Tata: You are totally falling down on the job!
Miss Sasha: What? Which job?
Tata: The new pictures job. How on earth can I gloat to the other grandmas if I have infuriating outdated pictures?
Miss Sasha: Omigod, I’m sorry!
Tata: Oh, and there must be gloating. Gloating!
Miss Sasha: I’ll get right on that.
Tata: See that you do!

He’s so cute I plan to be intolerable all day.

Yesterday.

The doctor’s appointment went well. Pete went with me because memory loss and flu symptoms are a match made in Dubuque. In the parking lot, we met Siobhan’s cousin with whom she and I were in a radio comedy troupe, and in the doctor’s office, Pete and I met another erstwhile comedienne and her 18-month-old protege. Cue the ceremonial dropping of the cow, signifying the end of the sketch.

My doctor is a glamorous, no-nonsense Dutch lady. “You’re much too sick to find this funny!” she shouted as I clutched the blood pressure cuff and gasped for breath.

Today.

Tata: I’m usually the one still standing when everyone else is sick, so I figured I was due.
Dr.: That’s funny thinking. You know those people who after four girls try again to have a boy? The odds are still 50-50. From now on, you get a flu shot, and don’t be a hero.
Tata: I still have a headache and – Pete, what’s wrong with me?
Pete: Where do I begin?
Tata: Nausea and… oh, my lungs are kicking my ass. I should be better by now!
Dr.: How long does a genuine flu episode last?
Tata: A week? A week and a half?
Dr.: At least two weeks! You’re going to be sick for some time to come, and you’re just gonna cough, okay?

Properly chastened and coughing up a storm, I allowed as how I understood. She prescribed cough medicine and a rescue inhaler, because flu makes hot house flowers of us all. Then Pete drove me back to work, where today, one of my co-workers has begun to cough.

I feel as if I’ve really been through something. No wonder dozens of people die from flu every year in the U.S. Thus, we promised the comediennes we’ll go on highly athletic bicycle trips in a month or two, with spouses and at least one junior expedition member. I will have gallons of Calamine.

Mom sent this so you will sit up straight and learn the capital of Vermont.
Bitch is the New Black on FunnyOrDie.com

I do not endorse. I observe.

A thousand years ago, when dinosaurs and free-range physicians roamed the earth, the unnamed university required persons staying home from work more than one day to bring a doctor’s note. In those days, all one did was phone up one’s doctor, cough a bit and one would be invited to cough on other sick people in the doctor’s waiting room. After a dignfied period, one saw the doctor, who tapped, prodded and called patients by first names. Soon, one left the doctor’s office with prescriptions and a note. If one was short of cash, arrangements would be made. I know a doctor’s family that used to accept chickens as payment.

Today, I have an appointment with my doctor, a Dutch lady with a lofty teaching position at some other branch of the giant, unnamed university. She has many times come to my rescue, but I hate making appointments to see her. First: she has no time and too many commitments. Second: her office staff takes it as gospel that the job is to protect the Good Doctor from patients. A month ago, I ventured over there to ask about the invigorating vertigo. She said, “Make an appointment for a physical. We’ll have a blast.” I marched no further than 20 feet and said, “She says make an appointment for a physical.” The Keeper of the Book said, “We don’t have any. Call next week.” So our party is postponed until I feel well enough to deal with the office staff. Does my doctor miss me?

Today, I’ll ask why I still have a headache and why the flu won’t leave my lungs. I don’t know about you, but I need those. One thing I don’t need is a note. Everyone in the library’s basement could write an affidavit attesting to my constant coughing, which is nice and all, but no one has that much insurance. I hope they take chickens.

Sunday, just about midday, I coughed up breakfast, then spent a day and a half either unconscious or very close. I could barely open my eyes, so mostly I lay still or sat still. With my body out of commission, I thought about Melissa Ethridge, dreaming herself well. I thought about the passions of the saints and the phrase “lying in the light of the Lord,” which I would bet is a normal physiological reaction to high fever. Ever wake up in a dark room and wonder who turned out the flood light? Yeah, that can have consequences. I don’t want to find a flowing spring off the Raritan with my bare hands, but if I do, I’m keeping a manicurist on call.

When I couldn’t move, I slept. I lay awake and drifted. I listened. I listened to TV, to the talk of cats, to the sounds of my neighbors, to quiet and birds, to Pete. For the first day, I wanted to hear the predictable, soothing rhythms of reruns and soap operas. Later, I wanted to listen to the cool and the quiet. Sometimes, I lay quiet while Pete watched cartoons, which was sweet, but I also heard a commercial that soured my mood. It’s stuck in my mind now, and I’m pissed.

Reese’s has a new candy product out, which is apparently a whipped, smoother, fluffier candy resembling its other candy line products. Actually sounds pretty good to me.

Reese’s Whipps has a TV campaign stating, “Whipped and proud of it!”

Who reading this is not familiar with the phrase “whipped,” and its connotations? Does anyone need me to explain why I have a problem with this ad slogan being used in ads pumped across “family time” TV shows?

There’s a word missing before “whipped.” A very important word. For the .04% of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, whipped refers to a man who is bossed around by a woman due to her sensual charms.

The word we all know coming before whipped is also a name for cats. And it rhymes with wussy. Hey, if you think this post is drifting toward the vulgar – now you are getting my point. Don’t direct your anger at me; I’m the cultural observer here pointing out the trash. So help me take it out. My firm wouldn’t touch creative like this with a 10-foot Hershey bar.

Fuck me running. How on earth did that get past the grownups at the ad agency?

Another thing I’m sorry I heard was an Oprah Show report by Lisa Ling about a woman who strips to provide for her three children. By the end of the report, I was so angry about the loaded language, ignored economic realities and mob mentality I wanted to conduct classes explaining to Oprah viewers what a railroad job they’d just seen.

I hate Oprah. One of the absolute worst aspects of any Oprah show is the part where Oprah poses question after question to elicit shame. In this case, when the subject didn’t exhibit – har har! – any shame, and her 13-year-old daughter was actually proud of Mom, both Oprah and Lisa Ling were openly scornful.

I could go until I turn blue about how much women hate other women, but I couldn’t possibly do this moment justice: the subject was describing how some club clients just want to talk – about their own wives and children, about her children. She mentioned she kept a picture in her shirt.

“What shirt?” snorted Ling. The audience cheered. It was a good thing I’d already felt physically ill, so I noticed the nausea right away.

The message board is an embarrassing woman-on-woman hatefest. Nothing is said about the men who abandon families. Nothing is said about the man whose jealousy and possessive behavior kept her prisoner in her home for five years, then left her and her children to starve. Nothing is said about the society that scorns working poor women with two jobs and no time with their children, but hates women who take sex work and have time to correct homework. Nothing is said about how what women really hate is the window into their own economic vulnerability if that man at home ever gets up and leaves.

I wondered how the producers found that woman. I wondered what she thought would happen. Whatever it was, I wish I’d changed the channel and slept easy.