The House of Plague continues apace over here at Casa Lane. Yesterday the Hubs was struck down with the stomach flu that I contracted a week or so ago. I'll spare you the details, folks, but suffice it to say this gastrointestinal upset is one I would wish only on some of my ex-boyfriends and my former roommate. There are few things more pathetic than a six-foot, 195-pound, fully grown man moaning in pain and exclaiming that he wants to die. While my original plans for last night included a large glass of wine and a viewing of Downton Abbey, I instead spent the balance of the evening running up and down the stairs carrying glasses of gingerale.
Here's the worst part of it all (aside from my sweet Hubby being in agony): we we're supposed to go out tonight. That's right, folks, we have the babysitter booked, a reservation at a hot new restaurant downtown and plans to take our friend out for a birthday celebration. Date night has, yet again, been sidelined by illness. Rather than enjoying amazing Italian cuisine at Factory Kitchen I will be serving dry toast, Saltines, and gingerale while wearing a hot little sweat pant number. I seriously considered not cancelling our plans and instead forcing my poor, sick husband to come along and sit quietly sipping sparkling water and gnawing on a piece of plain bread, but even I'm not that selfish.
I suppose this round-robin of illness is what happens once you have a child. They are, after all, dirty little creatures prone to bringing home all sorts of diseases capable of reducing a grown man to tears, and dashing the plans of a woman who's desperate to have a reason to put on makeup and wear high heels. On the plus side, by the time we get a chance to have another date night, the restaurant won't be hip anymore and we shouldn't have a problem getting a reservation.
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