For the past two days I have been laid up, in bed, with a fever and congestion and loss of appetite and loss of voice. I ventured out of the house this evening for a gig at the Tavern on the Hill that I could not miss. I already knew that some people were coming to congratulate me for winning the Philly Hot List Local Celebrity Internet contest. I put this so bluntly not to toot my own horn but to explain my decision to actually leave the house in this condition. Any other time I would have probably tried to switch nights with the musician who was playing tomorrow. Unfortunately as I write this I realize that I wouldn't have been able to switch because I have another engagement tomorrow evening. So I guess it worked out for the best.
However... ... ....
At 11am I was in bed hacking a few lungs while spitting mucus in an empty shot glass I had found conveniently found next to my bed. My beautiful wife enters the room, actually: ducks in by leaning holding the door frame, "Your Mother is on the phone. She is going out to visit your grandparents and wants to know if there is anything she can pick up for you."
I think for a moment, pondering the possibilities my requested request. Suddenly it hits me: I realize, "Cat litter!" and exclaim it proudly. After scowling at me for a moment Kristen responds: "What can she bring for you, idiot. You are sick. Cat litter? What the hell is wrong with you?"
After some aspirin, anti-histamines and DayQuill I brave the outside world. Forty five minutes into my gig I begin to feel the Cold Remedy Cocktail mixing with the whiskey I began drinking when I got to the bar. The sluggish nights ends four hours later when I say goodnight to Kristen and wish her morning well. The poor girl has to wake up at 6:30am tomorrow and Sunday for her shifts at Macy*s.