You know that scene in You've Got Mail in which Tom Hanks shows up at Meg Ryan's apartment when he hears she's sick, and she answers the door looking adorable in menswear pajamas and a trench coat with just the right amount of hair tossle-ness to indicate that she's under the weather? And how she sneezes into the intercom and says "I have a TEMPature!"
(The wads of tissues stuffed into her pockets and a few well-hidden soup bowls also add to effect, but you know what I mean, right?)
Well I'm here to tell you that this, most definitely, ain't it.
I awoke Monday with what I presumed to be the flu, but alas, I am (she says while throwing her forearm across her forehead in dramatic fashion) at death's door with bronchitis.
(OK. Not the door, really. More like the vestibule.)
But I am sickety, sick, sick and can't remember when I have ever felt so lousy. I keep waiting for my mom to come in and put a fresh sheet on the couch, set up the TeeVee tray with ginger ale and saltine crackers, and then smooth my hair from my fevered brow with her cool soft hands.
(Considering the fact that she's been gone for 25 years, this would be quite feat.)
So I'm stuck with one very patient, yet exasperated sister and a dog that insists on wearing a nurses' cap, stethoscope, and Easy Comfort white Career Collection Casuals instead. If he doesn't stop bitching about the fact that there's no official nursing cape for him to sling over his shoulder with his customary flair, I'm going to open the front door and hope that he decides to finally run away from home.
Fear not, sweet friends, for I shall repair shortly. Thanks to some industrial-strength pharmaceuticals (*) and enough Sobe Life Water to float a barge, methinks I just might live to tell the tale, after all.
(*) I'm sorry to report that one of these meds is Prednisone. Although not in the same doses at the Great Prednisone Caper of 2002, they are, nonetheless high enough to invoke the "I Shall Not Write Things, Say Things, Or Have Any Public Interaction With Nice People While Under The Influence Of This Stuff" pledge as was signed, sealed, and delivered circa 2004.
(I will, however, be sure to write something in my private journals each day, and if the proper authorities determine that there is anything is comic value there, we'll publish in the interest of not losing all of my loyal and devoted fans.)
(See? The crazy delusional nutball version of me is coming out already.)