Esteban is officially sick and has spent the last two nights in a codeine haze on the sofa, as he’s coughing so hard that he figured at least one of us should get some sleep and that way at least he can watch television in between naps. He accuses me of being glad that he’s sleeping on the couch and I dutifully reply that I miss him and the bed is empty without him, but, um, hell yeah I’m glad that he’s sleeping on the couch. It’s no secret that I sleep much better without him tossing and turning every fifteen minutes. I’m a very light sleeper and I suspect that I go months between REM cycles. I doubt that I rarely if ever get into that restful Stage 4 of dreamless sleep.
An added bonus was Esteban cursing our redneck neighbor for having removed the mufflers on his big yellow pick up truck so that it sounds like a semi. Esteban has always defended the neighbor whenever I grumble about him, but finally, a chink in his armor. The Clampet goes to work at 4:30 am. Esteban thought he could only hear the rumble of his truck because Esteban was in the living room, which is in the front of the house, but honestly, our bedroom is five feet off their driveway and that truck wakes me up almost every day. The worst is during the coldest winter months when he warms it up for fifteen minutes before leaving. That’s fifteen minutes of a Harley Davidson rally, right outside my bedroom window.
God, we totally have to move.
The doctor said that Esteban has a virus. I had a touch of a cough when Esteban returned from the doctor, so between his tuberculin hacks, he prophesized doom on my little throat tickle. Doom! He would wag a finger at me and then there would be a dramatic death rattle from his chest. I’m not sure if he was feeling guilty about being Typhoid Esteban or was feeling slightly vindicated. Maybe if he was sick, I should be too. It should be a togetherness thing or something? I just shrugged it off, acting tough, but in reality, man, I really am afraid of respiratory issues. While I’m at work, I’ve been pounding orange juice and Emergen-C like it’s crack. I sort of like the Emergen-C stuff, though. It hides the taste of the Aquafina in the vending machines at work.
I know that it’s supposedly nothing, but I can’t stand the taste of Aquafina. Esteban thinks I’m a water snob, but man, Evian, Aquafina and Dannon waters taste gross. My favorites are Glaceau Smart Water, Volvic, Fiji and Dasani. Actually, I love MacGregor too, but I’ve never seen it in this country.
So far, no death rattle. I have a little bit of an asthmatic wheeze, but I’ve had it ever since I kicked up a ton of dust putting up the Christmas tree. I may have escaped the Doom. Which is good, because Esteban sick means that he ceases to function like an adult and pick up after himself. A tornado has hit the living room and it may be weeks before we can dig our way out of the shoes, dirty bowls and empty juice bottles.
I was acting all tough about this upcoming reading in New York, but yesterday, I was hit with the first whiff of panic. I had just come really close to asking a coworker in NYC about a good restaurant for post-theatre and then realized that I don’t want to ever see any of my NY clients or coworkers, but if I mention it, then I’ll be obligated to meet with them and holy fucking shit, no thank you. I’m already unsure how I’m going to fit everything in and still have time for the mandated water drinking and sleep requirements. No work! None! Because I’m already freaking out about what I’m going to wear and holy crap, I totally need to go shopping this weekend and buy new everything. And also lose a hundred pounds.
And also, there’s the event thing. Reading! In front of people! Reading my silly silly story in New York City (whenever I write that out, I always hear the salsa commercial guy say “New York CITAY?” in my head) in front of people and also other writers, writers who didn’t write silly bios and who have been in McSweeneys and Ploughshares and Best American Poetry 2006 and also lit journals I’ve never heard of but assume they are important. Fuck! I have to read either before or after a guy who wrote Ed Asner love poetry.
I am screwed.
