What to do when your husband is sadly, desperately, truly, ill with The Flu of Death, oh hell no You Will Not Give it to Me, or I will be forced to kill you with this bottle of Airborne.
- Briefly escape for a massage, watch friends' kids. Take children to a mall for strategic spoiling purposes. Have friends' daughters' ears pierced with horridly presh-shous pink studs. Applaud her bravery (not a tear!) to anyone who will listen, watch her face glow with the pride of being a Big Girl with real earrings. Die of the cute, swear children to silence, say, "We'll wait till your mom notices*", spill beans yourself due to The Cute and the pride that is fairly leaking from childs' pores. *To clarify: She's actually had her ears pierced before, and I did call her dad and get the ok. However, if you're cruising around and want to take any old kid and get her ears/nose/bellybutton peirced, Claire's is the place. Twenty-six bucks and a signature buys you the procedure, the after-care solution and the studs.
- Field his business calls, while not clarifying if you are his wife, personal assistant, or just Some Bird he handed his phone to for the heck of it. Giggle.
- Shamelessly shirk your own emails until the wee morning hours. Catch up on said emails; carefully inserting tale of Woe into all of them so that clients will not suspect you are on the crack.
- Rub his back, neck, legs, feet, head, face and hands. Gently, and don't forget to warm your cold hands, for the luvvapete.
- See above, repeat for 6-8 hours.
- Make tea, offers of liquids with STRAWS for easy sippage.
- Set up camp in the living room, spend night on your own hide-a-bed couch with tiny mattress for optimal germ sharing.
- Call your sister in law, explain that while Himself *will* be well enough to go to Vegas next week, thank you so very much, it would be ill-advised for her to drop by with the baby over the weekend. (Bonus points if you can do this without feeling like an inhospitable, ungrateful, baby-hating jackass. I can't.)
- Read Fussy archives from start to the point where you orginally started reading and commenting. Curse self for inability to self-barber, precocious and delightfully named son, sweet (if ultimately ill-fated) dog, turtle, new dog, boob-enhancing T-shirts, sucessful home remodel, yoga practice or ability to write posts that allow reader(s?) to avoid instant narcolepsy.
- Sternly admonish cat for (repeatedly) doing his new "trick": Opening lower cupboard doors just enough for them to Bump! Bonk! Boomp! closed again, chirRRRrrrr?ing to see if we realize exactly how smart he is. Consider purchasing child (cat) proofing latches, decide against this when you realize the bonk!ing noise would not subside and Crazy Cat Lady status would officially have been achieved. With paperwork and also possibly a badge.
- Write ill-advised, list-type post due to blistering case of insomnia, care of husband, hunger due to skipping meals, lack of alcohol consumption. Wonder if 4 am is too early or too late for a medicinal shot of vodka. Decide not to find out, wish for some valerian or the Sleep Fairy to visit. Contemplate gruesome Saturday, spending next week looking for undereye spackel/reducer for dark circles.
- Recall your deep childhood love for these poems:
When I was sick and lay a-bed,
The Land of Counterpane
by Robert Louis Stevenson
by Robert Louis Stevenson
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By on the highway low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.