Leave Me Alone

I'm still sick. In case you're wondering. In case you've seen me, ignoring you, not speaking, not smiling, sitting at my desk with my eyes closed. That's what I do when I'm sick. I'm like my dad.

We're a two-symptom family. Me and Dad. When we're sick, we want to hole up. No talking, no babying, no mollycoddling, we just want peace and quiet. In other words, leave us the fuck alone. We're like wounded animals.

My mom and sister are the complete opposite. When they're sick, all they want to do is talk about it. They cough louder than is necessary. They sniff louder than is necessary. Each of these is usually followed by a big "sigh" that can be heard around the block. Then they'll find a way to work it into every conversation. I mean it, if you'd start a conversation about missionaries in Somalia, they could find a way to work how miserable they are into the conversation. It's a talent. Well, it's a talent for them; it's a curse for the rest of us.

So I was looking forward to leaving work yesterday and going home to hide my head under a blankie. I knew I had to stop and get gas along the way; I couldn't coast on fumes any longer. Then my mother called and told me to come over to their house and she'd make me dinner. I was saying no, no, no, I didn't feel up to it, and she threw in Enticement Number One, that if I came she'd make me macaroni and cheese. As I was still hedging, she threw in the Piece de Resistance: Taytie was going to be there too. *Ding!* She knew she had me on that one.

So I headed out, and stopped at the trusty Chevron. I swiped my card through the pump and it said "Unable to Read." Dammit, I said, and wiped off the numbers with my fingers, and swiped again. Same thing. Did it one more time, same result. So I drug myself inside the office, to the 17-yeard old boy working there, and said, "There's something wrong with my card, can you swipe it through the machine in here?" And he said, "Well, ma'am (I'm so torn when 17-year old boys call me ma'am - so polite and yet I want to scream at them "I'm not that old!"), let's go outside and see." He then led me outside and showed me - like it was my first time ever using a card - that not only was I swiping the card backwards, but upside-down as well. Then he took the pump out and put it in the tank for me. I wanted to explain to him I was sick, and therefore completely brain-dead, but these explanations never do any good.

So, tank filled, I walked round to the drivers side of my car, holding my card out like a retard, and went to open my door. It was locked. I'd locked my keys in the car.

So back inside to Mr ThinksI'mAnIdiot so I can explain what I've done. He assured me they had nothing on the premises that could break into my car, so I had to call the police. And wait.

Before too long, a police officer showed up, and was kind enough to unlock my car and not make fun of me. It was a dual victory.

Then on to Mom and Dad's, where I met up with Taytie, who thought the best way to soothe my fevered brow was to play me some tunes he's learning on his brand new electric guitar and amplifier. And that was fine. It did my heart good to see the boy rockin' out, even if it was to Metallica and not to the Ramones or the Clash. But I kept mentioning them to him, hoping maybe he'd get interested by osmosis. Who knows.

I spent the rest of the evening folded up on the sofa having my mother offer me things. Blankets, cough drops, hot cloths, humidifiers, juices, prescription drugs... I know she loves me. But how many times can you say "no," "no thank you," "no, really, I just want peace and quiet," "no, really, just leave me alone, American Idol's on," "no, I have my own prescription drugs I don't need yours," "please, Mom, I love you, but if I hear your voice any longer I'm jumping off the roof."

Anyway, I took this morning off from work, for another two hours of glorious unbreathing sleep.