Tuesday, January 9, 2018

#Me, Too - for Wives

I really wanted to head this "Hail, Mary, full of grace,  pray for me now and at the hour of Richie's death because I'm tempted to kill him."  Richie has a bad cold.  Ah hah! fellow wives.  I sense your ears pricking up.  Yes.  The Dread (by wives) Cold.  Eat a big breakfast, girls, you're gonna need your strength.

I have no idea how single men deal with a cold; but if they are anything like married men, they will call for feminine help.  For a single dude, it could be  a girlfriend or a former girlfriend or an ex-wife or a former high school sweetheart (and the guy is 45) for help.

I will state it clearly, here and now.  Men are constitutionally unable to care for themselves when they are sick.  The corollary to that ruling is "depending on the severity of the ailment, injury or on-going condition (whining in many cases.)  

Richie with a cold is the street version of the Imaginary Invalid (Moliere, I think) but when he really is hurt - chock flew up at the airport and busted the bone under his eye; emergency appendectomy - he is as docile as a lamb.  He goes straight to his side of the bed and stays there, wanting nothing, complaining not at all.  I've been known to tiptoe in and see if he's still alive so quiescent was he.

(If I forget anything here, fellow wives, e me, okay?)  Up the Invalid's Ramp we go -

Seated in his royal recliner, wearing a ratty old white toweling robe, over a pair of threadbare sweats, box of Kleenex on his lap, blanket swathed over  his sheepskin-lined new slippers, he bleats piteously, "Do ... do you think you could... hand me that glass of orange juice?"  I put down my book, get up off of the couch and walk over to render this small service.

The glass of life-giving orange juice is 4.5 in. from his hand.  I measured when he went back to sleep.

The action comes with a sound track, too.  Richie is sitting upright, snoring with some gusto.  Every now and then he gurgles (probably just to see if I am appreciating the concert) which makes me at least look up from my book.

Feeding the invalid consists of the wife listing delicacies and the husband responding softly, "Oh ... oh ... I'll just have some chicken noodle soup.  But not too hot - my throat is sore - and don't forget the soda crackers - I don't want the fig and black olive ones.  Maybe a pat of butter on top of the soup... for protein ...I don't want it now, but maybe I'll be ready to eat by noon.  Not now.  (huge sigh) I don't have any appetite now ..."

I would go on in this vein (heh heh) but Himself is ready for a toasted English muffin with "real butter!" and perhaps a bit of cherry jam or maybe orange marmalade - "Bring'em both - let me decide then."


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