Notes From the Underwire: Adventures From My Awkward and Lovely Life by Quinn Cummings Page A

shout.
    A recent illness was different. It was so brutal he went to bed with only modest badgering on my part. He had aches, a dry hacking cough, chills but no fever, and intermittent dizziness. It was as if his immune system was sampling random pages from the Physician’s Desk Reference. Poor Consort, he was genuinely miserable.
    The first night he was sick, we decided Consort would sleep in Alice’s room and she would bunk with me. This worked for exactly one night because Alice—though as winning as a stadium filled with Miss Congenialities—has more pointy corners than a starfish. I kept waking up as each of her fifteen elbows found their way into my ribs, spine, and eyes. Add to this her maternally inherited habit of grinding her teeth so forcefully it sounds like a garbage disposal with a spoon stuck in it, and I knew we needed another plan. If Consort was even slightly improved, we’d put her back in her room and I’d take my chances.
    The next day, Consort sounded worse and looked almost as bad. His complexion had taken on the shiny, greenish-gray toneof an oyster. We contacted the doctor and he prescribed antibiotics for him. Consort would be contagious for at least another day and probably coughing all night. The sleep issue raised its head again. Consort could have our bed back, Alice would take her pointiness and her grinding back to her own dominion, and I would sleep on the couch. I didn’t mind. Our couch has marvelous soporific properties, which you wouldn’t think of by looking at it. It’s from the 1950s, huge and sinuously curved. When we first got it, I had it upholstered in a fuzzy, bright green fabric, which looked wonderful as a three-by-two-foot sample. Spread across the couch’s statement-making size, however, it became a background character from a Sesame Street arena show. Or a gigantic, gay amoeba. This was just one in a long list of design mistakes I’ve made over the years, but when you sit on it you can hear the soft fabric crooning, “Just put your head down. Just for a second. No one will know…” Two hours later you wake up with a fuzzy-fabric pattern etched on your face.
    This night, I settled Alice into bed and arrayed her stuffed animals around her feet in parade formation. Then I settled Consort in, placing his meds in a similar deployment. I grabbed my favorite pillow and a blanket from the linen closet and headed to the living room. I lit a fire in the fireplace and brewed some herb tea. The room looked welcoming and cozy in a nearly professional way. Even the immense homosexual paramecium looked less weird than usual. Had I placed a sweet grandma on the couch, I could have shot an ad for long-distance telephone service. A blonde model would have sold you Midol.
    I crafted a little nest with the blanket and pillow and tucked myself in. Lulabelle loped into the room, came to an abrupt stop, and stared. I don’t know what she had been planning butclearly my being there spoiled it. I patted the blanket. She considered her options and sprung up. I scratched her head as I read. Somewhere in the house, Consort coughed in his sleep and Alice stuck her pointy corners into dreamed adversaries. From the outside it probably didn’t look like nirvana but it was as close to peace as my family got. That should have been my first clue.
    One moment I was scratching between Lu’s ears, the next I was removing her nails and teeth from deep in my hand. Lulabelle was gazing directly at me but seeing nothing. Her eyes were solid black marbles. She sank her nails into my hand again and gurgled in delight. This wretched little beast was obviously possessed. I was harboring a psycho cat-zombie, desperate for the life-regenerating properties of human flesh. What could possibly be making our calm, friendly cat so damned weird?
    And then I remembered. Catnip!
    A month earlier, I’d been invited to a school fund-raiser for a friend’s kid. Try as I might, I cannot think of a way to attend these