When I see coverage of the famine in Somalia, I just think: whoa, better not go there with Bubs. I picture being in the Cormac McCarthy The Road and how many syringes I’d need to carry, and then that it wouldn’t matter if I filled my entire survival wagon with medicine and needles, it wouldn’t be enough, and anyway people would steal the syringes to make me into a better-tasting ham.
B is still doing fine, if you overlook the dinnertime “No thanks, I’m hungry but I think I’ll just lie here until I die” thing on the living room rug. (He ate farfalle and Nate’s meatballs and broccoli, and lived.) Everyone except target-audience B guzzled a green smoothie which was so sweet with pineapple juice and bananas any kale benefit was surely cancelled out but he did eat the broccoli without comment, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Insurance papers are staring to come in the mail, retelling the story of the past week point five. They seem to indicate that we owe no one money, but they make it seem possible that none of this is covered. Everything says THIS IS NOT A BILL. Nothing says DON’T WORRY YOU DO NOT OWE ANYONE MONEY. A smart insurance company would stamp those words in corporate red-magenta ink whenever applicable.