I don't get sick very often, but when I do, it's bad. Picture a prairie in Oklahoma, dotted with farmhouses, docile as can be. A little wind ruffles the grass, and although everything is silent, you know trouble's coming. Women run outside and fasten the storm shutters, preparing for the worst. The children know what to do; they run downstairs and lock the hurricane door. It's okay, they'll survive: they have enough pickled vegetables and tinned meat to last them the next three months.
Got the picture?
Today I felt that storm coming, and I locked myself inside. Every time I feel a cold coming on, I juice an entire ginger root, squeeze two lemons into a cup with some honey, and then top it all off with boiling water. It seems to do the trick, but when it doesn't, I barricade myself in my bedroom. Today I finished Tobias Wolff's memoir, "This Boy's Life" (if I were going to give it a different name, it might be "It's All My Fault and I'm Sorry"), then reorganized my closet and watched