Steve and I are buds-compadres-soul friends-siblings from separate diblings... and he is a pain in my ass. A boil on my butt and a splinter in my spleen.
Speaking of spleens... did you know his is enlarged? Yep-so is his head, but that is another story for another time.
Steve is heading to Northwestern this morning... for those of you non-Chicago people, that means that Steve is heading to the Big Game-the place where they will poke him, prod him and experiment on him until they figure out just what is wrong with him.
He doesn't feel good. He can't get through a day without pain and we are not talking the kind of pain that I go through a day (like-which shoes I wear? Flip flops or flip flops) no, Steve is in so much pain that all I can do is try and make him laugh when we talk-because laughter is the best medicine and he makes me laugh out loud through my tears and I can only hope to do the same for him.
I suggested that maybe aliens have abducted him and that is why he is having these problems. You all laugh now-but wait until they pull some 10 foot communicating device from his butt and then who will be laughing? Huh? Freakin' aliens.
Last night Steve called while I was at Hot Yoga. I saw his call as soon as I was out and so I zipped him a phone call back-which I know Steve loves when I call him when I am at my most hyper of the day... which is generally 24 hours a day, but after a work out my endorphins are a ragin' and I am especially hyper-giddy-loud-abusive-funny-and a damn good time in general.
During our phone conversation it all suddenly hit me. I know exactly why Steve is sick and I know exactly what he needs to do to get better...
I told him-in my best "LIFE IS GREAT" voice that he needed to stop eating meat, start drinking more water, and start doing yoga.
He called me a witch and hung up on me.
I called back and after convincing him that our phone call was not being recorded by the government and I was not a terrorist, he told me I could take my hot yoga and shove it where the sun don't shine... which on Steve is anywhere below his big fat head.
I just want him to get better-or at least to figure out why he is not feeling good. Those docs up at Northwestern need to know that if they do not help him they will have a rather small spitfire of a blonde woman knocking on their door and letting them see first hand what june cleaver means when she says (say it with me six-packers...) I will f*&$ you up!
In the meantime... please toss up a peace sign to the Big Guy in the Sky for Steve today. He is a guinea pig and unless he ain't being served up with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, it is not fun to be a guinea pig.
Say a prayer-thank God for Steve from me and ask Him to lay His Healing Hands on my cousin, who is so much more to me than a cousin.