Typhoid Snag

I'm still feeling a little off. I'm talking about physical condition; my family has its own unsupportable and defamatory views regarding my mental health. I'm inclined to think it's a mild sinus infection or rickets or something like that. Fortunately I have some antibiotics left over from a previous illness.

My mother and my wife are less than enthusiastic about my self-diagnosis and treatment. The Lovely Bride generally keeps her own counsel on such things; she knows a futile task when she sees one and limits herself to a stern warning and a threat to make a doctor's appointment, one involving gloves, if I don't do so myself.

My mother, on the other hand, refuses to give up even though I have been rejecting her advice for decades. My theory is that she's frustrated by her failure to go to medical school after college. Back then women in her socio-economic group didn't do those sorts of things very commonly. Instead they usually became teachers, or less commonly nurses, or occasionally, as I told my children with regard to their grandmother, chimney sweeps.

"That's why I'm sick," I told her when she was visiting this weekend. "I have black lung disease from all the coal dust you tracked in."

She looked up from chronologically sorting back issues of The New Yorker and The Economist. She brings them over when she's done with them in the hopes I'll read them. Instead I blog. "What is your father going on about now?" she asked my youngest.

"Don't talk to him," I told her. "He's got a basketball game this afternoon and you'll ruin his concentration.

"Hey, come here," I continued, pointing at a friend of my youngest who'd slept over the night before. "Get me a towel. I'll rat tail you."

My son's friend found a dishtowel and walked it over. I spun it tight and started flicking him. My boy yelled, "I get to go next" until I snapped it hard enough that his friend ran shrieking downstairs. I snarled at my own kid and he ran off too. They're cute even if they're not very bright.

My mother watched with dismay. "This is not normal behavior," she said.

"I learned it from you," I replied.

"I did not hit you with towels when you were growing up," she said.

"Usually it's the victim who represses memories," I said. The fact you're the one repressing the abuse proves you're a freak of psychology. You like to travel. You should have joined the circus."

"Have you seen the doctor yet?" she asked me, changing the subject.

"No need," I told her. "I've got some leftover antibiotics."

"You are not taking those," she said definitively.

"I already started," I responded. "I wash them down with coffee and bacon. That's some good eatin'."

"I am quite certain you have a virus. Even if it is bacterial, you'll end up with a drug resistant strain because you don't have a full course of medication."

"I'm suffering from ennui. It's resistant to everything except liquor, musicals, sunshine, and baseball."

"Baseball?" asked my son and his friend from downstairs.

"That's right, boys. You're getting special helmets this year. They sound an alarm when you back up."

"Shut up," said my son.

"I love you buddy," I said. "Don't make me get the towel."

"There's something wrong with you," said my mother.

"Lots of things," I said.

"If the Lovely Bride doesn't make a doctor's appointment I will," she said.

"He's legally obligated to report child abuse. You'll end up in jail."

"It's worth it if you'll get a physical."

"Did the Lovely Bride put you up to this?" I asked.

"That doesn't matter."

"The two of you are oppressing me."

"The two of us are making an appointment for you."

Lucky me.