I Don't Get Sick. (cough cough... puke).

In spite of my self-diagnosed hypochondria, I've been fortunate enough to avoid a string of colds, coughs, flu viruses, fevers, and becoming pregnant without knowing it before giving birth in the toilet. Have people seen the show about that one? Every episode ends the same way: "And then, looking back at her from the toilet..." It's really horrible.

Anyway, I was enjoying a fantastic weekend in NY up until Sunday night when V and I became violently ill at around the same time. Technically, she became sick a few hours before me, and I remember saying, "I feel fine! I'm having more pizza!" I later paid for that.

People, this wasn't your average bout with food poisoning or a little upset tumtum. We're talking cartoon-like illness here.  The kind that has you pleading to a higher power in the bathroom of your sister's apartment.  About three hours in, I even lacked the good sense to sing "There's the girl that I like..." to myself before getting sick. It was bad.

Luckily, Brina was there.  The girl has the bedside manner of a drill sergeant, but the needs-anticipation skills of, well, say, an event planner.  As Nessa and I ran back and forth to the bathroom all night, all we heard from Brina's room was, "AGAIN?!" But miraculously by morning, everything we needed was within arms reach of our sofas.

Brina: I did some research and you're most likely dehydrated. Drink this, and this, and this. Take this now, and this in 6 hours. Eat this banana, and these saltines, and there's organic applesauce and peanut butter if you're up to it.  I'll make orzo soup when I come home from work.  Here's your phone, which is charging over here. Here's the computer, fully charged. All of the remotes, space heater on, extra blankets, Christmas lights on or off? I'll wait here while you drink that and refill. OK, I'm late. I'll call this afternoon.

It was as well-planned as being sick could be. And just one mention of, "It smells disgusting in here."

Later that night, desperately craving our soup, we called her and she said, "OK, I'm just going to run into the first half of this concert I have tickets for, but I'll probably leave during intermission.  I'll make your soup when I get home."

Too weak to argue, I slowly hung up and ate another sleeve of saltines. Under my breath and under my blankets I softly said in a whine, "I want my fucking soup."  

When I woke up again at 1:00 in the morning, the cold bowl of orzo was by the rest of my Grandpa Joe setup by the sofa. Girl of her word. 

Bri just called me to say she was home sick.  Wish I could repay the favor.

Note: Instant rad if you get the grandpa joe reference.