The best remedy for food poisoning

I'm terrible at being sick. Whenever I get even a hint of the sniffles, I put on my pajamas, shuffle around our apartment wrapped in a blanket, pouring myself nonstop cups of tea and complaining to anyone who will listen. I was caught this weekend with a mild case of food poisoning - at least I think that's what it was, those ripples of pain in my ab muscles that someone I can't recall, probably a Web M.D. addict, once told me was a sign food poisoning. I spent yesterday on rotation between lying on the couch and clutching the porcelain bowl, between sleep and watching VHS tapes of pretty horrible romantic comedies that I used to collect in college - Emma, As Good as it Gets, and -- the worst of them all, and, shamefully, still a favorite -- You've Got Mail (oh Meg Ryan, remember when you could actually move your face?) You have to understand that normally I'm an avid reader, and I don't think much of turning on the t.v. unless H and I are watching a Netflix-ed item, curled up on the couch, an hour in the evening that we warmly consider 'together time' (we, in fact, had a decent conversation about what would happen to the character of Jackie on The Sopranos today, proving once again that t.v. can be the best bridge between spouses who might otherwise pass a lonely meal without exchanging words - thank you, HBO, for making my marriage just a little bit more stable). But, when it comes to being sick, I have a natural aversion to anything printed (What? I'm sick! You expect me to concentrate on reading when I'm sick?? Who can read when they're sick!).

Today I knew it was the last straw when I pulled out the second season of Full House on DVD that my sister gave me for Christmas a couple of years ago. (She got it used and cheap, and it was meant to be a gag gift. Sort of. Who doesn't have a small soft spot for little Michelle Tanner?) Two episodes in, I decided I better try and eat something. Because if bad '80's t.v. shows don't have the power to heal, then what the heck does?