Sick in the Suburbs

Last Friday night/Saturday morning – in the wee, dark, small hours when the house was blissfully asleep – I was possessed by a demon from the depths of hades.

Well, *maybe* that isn’t what actually happened, but I woke from a peaceful slumber and went into a very good imitation of Linda Blair and the split pea soup incident from the Exorcist in 2.2 seconds and it sure as shit felt like a foreign presence had overtaken my being.

I am proud to say that, after prayerfully holding down toast and chicken broth yesterday, I graduated to full Keri pig out mode normal today.  Huzzah – she’s back in the saddle again!!

That being said, it was by far the sickest I have been since we set up camp back in the old hometown, and there are somethings that are just different about being sick in the suburbs.

Don’t get me wrong, some of those differences are very good. Like the part when I realized that the foul and mysterious illness wasn’t a mere one-and-done attack of the barfs and called my dad early Saturday morning to come wisk Jr away from the giant puking germ his mom to the land of magical grandparent lovin’ now located 5 minutes away.

Also , there is the ability to shoot Binky-the-wonder-dog out the back sliding door to do his doggie business, no muss, no fuss.  Previously  that would have required me to get (semi) presentable and make it down the elevator and up and down the street while he tried to find a suitable spot to poo (making no promises that I wouldn’t then use that spot to ralph instead, taking us back to square one.)  However, that is only somewhat successful with a dog who is as reluctantly suburban as his mom is.

So there is that.


There is also the fact that packages don’t just get left in the lobby anymore.  The UPS/FED-EX/DHL/WT-to-the-F delivery person cheerfully dings on the door and waits for you to answer and receive your package “just wanted to make sure someone was home to get this.”   Yep, someone is home.  Oh look, it appears to be a female version of Beetlejuice toting a plastic bucket and groaning softly.

Also, living not only in the suburbs but also in the town where one was raised makes it completely impossible to “just run in for a few things” to the grocery store.

Someone I know is going to see me.

To see me in a slightly modified version of The Suit, with a bachelor basket full of bananas, saltine crackers, Jr diapers, and generic chicken noodle soup.  Unbrushed hair tied in an actual knot at the back of my head, no make-up on, doing a runner and praying that I make it at least back to the bucket in my car and don’t heave in isle 9.

(Blessedly this time it was my oldest, dearest friend, who was horrified only out of concern, but still didn’t deserve to see that dead man walking through the produce section, yo?)

I would say that the comically unneeded amount of square footage we have is a good thing, since it meant that The Mr was able to stay upstairs and away from my gross while I cowered on the sofa like a wounded animal hiding its weakness and watching TCM 24/7; except that the basement renovation has reached phase two (where we find nit-picky cosmetic stuff that we no longer like in our new pretty space and re-do it.)  This means that, based solely on what I know of how much sound carries through our vents in certain situations,  I am pretty sure that the contractor heard me power-barf in the 2nd floor powder room as he assessed the situation for new decorative tile in the basement bathroom.  Hot?  Not.

Basically living in the ‘burbs means that I am forced to inflict the sights and sounds of Illin’ Keri on way more actual people than I ever had to as a sicky in the city.   An experience NO ONE should really have to have.

I will say this – 4 bathrooms can really come in handy once in a while.  I never thought there would be a situation where I needed to be tripping over a bathroom every damn place I went in a house.

Keri can admit when she is wrong.

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