Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble
Friday, September 18, 2009

girly duck, originally uploaded by thisduckhere.
I had to interrupt the post I was working on about my Chicago adventures to write this one.

I had to.

Do you ever have one of those moments, so cringing, so awful that even the thought of it makes you want to pull the covers over your head and stay there...forever? Well, that's exactly what happened to me this very sunshiny morning and the only way I can work through my mortification is to tell you about it, Internet.

I have spent the last few weeks in total fear of contracting anything- a cold, swine flu, mad cow disease, leprosy. I tend to be a little germaphobic, as it is. But, I've been crazy lately with the hand washing and the vitamin and Airbone popping. Nothing and I mean nothing was going to keep me from Chicago.

Odawg called from college last week to report she felt terrible. I've always been very cautious with that girl, because when she gets sick, she gets siiiiick. She's the size of a toothpick, so I think her immune system fighters are about as effective as France's military. I've been sending her message after message on Facebook, nagging her to take her vitamins and wash her hands and stay away from sick people. Swine flu is rampant on college campuses.

When she called, I told her to get herself to the clinic right away. She called me back to say the clinic had a 4 hour, I'm sure-swine flu, wait time! Since it's only a few hours less for her to drive home, she said she'd rather come home and go to her own doctor.

I was all, "But, what if you have the swine flu?"

She reassured me that she was OK enough to drive and if she did have the flu, she could just stay home and recuperate.

And I said, "But, I don't want to catch the swine flu! I have to go to Chicago."

Odawg was stunned because usually I am a very caring, June Cleaver type mother. All she could say was, "Wow, Mom."

She came home anyway and she didn't have the swine flu, just a regular flu. And even though I love Chicago, I love my daughter more and I took good and proper care of her, albeit with an inordinate amount of hand washing.

I stayed well throughout my little birthday trip. It wasn't until this morning that I woke up feeling like a truck ran over me.

Now, when that happens in this house, it's just too damn bad for the Momma. Because, you see, no one in this house of selfish ingrates gives a rat's ass when I am sick.

I could be writhing around on the kitchen floor with the Ebola virus, bleeding from every orifice and the girls would step over me on their way to rifle through the pantry, declaring, "When are you going to the grocery store? There is nothing to eat around here!"

My Hubby would stand there and say, "Hon, when you're through with that seizure thing you're doing, can I get some black socks?"

They're so mean.

I started coughing and sneezing around 5:00 this morning. It woke me up and as I tried to gasp for oxygen between coughs, My Hubby rolled over in a huff and said, "What are you doing? I'm trying to sleep!"

Like I'm having a tuberculosis fit just to get his goat.

The kids were no better. The Senator didn't even notice my slumped over, head on the kitchen table position. She just stood there, reminding me she really needed a hair cut and she'd been asking me to like, make her an appointment, forever and could we go to the mall today to look for homecoming dresses after school because if we don't hurry all the good ones will be gone. I guess she took my hacking and labored breathing as a yes as she trounced out the door for school with a "Thanks, Mom."

The littlest, always looking for a reason to stay home, took my illness as a sign from God. She handed me the flashlight to look down her throat, insisting that she was in dire need of no school. She rebounded pretty quick when I told her I'd bought the forbidden fruit of Pop Tarts yesterday and she could have one if she'd just stop bugging me.

As I dragged myself back off to bed, I muttered to my Hubby, "I'm going back to bed. I've got chills."

He grinned a stupid-ass grin as he said, "Are they multiplying?"

If I hadn't been so weak, I would have punched that grin right off his face.

I laid in bed for awhile all achy, but unable to sleep thanks to the sneezing fits. I finally gave up and headed to the bathroom for the tub.

I think hot bubble baths are the remedy for everything. Like the father in "My Big, Fat Greek Wedding", hot baths are my Windex.

If my girls have a tummy ache, a sad day, a cold, a skinned knee, I'm always, "Take a hot bath. You'll feel so much better."

So, I hobbled off for my bubble remedy.

Now, the next part of the story involves two factors.

Here's the first:

Since, I live in the sticks, I have a lot of privacy. And since my bathroom windows overlook the sticks and nothing else but the pool pump and ac unit, I have never bothered with curtains. I like the unencumbered light that filters through. My tub sits underneath those windows. One of my greatest pleasures is to lie back in a cloud of bubbles and contemplate the sapphire sky through the mighty branches of the Grandfather Oak towering over our house. It is a beautiful way to pass the time.

I'm not worried about the windows. The closest neighbor would have to have a telescope to see anything. And God Bless them if they do. I'd say if they were going through all that trouble and expense to see into my window, they must have a fetish for Middle Aged Albino Women With Droopy Essentials. And hey, if that's their sad way of life, I'll give em a cheap thrill.

And HERE....is the second factor in my story:

My Hubby, who is not on my good list today for so many vast and varied reasons, has an ingratiating habit, (amongst a multitude of others), of bringing people over to the house without giving me proper notice.

I bet you see where this is going.

Now for those of you who know me well, you know I give the term bed-head a whole new realm to its meaning. My hair is very short. Too short to even contemplate ponytails and such. My Hubby is certain that I must sleep with my hands clenched in my hair. It is the only way to explain the fact that when I arise in the morning, each and every hair on my head is standing straight up, as if I've stuck my wet finger in an electrical socket and left it there...for days.

So, in the morning, I've got the Mad Scientist hair, I am usually in pajama pants with holes in not the best of places and I have yet to put on my bra.

All together, this is a tragic sight. But, since my family seems to love me, at least when I am healthy and can do things for them, they're not too offended by my morning look.

But, that doesn't mean I want to walk into my kitchen and run smack dab into one of my hubby's agents or the cable man drinking coffee. It's just not the kind of impression I like to give.

So, this morning, except for turning my illness into stupid, lame jokes, my hubby had not said a word to me about visitors of any kind. It would have been fine anyway, since I was planning on taking care of my own pitiful, sick self in my bed.

I turned on the bath water, adjusted the temperature and stripped off my jammies. The cold air hit my poor, all alone, sick body and the chills escalated. I decided to jump into the tub right away to warm up. I stood there, pouring in the bubbles and swirling them around with my feet. I didn't want to submerge myself just yet. True bubble bath afficionados know that is the best way to kill the bubbles.

And as I stood there, swirling the bubbles with my feet, with my electrified hair and my paler than usual gaunt skin and everything all droopy and such, I must have looked like I was doing some sort of nude dancing, perhaps a Wiccan goddess tribute dance to the spirits. Who knows, I really don't want to think about it.

But, as I swirled and whirled, I looked out my window to gaze at the gorgeous blue sky and as I did I met the shocked, dare I say frightened, gaze of the Pornstache landscaper, the landscaper dude that I EXPRESSLY told My Hubby not to hire, since Mr. Pornstache had mistaken me for a freakin' 60 year old.

I hate it when the Hubby doesn't do what I say! Another reason I'm finding him to be a major asshole this morning.

Mr. Pornstache was standing there with my Hubby as my Hubby pointed out all the places he wanted him to plant shrubbery to hide the pool pump and AC unit and obviously, his droopy, Wiccan dancing, naked wife.

It only took me a second as I locked eyes with the frightened landscaper dude to let out a mixture of a shriek, a strangled horrifying choke and a cough all rolled into one. My Hubby looked up and didn't miss a beat. Just kept on talking, pointing at the window as the main reason for shrubbery coverage.

He wasn't shocked. He's used to what I look like without the benefit of Spanx and push-up bras. He also stopped asking about my behaviors a long time ago. Nothing fazes him.

I immediately dropped into the tub, out of sight, full of mortification and a a bit of anger, over my stupid-ass Hubby and his reluctance to tell me he was planning on giving Mr. Pornstache a naked, Wiccan dancing, peep show this morning. I was also a little enraged, thinking that asshole Pornstache was probably thinking right now, "Suuurre, you're in your 40's. Those saggy puppies put you at, at least 65!"

If I wasn't so sick, I'd put a naked Wiccan spell on the both of them.

And, how was your morning?

Today's Doo Ittt Download: "The Walls are Coming Down" by Fanfarlo. This is a new group on the scene and let me tell you, the first time I heard them, they blew me away! They have a bit of a David Byrne sound to them and they are not afraid of using huge, beautiful sound with trumpets and mandolins and percussion-exquisite. You can download their whole album off of Itunes for $5.00.

And of course, because the Walls are just coming down between me and Pornstache. Why the hell not- I guess, since my hubby didn't listen AGAIN and obviously hired him. A great way to start, no walls between us. I'll try to look at it like that. Off to bed to relive my humiliation over and over again in between my spasms of whooping cough. You too, have a great day.




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