Friday, November 21, 2008
It happens every year around this time. If you're lucky you escape with nothing but a few scratches, if not... Well, it's not pretty, let's leave it at that.
It used to be called the Flu, or more precisely Stomach Flu. Then one of two things happened: Either some tabloid genius decided that we could do with more drama in November. "Maybe if we call this nasty flu something a little more disturbing?"
Or the virus itself mutated into something so vile, that medical expertise found it necessary to give it a more graphic name. Either way, The Winter-Puke-Disease was born.
And boy, do we fear it. The Winter-Puke-Disease. We talk about it endlessly, obsess over it madly. And keep fingers crossed, cross our hearts, sleep with garlic, wash our hands with gasoline. But nothing can help you if it crosses your path.
And my dad has it. My dad, the world's best dad, who spent all day watching the kids. Who fixed them dinner and then locked himself in our bathroom for two hours. And now looks like the living dead. The hero, my dad.
You may not hear from me or Leo for a while.