When last I wrote a real entry (which is just to say that the video editing involves a lot of finessing for a very brief money shot), I mentioned that Esteban was sick and I was terrified of catching it. In retrospect, I’m thankful I had started editing that video a few days early and had it done by New Year’s Eve, because not only did I catch his germy pass, I ran with it and scored the winning touchdown. Sometimes when I get sick, I feel a bit like I failed myself, but in this case, during Esteban’s illness, I had powered through something like 26,000 times the recommended dose of Vitamin C as well as a shitload of water and juice, there was no reasonable escape. My New Year’s Eve excitement involved Ny-Quil and fresh cool sheets. In fact, I went to bed so early that the Ny-Quil had actually worn off and I needed a second round of medication just as the final minutes of 2006 were winding down. I did stop by Esteban’s office to give him a midnight kiss before retreating to a codeine cough syrup haze.
It was seriously a doozy, too. It was all I could do to remain upright most of the time. The mystery bug seemed to morph through four or five mutations, starting with bronchitis, then fever/chills/aches/weltschmerz with no bronchitis to speak of, then a blistering sore throat followed by a stereotypical sinus infection and then the bronchitis came back with a serving of fever on the side. Whuppah! The mystery illness is illusive and defies you to figure out its next move. It was like a ninja, swift and deadly and leaving me completely unable to understand all but the simplest of concepts, which explains my continued fascination with Zuma and also a marathon of Beauty and the Geek.
Before I succumbed to Typhoid Esteban’s wiles, I had made a gigantic pot of what turned out to be the best chicken soup in the entire world. It was so good that Esteban didn’t believe that I had made it, thinking perhaps I had had it flown in from some famous snooty chef or something. I don’t really know what the secret was. It might have been the fresh thyme or the tablespoon of pure powdered tomato that gave the broth just a touch of acidity and balance or maybe it was the fact that I accidentally dumped in half a cup of chopped garlic. It also might have been that I used TJ’s organic chicken broth, which seems much more stout than the blue and white carton’s organic offering. I really think it was the fact that I threw half a bag of cheese tortellini in it (I wanted noodles but wanted to balance the carbs with some protein) and then when those tortellini had finished cooking in the soup, I decided that there weren’t enough, so threw the rest in. The first group of tortellini then got overdone and let loose their delicious contents of cheese and parmesan, which then dissolved into and thickened the broth, while Group B maintained their cheesy integrity. It had a masterful effect and I only wish that I had planned it that way. I suspect that it will never be replicated however. We lived on it for three days solid and when Esteban disappeared into his office with the last half quart and a spoon, I might have hated him just a little bit. It didn’t really seem fair, since not only was he feeling better but he was the disease spreader in the first place.
Oh, don’t judge. Tell me you don’t retreat into the mind of a four-year-old when you’re feeling subhuman.
I did make it into work for a whopping two hours before collapsing into a sweat-ridden exhausted heap. I should have known better when the very act of showering almost made me faint. Then I had super guilt because I had vacation later in the week and on Tuesday night, it was pretty clear that I was no better. I ended up taking an extra vacation day on Wednesday, so that I could be sick at home without guilt. That’s messed up, I know, but it made me feel better. Besides, I now have the old timer’s allotment of vacation days and am feeling a bit free to squander them. I spent the day doing a million loads of (fucking) laundry and then throwing myself across the bed panting after every trip up the stairs with a heavy basket. I managed to compile clear thoughts around mid-day so made a run to the nail salon for a quick manicure (I didn’t trust myself with sharp objects yet) and then made the mistake of stopping at TJ Maxx to see if they had anything that would work as a replacement for my battered and broken suitcases. The lesson to be learned there is that shopping with a 102 temperature will result in a pair of bright pink suitcases that will piss off your husband for mysterious reasons and when pressed, he’ll finally admit it’s because the color prevents him from borrowing them. And then he will call you selfish. Well, it’s not like I ate the last of the delicious soup or anything, is it? I also almost bought a full length faux mink coat, but managed to shake my head clear. And also, it made me look a bit hippy.
The sort of nice side effect to being delirious for days preceding a trip is that I had no energy for panic attacks, not about the reading nor the trip itself. No packing anxiety. No obsessive planning, no schedule plotting or map studying. I didn’t even know how I was going to get from the airport to the hotel and when asked, I just shrugged and said that I’d figure something out. It was really really strange. Eight hours before I had to leave for the airport and I was just throwing things into open suitcases. I didn’t even make my normal travel spreadsheet! Is this how regular people do it? Because seriously, when your mind isn’t envisioning the mushroom cloud of doom because you might forget your phone charger or your travel magnifying mirror, it is SO much easier to pack.
Trip report to come. Or maybe several entries, because damn. Damn.
