My mother is in New York for the Spring, my brother is gallivanting around Ireland, my father is having a boozy lunch with his cronies followed by a weekend of parties, The Brians are in Dallas, Joe is sunning himself in San Diego and where am I?
I am sick.
Yesterday, unable to face the commute back home to my empty flat in the city, I headed up to my folks. Working so close to my parents' home, as I've mentioned before, is more often a blessing than a curse. Sure, any trip to the Mill Valley Market means I'll run into someone I'm forced to chat with or the occasional tanning on the deck gets interrupted by a handyman, but generally speaking, there's fancy cheese, wine, views, premium cable and relative solitude.
Oh, and packed medicine cabinets.
Yesterday, I left work after lunch and immediately crashed on my brother's bed, dropping my bags and cell at the front door and falling into a deep, snotty sleep. At around 4, I hear, "Bethy! Are you here?!?!"
It took me a minute to rouse myself from my weird dream about Zoe. "Hi Daddy. I'm here and I'm sick."
"Oh no!" he hollered from downstairs. "Do you need anything."
"NO!" I screamed back at him and went back to sleep.
An hour later, I arose and wandered into his office. (For those wondering why I don't sleep in MY room when at the Spotswood Estate and Grounds, my room is now dad's office, as opposed to Alex's, which maintains a pristine, museum-like vigil.)
I flopped on his big leather club chair and whined, "Daddy, I'm so sick and it's your fault and you have to take care of me."
"You look horrible!" He declared. And then he told me he was leaving for a cocktail party before moderating another Carole/Mark/Joe debate. Even The Brians were attending, all the way up here in Mill Valley and I couldn't go. I was quarantined to the TV room with frozen soup and the dregs of 3 day old Chianti.
I watched a documentary about John Wilkes Booth (total asshole, FYI) and then a fabulous re-viewing of Quinceanera. I love this movie, desperately wishing I'd come from Echo Park and gotten knocked up by the really hot 'Herman' when I was 14. I saw it once on an airplane and as I sobbed hysterically towards the end, my brother looked over at me and mouthed, "Jesus Christ" before knocking back the rest of his Bloody Mary.
I will point out that I received a text from my brother yesterday afternoon, en route to Dublin alone and in coach. "The couple next to me keeps on having tickle fights. I need you here so I have someone to hate them with."
By 9pm, I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer, even thought I knew dad would soon return with tales of Judge Judy on crack being nuts.*
At 1am, another text woke me up. "It's a cold and wet morning in Dublin!"
My brother, the one who would normally be forced to drive to my location and bring me tea sandwiches on my deathbed is currently living it up with the Lads in Dublin, probably recreating Once and already drunk.
I on the other hand, just cranked out a morning at work, attempting to finish up my week while my co-workers hid on the other side of the room, politely saying, "Bless you!" everytime I erupted into a sneezing fit. I am now back at the folks', having picked up vegetarian sushi and tea sandwiches, which I will dine on solo tonight, as Daddy is at a BBQ in Woodside. My nose feels like it's been raped and I just spilled orange juice down the front of my favorite white tank top.
I am not a good patient...
*PS: She was indeed nuts. Each candidate got to ask the other two candidates a question. Mark and Joe discussed, you know, issues. Carole wanted to know why they were running against her if they claimed to support women. Um, what? Carole's one questions was basically, "Why are you fucking with me?" Apparently, anyone who's not a rich, white male should run unopposed. I love my sisters and all, but that doesn't mean I want to be forced to vote for Sally Kern. At least Carole is finally being nice to my dad...