I am prowling my apartment, fixing things that bother me. Because the words I hear in my head are I am mighty! the theme music is from The Tick. Sing along with me: bah da dee bah da da dee DOW! Earlier, I talked to Miss Sasha, who was sick this week. When I got home from work three hours later than usual on Thursday, Miss Sasha had left a message.
Miss Sasha: Mommy! I’ve got a fever and an infection and I keep puking. Call me! I have to go to work tomorrow and I need ideas. I love you!
I can take direction.
Tata: Sweetie, whassamatta?
Miss Sasha: Monday morning, I woke up with projectile vomiting and Sunday night I ate the last of the chili Gramma gave me the recipe for New Year’s and there was expired sour cream so when I puked Monday morning, and then a second time, so I drank some tea and that didn’t stay either and some Pepto Bismal burned all the way down, and on the way to the doctor was great for the car behind me –
Miss Sasha has never been handy with cause and effect, nor events in sequence. I recommended Pedialyte, tea and applesauce. Yogurt. Broth. Unexpired foods in general. They’re rumored to be nutritious and are seldom the cause of pink traffic impediments. So I called her this morning to find out how she’s doing.
Miss Sasha: I started feeling a whole lot better yesterday, lots less pukey and pass-y out-y –
Tata: “Pass-y out-y”? That’s brilliant!
Miss Sasha: Did you know people could feel that way?
Tata: I didn’t, but now I’ve pictured it on a NyQuil label. While the idea of you flopping to the ground is mildly alarming, as problems go it’s not like spontaneous combustion. I worry about those people.
Miss Sasha: Is that real?
Tata: Like food poisoning? You tell me.
Miss Sasha: I’ll think that over. How are you?
Tata: Better everytime I don’t have to wash my clothes in the common laundry room. It was like Lord of the Flies down there – only without outdoor charm and attention to etiquette.
This afternoon, I determined the track lighting Dad bought for me in September would have to be hard-wired into my bedroom ceiling and in an apartment setting, that’s bad juju. I can change fixtures but unless I’m going to be here for the rest of my natural life I’d rather not sink mollies into poorly and repeatedly repaired plaster. I’ve got to think this over. Maybe the track lighting would be a glamorous addition to the bathroom. It might be dazzling way to highlight the disco ball.