the silence of our immobility, whisper-talk and occasional slow stealthy ninja movement to spit into the sink. Chubby little ninjas in baggy black sweats and polar fleece about to explode into a hack-attack…. Sometimes the coughing seems to build off the other’s until it’s a regular coughetition. (Newest entry into the Lori-word dictionary. Spell Check has no idea what to do with me). Like I told FOX TV on my application for the amateur cook reality show when they asked if I considered myself competitive, Joe and I make appointments to donate blood at the same time so we can see who bleeds faster. So, yeah, I guess you could say I’m a bit competitive, though I’ll gladly concede in this case.
There’s a rule we have in our house that if you have a cat on your lap that you’re excused from just about anything until the cat voluntarily gets up. With all the passive sitting around here lately the incidents of cat-in-lap have been quite high, especially when there is any type of reading involved – nothing attracts our cats faster than an open book on a lap; I swear they can hear the cover opening from the back of the house. Unfortunately, one can get to feeling smothered by so much cat love and comfort when you’re sick and hot, and, well, catrapped. (Sorry. Since I thought of it the other day I felt I had to share it somehow, some way. Gimme some slack, I’m sick!)
The sun has dropped behind the neighbor’s ugly shed and one of the cats is telling me it’s about time someone fed them dinner, sick or not, by sitting a couple feet away and tapping her little gray pussy willow feet. I have some chipotle chicken broth I made last month thawing out so we can make a soup tonight filled with hot & healthy, soothing goodness, including some beautiful organic rainbow carrots and purple potatoes Joe bought this afternoon. Until next time, remember this old sign Joe saw in his youth: “If you expect to rate as a gentleman, don’t expectorate on the floor.”