Submitted by megan on Fri, 02/24/2006 - 13:46
No getting it on with cute girls for me this weekend: duty calls in the form of a shaking, sick, broken-nosed Beard. He’d been scheduled for a septoplasty (where they break your nose to fix your deviated septum) in May, but someone else cancelled and he jumped on the opening. I was thinking of canceling my trip as soon as the surgery came up, but he sailed opiate waves of tranquility through Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday. Seemed fine. Yesterday he caught some kind of bug so he’s all fever shivers and pale face; not to mention his nose is bleeding again and his pain is not being managed well. I looked at him this morning and couldn’t conscionably go away for even a day and leave him to his own devices. Which would leave my couch sweat-soaked and my sound system overheated.
However, it’s left me feeling like I should get really sick so I can be taken care of for a while. Except for the fact that I seem to have the immune system of an iron horse. And actually, I'm not such a huge fan of other people taking care of me. I come from a staunch if-you-want-it-done-right-you-gotta-do-it-yourself family.
A bright spot in managing last night’s boyfriend misery was a call from my sister. She works at the Montreal Neurological Institute (in Communications) and is often getting roped into wacky stuff like pretending to be schizophrenic so that baby psychiatrists can do some ethical practicing. This time the olfactory scientists have gotten their claws into her.
What this means for me: the MNI is going to send me a kit with laundry detergent, soap and a t-shirt. My task is to wash my sheets with the special detergent, wash my armpits with the special soap and sleep alone, wearing the t-shirt, for three nights. Then I will mail the t-shirt to the olfactory scientists. They will give it to Amy to smell while she is having an MRI so they can see what parts of her brain light up when she smells the smell "sister".
I *get paid* for doing laundry, washing myself and sweating. $30 for the honour of virtually shoving my sister’s head in my pits. It’s like we’re teenagers again; all I need is a blast of hormonal rage to feel like 1989 all over again.