Sick Days Suck

As you have read in my recent blogs, some horrific exotic contagion has been spreading through the family resulting in various levels of distress. It all starts with the little flesh devils.

On Tuesday, while our oldest visiting grand, Scarlett, was still recovering from her nasty bout of the plague, and her father, Luke, was in his second day of the worst of it, Lisa and Georgie thought it would be good to get the two youngest out of the Casa Claire Sanitorium for some fresh air in a local park. Of course, since those tiny creatures’ skin goes all sparkly in the sunlight, they spent most of their time in areas of shade, no doubt plotting against the other unsuspecting urchins.

Anyway, I was feeling a bit grumpy, which I blamed on the fact that I was forced to stop reading Scott Michael Powers’ topically uplifting novel, The Murder Plague: A Dystopian Thriller (so far, a few chapters in, it is excellent) and go on this misadventure. Since no one seemed to really appreciate the outing we returned home after an hour, and I withdrew to my basement lair, with hopes of returning to the novel.

But by then I was – as the Aussies say – well crooked.

I was only able to lie on the couch with my mind focused on this strange pain in my lower abdomen, like I had pulled a muscle.

By the time the odor of Georgie’s exotic Australian cooking of the dinner meal wafted down the stairway, I was already wondering about this bilous taste and gritty texture at the back of my throat.

The last thing I remember clearly was being able to identify the aroma of curry, before I felt my innards start to give way in an effort to allow everything that was once inside me out through the closest orifice.

I have not projectile vomited like that since BC’s wedding in the last century. Good breeding prevents me from discussing my other end. Let’s just say, better out than in.

Towards late afternoon yesterday, I was finally coherent enough to snap a photo of whatever was entangled in my legs at the end of the basement couch.

It seems Blue had drawn the short straw of keeping an eye on me. I was feeling on the road to recovery until I accidently placed a foot on top of Blue’s head,

and she kicked me right in the nuts.

The ultimate insult to injury.

Luckily there was nothing left inside me to vomit.

The good news is that I have lost a few pounds.

But, my apologies to the five of you finest readers, who may have stopped by the blog yesterday to find that for the second time in recent memory, there was nothing posted.

That was strike two in my grands’ attempts to do me in.

If you arrive at these pages in the not so distant future to find them bare, then the third time was the charm, and the grands will have successfully finished me off.

Until then, I must return to my daily efforts. Lisa stepped up to handle it all yesterday.

Kitties to cuddle and rounds to make.

You fine, five readers have your Thursday waiting to wrap up any real work you need to get done this week. So, have that final cuppa and pull your socks up.

Leave your Friday’s clear for what is really important.

But whatever else we get up to, let us make today, a great one.