This is Sick
Illness at home is a matter of wife and spouse.
Every wife dreads it when her husband says, “Honey, I think I’m coming down with something.”
That is enough to put fear in the strongest wife, and elicit an urge to take a month long vacation in the Bahamas. A sick husband is worse than any other ill member of the family.
“Where are the tissues?”
Wife hands him the box that always sits on the side table in the living room.
“Could you make me some soup?”
Wife stops paying bills and makes some soup. “Here, Dear, this will help.”In her mind that becomes a prayer, “Please, God, before I do something drastic.”
“I think I might have a fever.” Wife takes his temperature.
These questions and statements are all preprogrammed into the male well before birth. In fact it might just be attached to the male gene in his DNA.
He flops down on the couch, leaves used tissues lying all around, and then moves on to another overstuffed chair, and then another until he has contaminated every overstuffed chair in the house. The thermometer is a permanent fixture in his mouth as he takes his temperature every ten minutes and reports it to anyone listening. “I think I’m getting worse. It’s higher than it was.”
“You just had a cup of hot soup, Dear.”
He opens the windows in the middle of winter. Ten minutes later he says, “I’m cold.”
Wife covers him with a blanket and shuts the window.
She goes into the kitchen and he discards the blanket and follows.
“What are you doing?” He looks bleary eyed at her.
“Dishes. Want to help?”
“No I might give it to someone.”
He drapes himself across the counters and tables, making sure to touch and thus contaminate every surface in the house.
The wife follows him around with her arms full of handi-wipes, airspray, and other disinfectants. He wants hugs, kisses and other kinds of affection. He is concerned he will die tomorrow at the latest.
Three days later he drags himself out of bed and heads reluctantly off to the office. The wife then spends the entire day disinfecting every surface in the house, and putting everything he has touched into the washing machine.
He comes home later that night, feeling much better. The wife sneezes as he comes in.
“Are you coming down with something?” He asks it as if it were a total surprise.
“It just a little cold. I’ll live.”
“Oh good. I thought maybe it was serious.” He says as he heads in to dinner.
Illness at home is a matter of wife and spouse.
Every wife dreads it when her husband says, “Honey, I think I’m coming down with something.”
That is enough to put fear in the strongest wife, and elicit an urge to take a month long vacation in the Bahamas. A sick husband is worse than any other ill member of the family.
“Where are the tissues?”
Wife hands him the box that always sits on the side table in the living room.
“Could you make me some soup?”
Wife stops paying bills and makes some soup. “Here, Dear, this will help.”In her mind that becomes a prayer, “Please, God, before I do something drastic.”
“I think I might have a fever.” Wife takes his temperature.
These questions and statements are all preprogrammed into the male well before birth. In fact it might just be attached to the male gene in his DNA.
He flops down on the couch, leaves used tissues lying all around, and then moves on to another overstuffed chair, and then another until he has contaminated every overstuffed chair in the house. The thermometer is a permanent fixture in his mouth as he takes his temperature every ten minutes and reports it to anyone listening. “I think I’m getting worse. It’s higher than it was.”
“You just had a cup of hot soup, Dear.”
He opens the windows in the middle of winter. Ten minutes later he says, “I’m cold.”
Wife covers him with a blanket and shuts the window.
She goes into the kitchen and he discards the blanket and follows.
“What are you doing?” He looks bleary eyed at her.
“Dishes. Want to help?”
“No I might give it to someone.”
He drapes himself across the counters and tables, making sure to touch and thus contaminate every surface in the house.
The wife follows him around with her arms full of handi-wipes, airspray, and other disinfectants. He wants hugs, kisses and other kinds of affection. He is concerned he will die tomorrow at the latest.
Three days later he drags himself out of bed and heads reluctantly off to the office. The wife then spends the entire day disinfecting every surface in the house, and putting everything he has touched into the washing machine.
He comes home later that night, feeling much better. The wife sneezes as he comes in.
“Are you coming down with something?” He asks it as if it were a total surprise.
“It just a little cold. I’ll live.”
“Oh good. I thought maybe it was serious.” He says as he heads in to dinner.
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