My life as a dickhead (continued)

Everybody here’s been sick all week. Ran the boy into the doctor on Monday and he was declared officially infected which resulted in an antibiotic being prescribed which resulted in the quick beginning of a recovery. By Tuesday morning, he was already acting his old sly, mischievous, impertinent self… and I was seeing dead relatives.

Yup, just as the Man Cub began to bounce back, me and his mom got our worlds rocked by the same virulent bug. The Missus became symptomatic before me and is taking longer to pull out of it, but this is at least partly because of her disinclination to self-medicate.

Not me. That’s why the good lord gave us anti-anxiety meds, Advil PM and addictive personalities – mix & match till you find a combination that works, that’s my motto. Back in the day, I’d take a handful of Tylenol PMs and chase it with half a bottle of Nyquil. Not because I was under the weather, mind you, I just liked to feel the tips of my hair tingle before I passed out in a nervous, uneasy restless stupor.

I really knew how to have a good time back then…

These days I stick with prescribed dosages of medicine, and then only when poor health dictates. I even have a bottle of (prescribed) anti-depressants in the cabinet that gave me a wicked nasty buzz the first time, and instead of ‘faking it till I make it,” I never went back for seconds.

So after a really horrible day of single-parenting Tuesday – horrible because it was the peak day of my illness, including a 100°+ temperature and shakes so bad I felt like a cartoon character – I’m slowly on the mend. The fever is gone and the headaches are manageable with copious amounts of aspirin and a steady diet of what I call 12-step Mimosas (3 parts OJ to one part Mountain Dew). Soon the cold will settle into my chest for a long, miserable residency, but right now I’m in the eye of the hurricane and feeling almost like my old self.

The Missus, however, had until recently resisted my entreaties that she self-medicate, at least until my pissy little snit this morning. She’s been up every night this week with coughs and aches, and sleep-walking through the days worn-out and/or passed out and not getting any less sick. My pissy little snit today proceeded from her malingering illness compromising the sanctity of my dearly-held schedule, but goddammit, she knew I was a reprehensible asshole before she married me. I literally told her so in as many words. If it wasn’t for pushy, reprehensible pricks like me, mankind would still be living in caves and drawing stick figures of buffalo on the walls with our own poo.

The bottom line is, this evening I finally got her to take an off-prescription, over-the-counter sleeping med, and she’s currently enjoying her first night’s sound sleep all week. As long as she wakes up in the morning, I will feel righteously vindicated!

At long last, a lifetime of recklessly wanton recreational drug use is beginning to pay off. Speaking of which, my own Magic Beans are commencing to kick in, so I should probably wrap this up while I’m still hitting more character keys than backspaces. (Fingers tend to get really thick and clumsy when Downers begin doing their thing.)

Somebody remind me I wanted to write about HBO’s “John Adams,” “The Prestige” and “Sweeney Todd” next time. Being sick cleared away loads of time for slack-jawed TV watching, and a lot of it kicked serious ass. Personally, I don’t mind being sick all that much. I used to pay good money to make myself feel this shitty, plus I get to indulge in all sorts of extracurricular lying about and accomplishing of nothing.

It’s other peoples’ illnesses that bring out the worst in me. Why doesn’t Hallmark make a card that says “Goddammit, get up off your ass and feel better, you’re pissing me off!” I think it’d be like a license to print money for them.