Night Fever, Night Feev-vuh

One of the curious consequences of this sickness that will not go away is that I'm running a temperature of 101 every night and straight on into morning. (It's somewhat inexplicable unless you take into consideration that I have acute bronchitis and a respiratory infection.) So in an effort to walk on the sunny side of the street (which isn't easy in Seattle) I decided that in one of those twisted fairy tale wish things - you know, the kind where you wish you can fly and you end up as a squashed mosquito - I'm actually living one of my most treasured childhood fantasies: the recurrent fever.

Now it probably won't surprise anyone who knows me (and let's face it, who else would be reading this?) but my mother ran a tight ship. Although she was French, she would have been a truly magnificent Isreali Commander. In fact, I can assure you that if she had taken a crack at it, those problems on the West Bank would be history. One of her most fervent beliefs was that unless you had been recently backed over by a car - you belonged in school. Period. No amount of belly-aching or whining ever swayed her from depositing us on the school bus and off to class. The one exception was the Fever. For my mother, a fever meant business. It was the key to the Magical Kingdom of Daytime TV (moved into the sicky's bedroom. Schwing!) and glasses of ginger ale. I can't speak for my sister, but I know that for me a Fever was a holy grail. Please God, I would pray, just a little over 100. Is that too much to ask for?

As I entered the fourth grade, I was not above utilizing a little, uh, trick. I would carefully put the thermometer (and we're talking the old-fashioned kind, the kind you held under your tongue - not the horribly accurate pop in the ear ones that children are cursed with these days) on a light bulb for a couple of minutes. This would give the temperature a little boost, and I would enjoy another day of going back to sleep. I'm not sure which I objected to more: School (hated) or waking up in the morning (beyond hated). My mother, who is still the smartest cookie I've ever known, never figured out the light bulb trick.

Or maybe it never occurred to her that a nine year old could be so diabolical. That could be it.