Skip to main content

Back atcha



     All those times I didn’t make chicken soup for my husband when his nose was running like a faucet have come home to roost. Since Monday, my back has felt like someone beat it with a pillowcase full of broken concrete.
     I lie down in bed, I wince before my butt even hits the mattress. I stand up, I have to hold onto a solid surface and still I cry out expletives. It hasn’t been a great week. Meanwhile, though, my husband heats up these homemade rice bags in the microwave. He made them for me, and then he gently places them on my sciatica situation area. I look up at him with the eyes of a dejected bloodhound.
     “Thank you, do we have any chocolate?” I ask.
     “No, not in the house anyway, unless you want to try one of those stale Oreos I’ve got down in the workroom.”
     Now, this means either he doesn’t want me to have one of his stashed Oreos, or he just found a half-eaten bag of them that he hid last July.
     “Oh. Okay. I just sort of felt like a little bit of chocolate would be good. Like maybe a couple of Hershey’s kisses or one of those big Hershey’s with almonds bars they have at Stop & Shop,” I say while I pull the covers over my legs and up to my waist like Heidi in Johanna Spyri’s book.
     “Well, I could go get you some chocolate,” he tells me.
    “Oh, no, don’t bother. You’ve got so much work to do. I’ll be all right. I don’t need it anyway,” I pooh-pooh him.
     “Okay,” he says.
     I know that within 20 minutes there will be chocolate-covered almonds, a Hershey bar, a bag of M&Ms, and a fresh glass of iced tea on my bedside table.
     I can see there’s a bit of an inconsistency in how we treat each other in times of duress.
     I like to pretend that my husband’s discomfort is a figment of his imagination. He likes to treat my discomfort as a way to make me feel better by providing any possible comfort I might like at any given moment.  
     See, this is just one area where we’re not the same. Thank God.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Getting well takes baby steps

So I’ve had what you could call a case of the pneumonia. It was not pleasant. And to top it off it happened in San Antonio, Texas. Like I wasn’t sweating before the fever.
I was there to see my niece Michelle, who by the way kept asking me, “Are you going to write about this?” which is funny because she’s a writer too. I naturally said, “Oh no, of course not.” And here we are.
Thinking back, the best part of that trip teeters between meeting my two great-nephews, Oliver and Isaac, and having a couple of beers with their Yaya, my sister, who I haven’t had beers with in decades. Like I said, it’s a toss-up. There’s also the fact that I got to spend time with my niece’s husband Alex. He’s a hardcore military guy. He teaches other military guys how to be military policemen. I’m not going to gamble on writing anything about him. He’s from Wisconsin though, which I like. And he likes to cook, which I also like.
I thought to myself before I ever left my nice cocoon of Martha’s Vineyard to tra…

Just sitting around doing jack

I think my blog may have been hijacked. I haven’t written in forever because I’ve been writing …for my job, which may mean I’m no longer a “jobless goddess.” I may just be a regular goddess.
I love the word jack. I could use that all day. Whatever, hopefully those who want to read the blog will read. Back to jack. It’s a cool freaking word. I had a brother-in-law named Jack who pretty much personified the word “cool.” He’s gone too soon and missed by everybody.
There’s Billy Jack, get back Jack, Jack Sprat, Jack Nicholson, Jack Berry, Jack in the Box, Jumping Jack Flash. And my favorite, a little ditty my sister introduced me to, “Jack Mother.” This is a something you say when someone cuts you off on the highway. “I’m sorry officer, I was cut off by that Jack Mother in the blue Subaru.”
My brother Steve has a friend named Jack. I thought he was about the greatest thing ever when I was 12. Who are we kidding? I probably still do. Jackie was hilariously funny and I loved to watch my brot…

Little women

I’m getting a real kick out of my co-workers these days. I’m working with about a half dozen young women — young being the operative word.
They’re all so freaking competent it kills me. They can write like it’s nobody’s business, they all take great photos to go with their stories, and they almost always laugh at my jokes. I call them ‘the girls.’
They’re either about to go to university, just leaving university, or all done with it and on their way. They do yoga and eat a lot of avocados. We live on Martha’s Vineyard and none of them know who John Belushi is but they all know they should keep using the same plastic cup for take out iced coffee over and over and over again. If they see a bug, they think twice before killing it. Actually they leave it for me to kill because they couldn’t possibly… and they know I won’t hesitate.
We get along just fine the girls and me. Oh, there’s a little trouble when I insist on running the window air conditioner up in our second floor office —ramsha…