Ian is a sicko.
He never made it back to Nashville. He was, as you may recall, going to go back on Monday. When we talked that morning, he said, “I ache a little. Could be nothing.” At lunchtime, “Still aching. A little worse.” By dinner, “I ache. I sweat. And I have a fever.” His got as high as 102.6. There was one relatively restless night on his part and he was feeling better this morning. Minus (I might add) the raging sore throat that loved me so much I felt like I was having an affair with it.
But the fever came back. I could almost hear his inner monologue of “Curses, foiled again.” So he is at his parents and I am at my parents and…
I HAVE MY BABY BACK!
Not that I missed her. Not that I sent pathetic, whiny text messages to my beleaguered husband at 1 in the morning bemoaning her absence. Not that I cried because he was asleep and she was asleep and I was alone. Not me. Nope. I’m dignified, I am.
In other news, Amy and Garrett were gracious enough to take me in when I kicked myself out Matt and Richell’s house. (Sorry Richell, but there was no way I was risking your catching whatever crap that was). They were lovely and gracious. I had a home-cooked meal that I didn’t prepare and I watched a movie on the couch in wonderful company.
Then, to repay them for their kindness, I bestowed upon them my legendary bad luck with all things waterpipe and bathroom related. I took a shower. Glorious, steamy, and just the most delicious thing I have done for myself in about a week. It was good. It was doomed.
About halfway through, the local water company decided to do some routine maintenance in the neighborhood. They blew sewage up through their toilets and all over the floors. Then one of their cats drank and played in it. Then it ran around the house as I tried to catch it. Not just on the floors running around. No. On the kitchen counters. On the dining room table. And then it hid from me, the little bugger.
I did help clean up…