Norovirus? No Problem!

I had a lovely little Saturday planned to celebrate J's 33rd: New Hope, PA, for some Christmas shopping; then expensive beers, college football, and dinner at a nice sushi restaurant.

Only, the weather? She did not cooperate. And so we stayed home. I studied for those unholy GMATs, and laid around a bit. J cleaned the bathroom. By 4 PM, we were sorely in need of a new plan, and we opted to trek down to Main Street in the snow and have beers (Lord: I wish) and sushi (Man: this sucks) at the Manayunk Brew Pub.

We splurged on some greasy appetizers; then we toasted our good fortune, and J's rapidly advancing age. For our main course, I ordered some veggie rolls, and my husband had the Alaska and Boston rolls (shrimp and salmon, yummmm).

About 12 hour later, the norovirus just about killed him.

Okay, he didn't die. But it wasn't pretty. He was in pain. His stomach was wrecked. He couldn't make it downstairs, so he laid in bed all day (in between trips to the bathroom) and I attempted to keep him hydrated. His back was in spasms, and he had a low-grade fever.

"You'd tell me if you thought you needed to go to the hospital, right?" I asked.

Later, I fed him multigrain English muffins and rubbed his head. I performed a soothing verse of "Soft Kitty" until he croaked: "I love you; but please don't sing."

Later that night I diagnosed him with norovirus. I blame the shrimp. And to think, J offered me many bites of his maki, even coaxing me: "It's just shrimp; you can eat this." (Ninja says: Not on my watch.) Praise Jesus I did not indulge; I am sure norovirus has no business swimming around N's placenta.

Oh, but my man survived, thankfully. And it's a blessing, because yesterday was Nana's funeral.

It was a lovely service. J's mom spoke about Nana's quiet strength; and a recurring theme seemed to be the circle of life: as we grieve Joyce's passing, Ninja is growing stronger, and J's sister E has just gotten engaged! It's a baffling and beautiful juxtaposition of life and death. I am just glad that Joyce had 91 years to enjoy this life. I hope J and I get at least 100, though I tend to be a little greedy.

Finally, thigh highs on pregnant gams, in blustery Columbus, Ohio?

So effing sexy I can't stand it.