Mark has been ill for the
last few weeks. He's coughing and hacking, producing phlegm balls, and pretty
much sounding like an episode of the walking dead. It isn't pleasant because he expects me to be his Florence Nightingale. The reality is that I am a horrible nurse, more like Florence
Nightmare. I'm more likely to yell at him to stop coughing than get him a cup of tea. Anyway, I was walking Chandler around the block last night and I
didn't feel very good. My stomach was churning, my guts were gassy, and I was
wishing I could just stop and poop on my neighbor's lawn like Chandler did. The
first thought to go through my mind was that I was getting sick like Mark. Just
what I need, twenty days before the big move. As I continued walking while
clenching and hoping that I could make it to the house and toilet, I realized
that I was not getting sick. My innards were all screwed up because of Mark.
For years I have complained that Mark was making me fat with his spectacular
cooking skills. I have always made it a point to tell him that I did very well
before he came along. I was quite capable of feeding myself.
But something has changed. I have lost that self preservation knowledge. I cannot feed myself anymore. Because Mark was
not feeling well, he had not cooked for me in a few days, and I was horrified
when I did an inventory of what I had eaten that day. Breakfast was four donuts
from Krispy Kreme. Two of them Boston cream, one jelly filled, and one glazed. Lunch
consisted of a Big Mac and a bag of French fries. And finishing off the day, three slices of pepperoni pizza from Times Square Pizza. Egads, no
wonder I was doing the green apple quick step back to the house.