June
14
I’m in bed with the flu, my head wedged between two pillows, sweaty and shivering, wishing someone would just clobber me in the brainmeats with a mallet and put me out of my misery, when I hear the bedroom door creak open. Sometimes I think I should spray the hinges of that door with WD40; other times, I think that a horror writer’s bedroom door really should give that “warning! warning! you are entering the abode of absolute evil!” creak.
I hear a muffled voice, and a wee man-child hand starts prodding my shoulder.
Derek: Mom? Did you like your mango smoothie that dad made?
I cough to clear my throat and manage to croak an affirmative answer.
Derek: Well, cuz, Mom? I made you some smoothie to make you way more better.
I poke my head out from between the pillows, crack an eyelid, and, through a tangle of brunette bedhead, peer at the boy. He’s holding forth a clear, plastic cup with what looks like a half-mashed banana curled at the bottom like a white turd, topped with a handful of Cheerios, topped with a blob of honey, topped with orange juice. As a parent, I think: oh gawd, I have to drink this shit or I’m not a nice mommy but as a horror writer, I’m pretty sure: this kid’s trying to kill me for my iPad.
Me: What’s in it, bud?
Derek: *beaming proudly* I’m a mad scientist like you, so I put ‘MUNITY power in it.
Me: Immunity, you mean?
Derek: Yep. Like when you get a cold, and your body makes ant-bodies, and they crawl around in your nose and eat the virus, then you can’t get that cold again. Same thing.
He’s close enough, and my throat is too sore to correct the ant-bodies and explain that there aren’t virus-gobbling ants crawling in my nose, so I smile and take the cup.
Derek: There’s also banana. You’re allergic to bananas, but one’s okay, right? How come you don’t get ‘munity to bananas when you eat one?
Me: It doesn’t work that way with allergies, babe.
Derek: But that homeo…homeapath…that stuff? Giving you a little so you build a ‘munity and then you don’t get it anymore? That’s real, right? Cuz they wouldn’t sell it at the grocery store if it was fake medicine.
Me: Sure, bud.
And I say “sure” only because when he had trouble sleeping after a particularly scary wind storm ripped through the city, I gave him homeopathic “sleep well” pills, which were tiny coffee pills taken during the day, not even enough as a quarter cup of coffee spread over the whole day. I figured $4 for a placebo was fine with me, and his belief in them worked well. To tell him that I don’t believe in homeopathic remedies wouldn’t be wise just yet, in case I need them again. So I nod and smile.
I taste the shake-thing tentatively; the honey is sweet, but it has a weird blubbery consistency. I try to figure out what it is while I chew unripe banana bits and suck down a soggy Cheerio.
Derek: I guess you should probably tell the mayor that I cured it.
Me: Hrm? You lost me, sweets.
Derek: The mayor is in charge of the city. So he’s in charge of the news, right? You should call him and tell him I cured all the colds with my ‘munity shake.
Me: Oh you did, hunh?
Derek: Yeah, cuz you had too many boogers in your head, so I just fixed it.
Me: Wait, wha–?
Derek: You take a bit of boogers and then you’re ‘mune to them.
I put the cup on the nightstand and shove pillows and sheets and blankets off me, kicking out of their sweaty weight in a mad panic.
Me: Tell me you did not put your boogers in this shake, child.
Derek: I had to. *duh heavily implied* That’s how ‘munity works.
I lurch up the stairs to find out where the heck his father was while he was hoarking the contents of both his little-kid nostrils into a smoothie for me to drink. I find the Viking on the couch beside our daughter, playing Plants vs. Zombies on the big screen. The living room looks like a tornado ripped through it–a slaughterhouse of discarded socks, drained juice boxes, eviscerated cookie boxes and dumped school bags–and the booger-shake is momentarily forgotten. I squeak something from my phlegm-clogged voice box, and the Viking looks up at me like I’m the Wild Man of Borneo.
Me: What is this?
Viking: Uh, the living room?
Me: Did you throw it under a truck?
Viking: We’ll clean up. *gives me the head-to-toe inspection* Are you taking a shower? I hope?
Me: After I murder you, I’ll bloody well need a shower, yes. Do you know what your son just fed me?
Viking: A banana shake?
Me: With boogers. It was booger shake. A Banana-booger smoothie, to be exact.
Viking: *lips twitch* Seriously?
Me: That’s not funny.
Viking: *struggles not to laugh* It’s not?
Me: NO! NO! It’s not FUNNY.
Viking: *see-saws his hand* It’s a little funny. Especially that part where you drank it.
Me: OH MY GAWD. I drank BOOGERS and my HOUSE is a DISASTER AREA. Are you people INSANE? Are you out of your MINDS? Am I the only sane one around here?
Jennifer: You’re sane?
Me: And YOU! *points at the almost-12-year-old girl* You didn’t notice your brother was snarfing nose-goblins into a cup?
Jennifer: *shrugs* I thought he was gonna drink it. It wouldn’t surprise me. *looks at her father with barely-veiled disgust* Boys are just gross.
The Viking gets to his feet and draws himself up to full height; whenever he does this, I am reminded of that first time you see the T-Rex in Jurassic Park, after the ground-shaking brum-brum-brum of its footsteps. He’s a gentle giant, my husband, accustomed to weathering the tiny whirlwind tantrums of his small, crazy wife. Our friends often wonder (aloud, to my face) how he can tolerate my moods; I rather think he enjoys them. The smile-lines creasing the corners of his eyes suggest that I’m being silly. It doesn’t entirely calm me down, but his big hand on my shoulder helps. He smirks at me as he turns me toward the shower, points, then pats me on the ass.
Viking: Go take your shower. I’ll clean up and talk to the boy. Hey, look at the bright side …
Me: The kid made me a booger-shake. There’s a bright side?
Viking: Just be thankful you didn’t have the shits.
(editor’s note: this is not the first time AJ Aalto has been tricked with the “hey I know, just drink this and we’ll see what happens” trick. She falls for it all too often. She’s quick like that.)
<And these. Lots and lots of these…>
(Editor’s note: Stay tuned to discover who folds first this summer, AJ or her Muse. Coming soon, an interview with Jason D. Ready (aka Johnny Coattails) on writing collaboratively, all things Steampunk, just what the hell “Pixie Grind” is, and who would win the AJ-Hatchet vs. Jason-Crowbar showdown… )
