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11:59 a.m. - 2010-12-07
New Flu Review

My ribs feel sprung and achy from coughing so much. Perhaps it's just the flu-muzzies but I cannot remember the last time I was this sick. I know I get a boogery cold/allergy/random icky every once in a while. There's an albuterol inhaler somewhere in the rubble on my desk and I've only had health insurance for 13 months now, so that chest cold must have been within the year. Though I do remember the inhaler was a freebie from the doc. Funny how you start getting freebies when you finally have medical coverage. Then again without health insurance I wouldn't have gone to the doctor in the first place, at least not until I was actually bringing up bits of lung and had lost too much blood to have the strength to make dinner and do the laundry.

Speaking of which, I set a plate of bacon on fire last night while making dinner. That was an adventure. Well it was my fault, I have this thing about having all the food be ready at the same time so nothing gets cold. So like a dope I was frying bacon, making pancakes, boiling tea water, leading Mick through the finer points of how to whisk eggs for scrambling, gabbling something to Wolf about setting passwords while he was on the laptop in the dining room and what with the flu making me a bigger dope than usual I wasn't in my normal octopus short-order cook mode and somehow jammed the plate too near the burner. The paper towels on the plate to drain the bacon caught fire. I stood there like a dummy with the flaming plate for quite some time before realizing I had to put it in the sink and douse it. Mick was just as thunderstruck and he doesn't have the flu, so there's that anyway. No harm done. Even saved the bacon. But I'm thinking the guys should just get their own dinners tonight.

Why haven't they been doing this all along, and fetching me my dinner too? Good question. No reasonable answer, except to explain they have ZERO cooking skills. None. Like they eat Pop Tarts cold out of the box because they can't figure out how to toast them. Mick's one 'dish' is opening a can of chicken, putting in an inadequate amount of mayo, sprinkling in some paprika and eating it out of the bowl. Perhaps they'd be fine getting along on cold Pop Tarts and overly dry chicken salad, but I was hungry and wanted real food. If I want food then I have to make it.

I know, I am being a remiss mother in not teaching Wolf to cook. I've tried off and on, but haven't been insistent or consistent about it. And Mick's just hopeless. He's graduated to stirring, he's hell on wheels about stirring the pasta while it boils, which is why I was teaching him how to whisk eggs, but he's not interested in learning how to actually cook. Left on his own it'd be right back to lousy chicken salad and cold toaster pastries.

This is not to say the guys haven't been doing their bit to take care of me in other ways. Mick's forever tucking me into blankets, bringing the hot water bottle, and listening nicely while I bitch about how lousy I feel. Wolf, too, has been great about bringing me Diet Cokes and not getting in my face too much with his tales of teenage woe and school nonsense. So I'm all set with the being warm and hydrated thing.

I'd actually sat down to write about my weary anger with the latest bullshit from the Israeli rabbis, Obama's insane quest to get cooperation from the GOP, my fury at the lapse of unemployment payments, worry about the upcoming referendum and probable expanded civil war in Sudan, the disappearing Marshall Islands, and my laughing disgust over Lysol's automatic soap dispenser and its implications in the continuing effort by marketers and government alike to make people afraid of fucking everything, but I'm out of energy.

Time to crawl off with yet another cuppa and watch a dopey movie.


Much love from a pooped and still sickly, ~LA

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