August 20, 2014 by Karin Fuller

kermitI will try to explain my absence last week in as delicate of terms as possible.

Basically, I brought home an unanticipated souvenir from my vacation. Actually, that should probably be plural–souvenirS.

For a person who enjoys feeding creatures as much as I do, I suppose I should’ve enjoyed the new additions, tried to view them as portable pets. Perhaps even named them. They were, I must admit, the most convenient creatures to nourish, as they ate when and what I ate without so much as a single claw in my ankle or stray hair drifting onto my Velveeta. Their presence did eventually enable me to lose a few pounds and enjoy several more days out of the office. I even got to catch up on my reading of outdated magazines and make a few new friends. Waiting rooms are good for that sort of thing. Yet ungrateful wretch that I am, I wanted nothing more than to ditch those souvenirs.

Generally, when I complain of annoying parasites, it’s teenagers I’m referring to. Sometimes cats. But not this time.

Ah, sweet delirium. Such a fun way to pass time.

I was pretty thoroughly out of my gourd for a bit, albeit the state was caused by dehydration rather than the creatures themselves. Still, getting to hear about my raving antics from Celeste and Didier later was entertaining, and I’m still deciphering the many weird notes—apparently story ideas—that I jotted on most every writeable surface during those days.

Upset that my long-anticipated vacation ended so badly (the sickness started just hours before we began a drive home on a turnpike that was clogged by a tractor trailer fire in a tunnel the evening before), Didier tried to appease me by suggesting I’d found a clever way to extend a six-day trip into a much longer adventure.

It was, no doubt, an adventure. An adventure that included at least one marathon as well as countless races of varying distances, a good bit of sweating, significant dehydration, a vast amount of expletives, driving fast, driving recklessly, and the agony of defeat.

Rehabilitation was achieved through many hours of daytime television, countless YouTube videos, enough Gatorade to fill a half-dozen kiddie pools, and a medication that included dosage instructions based on the weight of the dog.

I’m finally back to normal, or as close to that as I get.

And I promise I will never, ever, ever, EVER eat Mahi-Mahi again.



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