Dear unknown, evil sorcerer at large,
I have been clutching my stomach for days and adjusting my heating pad settings. My children sing songs about diarrhea. My husband says he needs to burn the inside of his nostrils after sharing a bathroom with me.
Your curse may have been accidental. Your thought, “How nice that Dina and David are going away for a romantic trip to San Francisco. They could use a break…” did it. The curse of the mati unfolds…
We joke that our romantic, 24-hour tryst in San Francisco would be like a “Before Sunrise” film staring unattractive people. And it was, except it was filled with ceaseless burps, nervous stomach groans, near misses at public bathrooms and the wishful refrain, “I’m okay!”
I am Greek so I live in fear of curse of the evil eye. I spit on my kids after I compliment then. Why? To humble them so the evil eye won’t curse them. Duh!
My parents say “ptou ptou ptou” after they give compliments (or even think them.) Now, when “ptou ptou ptou” is pronounced, bits of curse breaking spittle shoot into the air. This is a good thing.
So, now that I have identified that I am under a curse, what do I do? My children ask: “Mom, are you dying?” My answer is: “Quite possibly.”
Is it good for my children to see me this fragile? The mighty germs that topple their mother and send her running to the bathroom yelling: “Watch your brother, please! I will be a minute!”
I am teaching my children a simple fact: the human body is plumbing– what goes in, comes out. Sometimes in violent liquid forms.
The tough part now, upon returning from San Francisco, is that I could use a real romantic getaway with my husband. The most romantic exchange we have had for the past ten days was an exchange of unwrapped Pepto bismol tablets. He then brushed the hair from my forehead to tell me that I still look beautiful.
I don’t want this illness again. Forget hand washing and vitamins and probiotics. I wear an evil eye bracelet (a well-timed gift from Sara Nee of Lotus World Foods.
Sara said: “You may have eaten food from kitchen where your food was prepared by a man, who wasn’t wearing gloves and he scratched his balls which may have been infected with herpes. Among millions of other reasons,” she continued, “is why I never eat out anymore.”
Who wants pizza?
Dina Koutas Poch