A reader writes, Where the hell have you been?

Well, I'll tell you where I'm not. I'm definitely not in Indianapolis, or at the United States Gran Prix (not that we had plans to go this year, but I'm just saying).

Nope. I'm still in Albuquerque, in the circle of hell reserved for wives who take vacation time without their husbands.

I'll explain.

Somewhere along the line, Adam contracted a summer head cold and has been home from work for the past couple of days. He passes the time sprawled out on the downstairs couch, dozing in front of DVDs and mining his way through another kleenex box. He's sick, he's miserable, he's enjoying it far more than he should.

I swear, the boy lives for minor illnesses. All the better for me to dote upon him, you see. When I'm home, I'm bringing him tea, more kleenex, drugs, food and little pressies to lift his spirit. When I'm at work, I make lists of his requests (or demands, depending upon how you look at things) and lend an ear to how he's dying, DYING!

He's not dying. He's fine. He just has the sniffles.

How this guy's survived through twenty-eight years of allergies, I'll never understand.

And then he sneezes enough times to pique the interest of storm chase crews, and I feel bad for poking fun at him, because the man's sick and it's wrong to kick him when he's down.

"You should get me a bell," he says. "Because I can barely whisper. And then I could ring the bell when I needed you."

Yeah, vetoed. I do not need to spend a weekend hearing nothing but: DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING! followed by, "Hi. Fluff my pillow."

He'd do it, too.

So he's sick and he's wallowing, and I'm healthy and not. And really, that's it for the past week. Lots of tending to the infink and escaping to work and hand washing. And weird-ass dreams, because like hell I'm going to be sleeping anywhere near Mr. Death Warmed Over, which means I'm running on Night Four on the couch.

You know, fun times. How 'bout you?