I feel crappy.
Of course, this is a total change from the way I normally feel, which is… ummm… mostly crappy. And whenever I travel I usually manage to come down with something, because it’s a special talent of mine and also because my immune system is apparently a delicate flower. Also, there is a special circle of hell reserved for the experience of being sick away from home.
But the reality is that I’m probably not even sick. (I hope. I hope I hope IhopeIhope.) I’m just being a hypochondriac. A hypochondriac with an upset stomach. Possibly because my poor brother-in-law started puking up his toenails yesterday.
I mean, it’s MORE likely that my stomach is a little off because we’re eating differently—first two days of “road food” and now, lots of meals out and such—right? I could not possibly have whatever he has, right?
Right. Because if I DO have whatever he has, I’m going to have to kill him right before I kill myself. And I generally consider it poor form to slay your host, even if he does give you the plague. I mean, I’m sure Emily Post has a better solution to such a problem, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it might be. Murder/suicide seems logical, but somewhat uncouth.
Meanwhile, the kids called from their dad’s house last night and Chickadee reported that she had a fever. I haven’t talked to them yet today, but so far Christmas is not looking so good.
Poor Otto doesn’t know what to do with himself—he never gets sick, and isn’t even terribly familiar with the timebomb that is a houseful of people with one germ-bearer in the midst. My nephews are running around and it’s unclear if we should be on spew alert. He doesn’t know if I’m actually sick or not (which is fine, as I’m not entirely sure, either) or at some point soon we’re going to have to decide if the kids should stay put with their dad or come here for Christmas eve and morning, as planned.
Next year when we do this, I’m bringing Haz-Mat suits for the entire family. It seems like the only reasonable solution.