On Thursday I went into the Duane-Reade on 40th and Madison looking for some cold medicine. I stepped over half-opened boxes of Christmas supplies and shimmied past the sad little greeting card section to get to the pharmacy, where I assumed most of the medicines would be. I went up and down each aisle half-a-dozen times, scanning the shelves for Dayquil, Vicks, Robitussin...anything! I kept thinking I was lost, that I wasn't looking in the right place, until I realized the problem; I couldn't find them because they weren't there. The empty shelves I assumed were just another example of New York's legendary lack of customer service were actually barren because they'd been picked clean.
It's that time of year in the city. And Casa de Cheeky is representin'.
Cheeky's voice has been muffled behind a membrane of mucous for the last week, except for the intense, grating squeals she's perfected when she's having an emotional breakdown (now as frequent a Old Faithful). Attempts to cheer or tranquilizer are met with baffling tirades and meandering conversations in Simlish. We're torn between feeling incredibly bad for her and wanting to lock her in a hermetically sealed mayonnaise jar on Funk & Wagnel's porch until she feels better.
My coughing comes like gunshots, as my body tries to dislodge the goblin living deep in my trachea. Worse, it's been coming in staccato bursts just as I'm falling asleep, jolting me to delirious consciousness and frightening dogs around the neighborhood. I've been sleeping on the couch to keep from startling Oodgie out of sleep (which usually doesn't take much; six hours of staring at the ceiling would be considered "better than average" rest for her) but it's done little good. And cough "suppresants?" Who are they kidding? They're about as useful as anti-drug posters at an Amy Winehouse concert.
Poor Oodgie complains that her head is completely stuffed and has the battered look of a Somali refugee. In addition to battling whatever little buggers are coursing through her blood stream, she also gets the added bonus of a psychotic, snot-drenched toddler and a doped-up, useless husband. But I give her credit, as she handles it all with her usual blend of strength and grace.
So we've been quarantined for the last couple days. Fortunately it's "dead week" in the blog world, in which nobody is actually reading any posts (including this one) because they're too busy cramming all the last minute Turkey Day planning into 48 hours. Here's hoping that your Thanksgiving is free of sibling fist-fights, over-cooked poultry, and hacking, coughing houseguests.
We'll be staying home, so you've got one of those three covered.