. . . would just listen to me, the world would be a much better place.
My husband came home from work early this morning running fever, hurting all over, coughing and sneezing, upset stomach--everything awful. He woke up two hours ago running a 101 temp. No question about it--he's got the flu.
So where does this man go when he's sick? Back to bed? Nooo . . . To his elderly mother's house for dinner, that's where. The boys, who are with him, tried to talk him out of it. "You look terrible Dad. Are you sure you're up to this?" asks my nine year old. "I don't think Oma is going to be very happy, Dad. The flu shot didn't work this year," points out the twelve year old who reads the newspaper.
No, no, no. She'll want us there anyway. She's done all this cooking. It just wouldn't be fair to not show up and eat it all.
His mother is a former marathon runner who--at seventy-- still lift's weights and does step aerobics. Gets the flu shot without fail every year. Takes vitamins religiously and eats right. Has been sick exactly twice in all the years I've known her and both times it was the flu. She has a horror of germs and allergens. Runs special air cleaners in every room of her furnished in white leather, crystal and marble house. Ancestral dust wouldn't dare enter her door.
I hope she kicks his butt.
On a brighter note, I've got the house to myself until around eight this evening. I can't decide what to do first; jump on the bed, eat ice cream, go for a walk, write, or . . . just . . . nothing.