Sometimes, a woman reaches a point in her life where she has difficult choices to make. Faced with these choices, she knows there are only two options for the evening.
--She may continue to make split-pea soup and biscuits in blissful silence, with the mopey, sick, eyes of her dearest boring holes in her back as he watches her, miserable in his sickness, or
--She may try to entertain him by introducing him to the new game she learned about from The Yarn Harlot, knowing that she will need to listen to the music for the next hour.
Of course, listening to him prove his dorkiness as he delighted in beating his previous records almost made it worth it.
--She may continue to make split-pea soup and biscuits in blissful silence, with the mopey, sick, eyes of her dearest boring holes in her back as he watches her, miserable in his sickness, or
--She may try to entertain him by introducing him to the new game she learned about from The Yarn Harlot, knowing that she will need to listen to the music for the next hour.
Of course, listening to him prove his dorkiness as he delighted in beating his previous records almost made it worth it.
4 Comments:
My grandmother, z"l, would have made Kilt Boy "The Cure" by now. It works. Take a large mug and pour into it two shots each of honey, lemon juice, and whiskey. Fill the mug to the top with black tea. Drink this down in 5 minutes (it's medicine, not sipping whiskey), put on some warm pajamas (it doesn't matter if you aren't cold, just do it) and get in bed with an extra blanket. No matter how warm you feel, don't kick of the blankie or jammies. In the morning, take a lukewarm shower. When you have dried off, you will feel like a new person.
By
Aidan, at 12:41 AM
Well, chicken & dumpling soup appears to have done the trick-- he's far perkier than he was a few days ago, but his nose-blowing still makes the entire Medieval Studies library jump. I shall, however, keep this cure on file.
I am attributing my own staunch resistance to this cold to the grandmotherly, pre-Vatican II practice of getting your throat blessed by the priest on the feast of St. Blaise.
By
Alice Teresa, at 9:24 AM
I'm familiar with the story of St. Blaise. Patron saint of knitters, is he not? Hearing the story of St. Blaise as a child probably led to my fear of fish with bones. I'm hoping you are not beaten to death by pagans and your flesh shredded by wool combs.
My people have kapparot. You think your grandmother was pre-vatican II!
By
Aidan, at 11:27 AM
OH, but glad k.b. is feeling better. It is never too late to try The Cure...it might help with the nose-blowing. And even if it doesn't, he'll have a good night's sleep.
By
Aidan, at 11:29 AM
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