Sick husbands are worthless pigs!

Being sick suits me well.  I should rephrase; I sometimes enjoy being sick.  The sitting around, the laziness and the added attention I get almost - almost, makes it all worthwhile.

Granted, I say this as I sit on our couch, my head pounding from a sinus headache and mucous entrenched to the inside of my throat like small, green leeches attached to the bare back of a boy.  I have, for once, the perfect excuse to sit on the couch all day and have Cathi wait on me.  If only I could find that service bell...

Unfortunately, a complication has arisen in my grand, sick scheme to garner attention and empathy from my beloved wife: She got sick first. Ugh.  The dreaded curse of the "wife gets sick first" strikes again.  Under normal circumstances, I obtain the dreaded malady first, thus forcing Cathi to fetch me treats and mugs full of liquid sugar, while I wipe my nose and toss the tissues on the floor for her to clean up later.      

Evidently, using an illness as a way to garner spousal attention is not an unusual behavior for most men to display in times of need.  As a man that works with many women - most of which are married - I am privy to many faculty room conversations in which said women denigrate and ruthlessly grumble about their husbands shortcomings and misgivings.  I have therefore heard more than a few stories about how a sick husband is about as useless as wet set of pantyhose.  

For example: "My husband said he was soooo sick yesterday.  He has a simple cold, but he made me dial the telephone for him.  He claims he was too weak to push the buttons!"  Or, "My stupid, weakling husband laid in bed last night and yelled at me to get him the remote.  The remote was at the end of his bed!  He only had a sore throat." 

Apparently I am not the only man that has caught onto this whole, "Help me honey. I'm sick and I can't move!" collusion.

Again here I sit, sick as a dog, with no one bringing me soup or asking me how I am doing. My beloved wife lived with this same congestive hell for the past week and continued to make dinner, take care of the boys and work.  Therefore, her sympathy for me has run thin as a peeled scab from Lincoln's leg.  It seems as though I am holding a pity party and I am the only one invited.  Now, could one of my readers bring me a hot bowl of soup or reach the remote for me on the floor?  I'm dying here.