The whimsy of viruses has made this holiday a phlegm-based affair; fun for the whole family. Our various membranes are hot and raw, we're coughing a lot with all the mucosity staying in or moving to places where it isn't needed, and it's all a bit of a drag. But it kept us from having to dress up in formal wear to go caroling at the country club. Alas, Biff and Muffy had to do their annual interpretive dance of "Twas The Night Before Christmas" without a plateful of my winning ladyfingers again this year, as our contagious social lives were limited to festive grunts and snorts emitted toward neighbors through the screen door on our porch. My robe, on said porch, may be open, but it's dignity to the last as I gulp my Robitussin, perfectly warmed, from a snifter. Can you tell?
Though our nostrils have been largely useless, the purity of Amy's faith in Santa Claus has kept our spirits high. Her commitment to his wonderfulness was fortified this year by the inception last June of a weekly allowance, a program designed to familiarize our ten-year-old girl with the world of finance. It also familiarized her with the notion of not having to budget for what you want in December because Santa will bring it for free. I may have to fabricate an unfortunate sleigh accident next November, high-tension lines, poor visibility... Rudolph survives, but alas, the rest... so sorry... the red nose apparently not enough in the face of another El Niņo. Amy's strong. I think she can handle it. She'll be eleven by then.
We were healthy enough by Christmas morning to cross the street to Mike and Lizzie's for an impromptu breakfast with a dozen or so neighbors. Pot luck bacon and eggs, jelly-cake, pecan cinnamon pull-aparts, biscuits and gravy, and lots of coffee. This is the treat of a close-knit neighborhood. It ended up being one of the best gatherings we've ever had, and I don't think I had a more enjoyable time all year. It also gave us the chance to begin plotting our evil-doings for New Year's Eve.
Then I came home and laid down.
Generally, my colds are cyclonic beasts. Extremely windy, lots of moisture falling, a severity rivalled only by the fragility of my recuperation. As you know, I'm very sensitive, and when ravaged by germs my body needs the tender care of two or three nubile nurses and two or three hundred digital cable channels. Lacking two or three of those ingredients, I compensate by lying down a lot. Relapse is imminent until Viv starts vacuuming on the weekend and I have to go down to Best Buy to catch the end, in HDTV, of whatever game was on before I was so rudely interrupted. Women simply do not understand the nature of illness. Pasteur, Mendel, Leewuwenhoek: all dudes.
Welp. Eight o'clock. Time for another swig, er, dose of that lovely, friendly red medicine. Later.
"Embraceable You/I Got It Bad And That Ain't Good (medley) -- Keely Smith -- LOUIS PRIMA: CAPITOL COLLECTOR'S SERIES
"The great tragedy of Science -- the slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact."
- T.H. Huxley