In my post The Return of Diane, Muscato impertantly demands details about Diane’s visit claiming “We’re waiting. Certainly there’s enough depravity to recount by this point, no? After the weather we’ve had here this week, I could use a diversion…” Tragically, there is no depravity to report; not just because I have turned into a fusty old thing, but mainly because I’ve been sick the whole time poor Diane’s been here.
I developed an interestingly wheezing cough the day she arrived. I tried to blame her cat in Austin, implying she had imported dander to which I was allergic, but she pooh poohed that with a firm pooh pooh and before I could fabricate any kind of evidence supporting my theory, I was spiraling down an all-too familiar path into our old friend, bronchitis.
I’ve contracted bronchitis so many times that now when I call my doctor with my self diagnosis, he no longer questions me, but just sends a prescription for antibiotics and probably a short prayer of gratitude that I’m keeping my snotty infection out of his waiting room.
|Believe me, this re-enactment couldn’t be any farther from the truth if it featured Bea Arthur and Carol Burnett.|
The last few years I worked, I wound up with bronchitis each fall and then again at the tail end of every winter. This, though, is the first time I’ve fallen for it since I retired, so yay for avoiding the filthy public and mass transit.
The only entertainments we’ve attempted have all wound up with me pathetically slumped over and coughing vigorously. Still, the antibiotics have done their wonders and I’m pretty much recuperated tonight: unfortunately, tomorrow is Diane’s last day in town, rats.