Saturday, July 19, 2008
My cold hit with hurricane force: Sore throat, fever, sneezing, coughing, runny nose, runny eyes and a general malaise. If I were in a Victorian novel, I would be suffering from ague. I am not a well girl today.
I have commissioned Flip to drive me to the store for Kleenex and chewable vitamin C.
The roads are littered with hapless tourists who take seriously the fable that in California, pedestrians have the right of way. Stupid people. That is a myth, a cautionary tale, a caveat. A warning. Damn uppity tourists. In their deluded minds, they think it is all right to stroll slowwwwwwly across streets, jaywalking with impunity.
I think they shouldn't push their luck today. Luckily, I am not driving. Flip misses all of them.
I feel unproductive. I am bored. I whine.
Flip offers to sing me a lullaby.
"As long as it's not a funeral dirge," I tell him.
"Bubbaly, bubbaly," he chants.
"What in the hell is that?"
"It's 'lullaby' backwards."
He sings it again.
I'm a tough crowd. "I want my money back."
I fix myself a cup of tea, which I can't taste. This would be a good time to load up on everything I don't like that is good for me.
A lot of trees have died for this cold. I have my personal 280-count box of Kleenex on my lap which tells me in French and English that it softens the blows.
"Donnez lui de la douceur!"
I have always wanted to know how to say "dab, wipe, blot and rub" en Francais. I spend a few minutes reading the English blurb along with its French translation. I feel so much smarter now.
I do not understand people who enjoy poor health. I just want to go to sleep and wake up in another universe.
Flip sits beside me and places a sympathetic arm on top of my comforter. "I can't believe you're trying to feel up a deathbed person," I hiss.
There should probably be a "caveat emptor" sign on me. Let the buyer beware.