Clue-Like Symptoms

Samson pulled down the temple. The Titanic vanished beneath the waves.

Oh, and there were, like, thousands of boobs.

But that was nothing, um, relatively speaking, compared with the next night’s main attraction, Cirque du Soleil.

I mean, when you’re flying and flipping five stories above the floor, your first bad day is your last.

What reminded me of this trip to Las Vegas — and Mary’s insistence that we see the girlie show/spectacular at Bally’s — was her recent illness. Oh, she’s OK, but man, was she out of it for a few days. Swine flu? We wondered there for a bit. Actually Mary wondered there for a bit, as Shop Boy’s tremendous capacity for denial had left me almost as loopy, nursemaid-wise.

“Do I feel feverish to you?” she’d ask.

“Nope. You’re good.”

Anyway, here’s the thing. Mary always says that she never gets sick. Right. She gets sick as often as any normal human being — she’s married to a stinking mass-transit commuter, for heaven’s sake. But unlike the Titanic, Mary’s been fairly unsinkable.

This time … glub, glub, glub.

You could tell it from the polymer plates she made while ill. You didn’t think Shop Boy would let her just lounge around the house — I mean she didn’t even have a fever. (Kidding … I told Mary to stay away from the shop. She wouldn’t listen to reason or denial.)

The polymer plates were, um, how to say this nicely … psychotic.

Mary: “Oh good, I remembered to put crop marks on there. But for what?”

Indeed. The plates were largely shot, and here Mary was, a week lost, with three separate wedding invites due.

You guys have been there right? I mean, Shop Boy gets sick? Well, I’m just dumb labor anyway. But when the brains of the operation get fuzzy? You’re in deep.

The ship was going down. You do not miss deadlines on wedding invites. Period. So as soon as she started feeling even a little better, Mary started bailing and didn’t stop.

And very slowly, the Titanic rose to the surface. The temple was restored. The lost week was just a bad memory that will fade. (Mary’s already telling folks, “It was so weird. I mean, I never get ill.”)

The thousands of boobs?

Mary will never be feverish enough to let that happen again.

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