Feed a fever, starve a cold. Either option is just plain hard to follow through (how do you eat when you can't stop shaking? How do you starve yourself and get all the hot fluids and vitamin C your body craves? Try taking a shot of NyQuil on an empty stomach.) Another saying I just don't get: sick as a dog. As in, gah, I am just so sick. I'm... sick as a dog. Shouldn't that be sick as a... sick dog? At one point, were all dogs just sick, miserable creatures? Most of the dogs I know have better immune systems than triathletes. Survival of the fittest? Has dog DNA significantly changed, for the healthier? I'm not saying there aren't any sick doggles out there [and I am so, so sorry if you have a sick doggle on your hands]. Just pointing out that the formula DOG = SICK is flawed.
The rest of this post is after the jump, to protect my co-blogger and her tender, tender heart.
Imagine this on a house-wide scale, and you've got a pretty good idea of what my home looks like after 5 days under quarantine with a toddler. Add to that the football playoffs, my husband's general distaste for sleep (except in the early morning, when the toddler wakes), and the fact that every former-Virgo in this house was feeling the need to take down the damn tree already. Bits and bobs of holiday past, toys and figurines, cat hair and dust on floorboards (alright, that's a mainstay), clothes piled on every available surface and indiscernible things crammed in corners. Like so many puzzle pieces... these are the things of our lives.
Which would be fine, if my dearly-beloved were also on Prozac.
There are a few things he has difficulty handling with grace. Small spaces. A cluttered home. Dubious plays by the Steelers. These things make his jaw do a little bulgy-thing. (Think Tom Cruise, pre-Scientology, determined.) And dogs. He loathes dogs. I've truly never been able to get a real why out of him--there's no history of biting, no sad christmas--and it's unfortunate. The toddler loves dogs. Our dearest friends love dogs. I love their dogs. There is a lot of dog-love around here. And, like most dog-love, it's just patiently waiting for my beloved, wagging it's little tail, maybe whimpering...should he ever decide to embrace his nemeses. Or try pharmaceuticals. Most of the time, he's very good-natured. He's had some success hiding his hatred of dogs from the world (and our wide body of dog-loving friends, some who thankfully still don't know) using a quiet little mantra he developed on his own. "Grind, grind, grind." In his mind, he is grinding dog burgers. Brutal, yes, but it gives him the illusion of control. (Once a Virgo, always a Virgo.)
I realize I am not presenting a well-rounded view of my husband, here. Chalk it up to the fever. I should mention how he loves snails (he mourns every crushed invertebrate), and how once he shed tears because I simply disposed of a dead kitten in the trash... instead of giving it a proper burial. (The poor thing was stillborn, with four healthy siblings who all found happy and lasting homes.)
When I'm well again, I plan to be a tornado of clean. I hope to bake fresh bread for my family and put away all the laundry and make that box of handkerchiefs. I will, at least, take my kid out of the house and see the sun again. Provided it comes back to us. xox