I do not feel well, but I can't lay about in bed any longer and there's
nothing good on TV.
Waaaaaah.
Sorry, kids. The husband had a meeting. He's not here to listen to me
whine. So I suppose I'll complain to my blog instead. The only
downside? The blog won't give me a cuddle and a backrub when I'm done
whining.
The main symptom? I'm nauseous. I know what you're thinking, but no,
I'm not preggers. It's a stomach thing.
My main problems are threefold at the moment:
1. Illness
2. Our very nice Pakistani doctor couple who live in the lower half of
the house have Grandma visiting to look after their little boy. Despite
her refusal to never empty the dryer's lint filter (What? Are there no
dryers in Lahore? I simply refuse to believe that! She knows how to
adjust the settings for knits and permanent press---why doesn't she
empty the damn filter? Explain this one to me!), and her inability to
speak English (She just smiles at you with this uncomprehending look on
her face when you talk to her. Never mind that everytime the husband
says hello, she pulls the whole pious Muslim woman act and basically
runs away from him.) she's a nice lady. And wow, can she cook up a
storm. The Cake Eater Apartment smells like a really upscale curry
house everyday from the hours of three to eight. On a daily basis we
get five hours of what are usually glorious smells wafting in through
the windows and the oven venting. I usually don't mind this. It
generally pushes me to create something really tasty for dinner, but
today it's just making me want to throw-up. There is no remedy for this
other than to let the smells die out in the normal way. (What would I
to say to them? "Could you stop with the saffron already? Could you
have some bland food just for tonight? Thanks, I appreciate it." Yeah.
Like that's going to work.) The smells will die out in about an hour. I
just have to keep myself from vomiting in the meantime.
3. There's one of those magazine sales guys roaming the block. He knows
someone's here as it's gloomy outside and I have the lights on. He's
already rung the doorbell a few times, and is still roaming up and down
the block. He will stop by again. I know he will and I don't want to
have to deal with the guilt of not answering the door. I already feel
bad for not answering the first time he came by. I don't think I could
take it a second time. Of course he knows this. And he will take
advantage of it, of course, because that's what door to door
salespeople do. You know the drill, right? A ringing doorbell or phone
or whatever and you feel compelled to answer, even though there's no
social contract that you've signed in blood under the light of the full
moon that says you are legally obligated to do so. Especially when you
feel like crap. But you can't really help yourself even though you know
you're going to be pitched subscriptions for fine, outstanding
publications like Tennis Weekly.
I am one of these people. I've finally learned how to let the phone go
to voice mail, but I haven't gotten to the completely remorseless, I
don't give a crap stage with the doorbell yet.
Thanks for the vent, blog. You're still lacking in the cuddle/back rub
department, though.