Sick again. Such is the price for spending time with small children. Cameron and I visit the play center at the local mall and this little germ-harboring area is sponsored by a local hospital and the sliding board has giant broccoli stalks for sides and there's a TV screen that plays non-stop pictures of skin cancer moles, a great pre-lunch place.
My bug claims me and I fall asleep in front of my laptop after losing a succession of solitaire games. My niece, a college freshman, has beat me repeatedly at facebook Family Feud for the last two weeks and I had been the champion and I need to win at something and this won't be it.
I swear I smell a lilac-scented cologne. Hello Mom, I say to no one. And then a key in the door and it is my father, bringing a load of Des Moines Register sports pages for the cowboy.
I'm sick, I moan. "You can't be sick," he says, "you're the Iron Maiden." Iron Maiden, I like that, perchance my next password.
"Are we still going out to eat tomorrow?" he asks in a worried tone. "Is it okay if I bring Cathy along? I think everybody should be getting to know her. Dave should meet her," he asks. Groan, Miss Cathy. Damn, I need to be well for this, I need to be doing cartwheels down the sidewalk. I don't want to disappoint my father, so, I go. And actually, I want to go. I am curious.