25 March 2013
I’m in my Writing Fort, farting and coughing and blowing my nose. In my fantasies about being terminally ill, I’m always so attractive. Where does this come from? Kitty in Anna Karenina at some sanatorium in the Alps, wasting away of a broken heart? Am I even remembering that right? Perhaps the key is to have a wasting illness, not a blowing illness.
Enzo just siddled up to me and farted. “Kate!”
We read in a book that if you have to fart, you should quietly approach some unsuspecting victim, fart softly, and then glide away, looking horrified and puzzled. I keep trying to explain to him that the one person who can’t be duped by this scheme is the innocent victim.
Enzo coughed all night and pushed the cough medicine away, adding a nice sticky mess to the pile of snotty tissues. In the morning, I asked him how he was feeling.
“I already have my strength back. I’m strong enough to kick through glass.”
“I’m sure you are. But you’re still sick.”
“If you want some glass broken, call me.”
Teresa did our taxes yesterday, and she kept calling me into the room where whe was surrounded by piles of paper and asking me about business expenses from last year’s Visa bills. Many mysteries.
A while ago, Teresa told me she feels guilty all the time. And she resents it. (We were probably talking about the Catholic Church and its manifold sins.) I told her I almost never feel guilty, and she said something like, “Must be nice.” But anyway, on on the day that she does our taxes and I don’t, I feel guilty. I told her that and she seemed pretty pleased.
I’m staying home from work today. My first paid sick day. O Glory!