Them’s the Rules

What happens to ambition when the day refuses to behave? I am not the first woman to ask this.

There is a pork loin from the latest grocery order in the fridge, waiting to be transformed into, ultimately, stew for the Word Raccoon et. al. 

There are competitions and poetry journals with countdown timers ticking so loudly they might as well be gongs.

And my husband is home sick.

On Monday, I asked Barry if he was feeling okay. He said he was. He is not the kind to not admit being sick. I mentioned my specific observations anyway and offered Zicam, just in case.

He said he was fine.

Monday evening, he was still “fine.” (We are not being mean, WR. We are gently mocking the nature of men. Some men. This particular man.)

Word Raccoon whispered that he was not fine and we both knew it. We assumed he’d know it soon enough.

Tuesday afternoon, after a meeting, we arrived home and he asked if we’d read his text.

Text? Even WR knows to keep her phone off during a meeting.

The text had asked if we would go pick up an olive burger so I wouldn’t have to cook.

Mmm hmmm.

That was a declaration of illness.

“Do you want a milkshake, too?” I asked.

“Salted caramel,” he said, head down.

I bought him a large.

He’s off work today, resting.

Which is to say: WR and I are off schedule. 

In this house, when one of us is sick, there are rules. They are as follows.

Nothing annoying should be done. No loud housecleaning, no vacuuming, no clattering of dishes that suggests effort or productivity. Large meals are discouraged, especially those involving multiple pans and ambition.

Meal requests from the sick party shall be provided within reason and will likely involve fast food or something very specific that cannot be substituted with anything already in the freezer. Nothing in the freezer will do.

If one in the household prefers tater tots and the other mashed potatoes, the sicker party (when both are sick; please god, don’t let me get sick, LOL) wins. Yes, both items could be acquired. But they are not to be. No one knows why. Them’s the rules.

Uncooked meat can and should, in theory, go in the freezer to take it out of the possibilities category. Except if the freezer is full. Which it is right now.

Routine, in general, is suspended. Work should be postponed, when possible. Gym trips are shortened or strategically timed during showers or shows you have no interest in watching.

You will watch the shows anyway. 

You will sit beside him while he watches YouTube videos you would not choose on your own. He will ask if you know who the obscure music producer is. You will say no. He will explain. You will nod. You will not retain this information, and he does not expect you to.

Morning alarms are turned off. Everyone “gets” to sleep in. You are not mad about this, although you are a person with goals.

You will be accused of not knowing how to take a day off. But why would you take a day off when you love everything writing related?

Word Raccoon is confused about what to do today. So far, she has been quiet. I’ve asked her to stand by, not down.

Barry didn’t ask to be sick. And if he’s sick, odds are I will be in a couple of days, though I just took zinc, so here’s hoping.

WR and I do have options.

While WR is contractually obligated to remain in the same room as these shows and videos, she can sneak her laptop in. Submitting poetry is the easiest work on days like this. Once begun, it becomes almost mechanical.

She can outlast the sick one. Stay up during naps. Stay up late with caffeine. Keep submitting.

Once submitting begins, it is difficult to pivot back to writing. But sometimes lines arrive anyway. She writes them down quickly and returns to the task at hand.

On days like this, she makes a short list: what absolutely needs to happen?

Do that.

Let the rest wait.

The pork loin will keep. Or it won’t. (WR is pointing at the slow cooker. She might be onto something.) 

Either way, something will be made of the day.

Maybe even art.