Sunday, March 1, 2009

It's another day and. . .

. . . I've changed my ever-lovin'-mind! Love is NOT such a splendored thing when it lounges around, polluting the air with never-ending flatulence, loudly proclaiming "there's something in my body" and "I need to see the doctor." He has the same thing I had last weekend yet thinks it's somehow entirely new and that only a doctor has a "magic bullet" to end his oh, so dreadful suffering. I'm starting to think a bullet is a good idea! Since yesterday afternoon, he has soiled all of his pajama bottoms, two pairs of underwear, a pair of thermal pants and his favorite chair. He insists that he's going to work tomorrow. I'm tempted to let him! He won't do anything to help himself, including using the meds I ran out to buy this morning, or the electroylte drinks I regularly take to him. I warm up broth and it gets cold on the stove. I boiled pasta for him. When he saw the small amount in the pot, he complained that it wasn't enough -- then ate only half of it. At his request, I cooked rice -- hardly made a dent in it. Why can't men be more like women? Unless we have work that must be done, we take our meds then curl up in a ball patiently waiting for them to kick-in. There isn't time to whine and posture dramatically. There's work to be done. It's times like these that try women's souls and prove or disprove the fortitude of our love. I have no choice but to go on -- gritting my teeth and biting my tongue to keep from thrashing the bugger!

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