I am sick . . . some horrible jungle fever I contracted in South America and brought back with me to the states. Oy vey.
I need to throw a huge ‘shout out’ to my wife for putting up with my hysterics at 2 a.m. on Sunday when she wanted to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital and I feigned indifference. Men suck that way. Here is the gist of the moment, forever etched in my memory . . . .
I am hallucinating with fever coming in and out of consciousness, dripping sweat, lying on the floor . . . the bathroom scene from a minute earlier was worse, trust me . . . . My wife is desperate to help and tells me she is legitimately scared and wants to call an ambulance. I tell her that while this is as horrible as I have ever felt in my life, I can handle it . . . by myself . . . thanks, dear . . . .
. . . Men suck. My wife is an angel.
How can I have the simultaneous thought that while I am convinced I am dying, I need no help from anyone, let alone from the person I love and trust more than anyone in the world? Moments like these make me doubt my Darwinian imperative. With such bad genes, how come us XY chromosomers are still on the planet? By this time in our evolutionary progress you would have thought that women would have figured out a way to impregnate themselves and make men a tad more disposable than they are now.
I am freaking out about next Tuesday’s appearance I have on The View. It’s a big deal, my first national promotional appearance linked to the new show on Travel Channel. Some of it is nerves, and some of it is the fear of the unknown. The other 20 percent is fear of Rosie. Or getting crushed in a clash of egos between the four ladies, oh dear.