It even sounds like a swear-word.
Oct. 19th, 2003 02:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootEchinacea. My Sunday has been strangely warped by Echinacea and my misguided attempts to cure my lover of excess phlegm.
I have been banging on about Echinacea forever, because this stuff is seriously good for respitary problems. Beloved Bear, despite long term difficulties caused by asthma, refuses to touch it because it tastes a little unusual. In fact, unless I personally pour it down his throat, he goes nowhere near the bloody stuff, preferring to suffer for weeks with a cold that should be gone in days.
Nagging, they say, is a woman's problem. I hate nagging, because I hate to be nagged myself, and because it is so unglamorous. Where's the magic in being repeatedly told to put the bins out? In the world of my perfect lurve, there are no bins. Rubbish has either dissolved into a beautiful biodegradeable perfume, or been taken away by happy servants. Nagging turns women into grannies, men into babies, and romance into rubble. Avoidance of nagging is a prime directive, so the key to an endless and eternal romance is obvious. Just do what we say when we say it, and we'll all live happilly ever after.
He has been too poorly to fend me off, and I have attacked him with this stuff for three days, three times a day. The result?
Suddenly he's Mr Bouncy. Bottles have gone to the bottlebank, rubbish has been cleared, paperwork vanquished and ironing despatched with alacrity. I find myself trapped in a whirlwind of activity. Why on earth did he choose Sunday to recover? Sunday is the one day it's OK to lie around, surely? But no. And poor Smokingboot, terrified by this hubbub, has felt obliged to join in. The insurance form is almost done, the cheque from my publishers is sorted, the cheque for BB is sorted, the letter from my accountant is ready for the IR. The gods of my life will view all this bustle with ominous interest.
Maybe he's trying to psyche me out. Maybe he's trying to convince me that he no longer needs echinacea, and that feeding him more will only turn him into the White Tornado.
I'm not buying it. We have an event next weekend, right on the edges of October freezerdom, so it's echinacea from here till then, even if I have to drink it alongside him. I can face horrible noxious fluids. It's when he ups the anti on the housework I buckle.
I have been banging on about Echinacea forever, because this stuff is seriously good for respitary problems. Beloved Bear, despite long term difficulties caused by asthma, refuses to touch it because it tastes a little unusual. In fact, unless I personally pour it down his throat, he goes nowhere near the bloody stuff, preferring to suffer for weeks with a cold that should be gone in days.
Nagging, they say, is a woman's problem. I hate nagging, because I hate to be nagged myself, and because it is so unglamorous. Where's the magic in being repeatedly told to put the bins out? In the world of my perfect lurve, there are no bins. Rubbish has either dissolved into a beautiful biodegradeable perfume, or been taken away by happy servants. Nagging turns women into grannies, men into babies, and romance into rubble. Avoidance of nagging is a prime directive, so the key to an endless and eternal romance is obvious. Just do what we say when we say it, and we'll all live happilly ever after.
He has been too poorly to fend me off, and I have attacked him with this stuff for three days, three times a day. The result?
Suddenly he's Mr Bouncy. Bottles have gone to the bottlebank, rubbish has been cleared, paperwork vanquished and ironing despatched with alacrity. I find myself trapped in a whirlwind of activity. Why on earth did he choose Sunday to recover? Sunday is the one day it's OK to lie around, surely? But no. And poor Smokingboot, terrified by this hubbub, has felt obliged to join in. The insurance form is almost done, the cheque from my publishers is sorted, the cheque for BB is sorted, the letter from my accountant is ready for the IR. The gods of my life will view all this bustle with ominous interest.
Maybe he's trying to psyche me out. Maybe he's trying to convince me that he no longer needs echinacea, and that feeding him more will only turn him into the White Tornado.
I'm not buying it. We have an event next weekend, right on the edges of October freezerdom, so it's echinacea from here till then, even if I have to drink it alongside him. I can face horrible noxious fluids. It's when he ups the anti on the housework I buckle.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Nagging
Date: 2003-10-20 05:29 am (UTC)Perhaps I should supply earplugs on every first date?