The thought of all that peachy, whipped creamy goodness....

Kay called about breakfast, as she usually does when we haven't had any greasy food in a while.

"Have you seen those peach pancakes on t.v.? The ones with whipped cream all over them.  And peach syrup, too. Have you ever had peach syrup? I've never even heard of peach syrup, have you?"

"Food poisoning," I managed to gasp.  Why oh why did I pick up the phone?

"No, I don't think so," she said.  "If somebody had gotten food poisoning from them, we would have heard about it."

"No. I have food poisoning." I gasped into the phone. The thought of all that peachy whipped creamy goodness was almost too much.

"Probably all that healthy stuff you eat all the time," she said. "I told you it would make you sick. Remember when we couldn't eat spinach a while back? Contaminated or something."

"I don't want to talk about it, or food in general, for that matter. Anything else on your mind?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Uggs."

Kay has almost as many pairs of Uggs (those notoriously clunky and delightfully comfy shearling boots) as she has color coordinated flip flops.

"Do you really think you need any more pairs?" I asked.

"Of course. They have new colors every year. I was going to ask you you to come with me, but it sounds like you don't feel like it."

That's an understatement. All that fuzziness, and in candy colors, too. I passed her offer of shoe shopping and pancakes.

I hung up and crawled back to my bed which I had unwisely left less than an hour before. I had just closed my eyes to continue suffering alone, when I heard the front door close and the dogs go wild with glee. My daughter had arrived.

She found me cowering under the covers, hoping not to talk to anyone.

She held up a bag with a few tell-tale grease spots on the bottom. "Guess what I have? These will get you up." She opened the bag revealing pastel macaroons, and worse, releasing their icky- sweet coconutty fragrance.

After I returned from my rush trip to the uh, er, commode, she ingenuously asked, "Sick?'

I know that macaroons are now a very hip desert, but I have never actually liked them much. And now that they come is so many lovely pastel colors, I like them even less. Just imagine what havoc a pale green macaroon can wreak on a fragile digestive tract.  Come to think of it, no, don't.

And so I await tomorrow when I have cancelled all plans to get over this unholy state. Perhaps, in peace and quiet. Or perhaps not, since my husband is on vacation. And he is relentlessly handy. Right now there is a saw on the hall table, a threat if I ever saw one (get it? saw...and saw. Bad, I know, but what the heck? I'm sick, I said.)